The Gringos Part 29

They had not; and they immediately began calling and looking for Chico, who was at that stage of puppyhood that insists upon getting in front of one and then falling down and lying, paws in the air, waiting to be picked up and petted. But Chico did not come lumbering up like an animated black m.u.f.f, and they could not find his little, dead body.

It occurred to Dade that he might be buried with Tige; and, once the idea was presented to Jack, he could not content himself to leave the place until he knew to a certainty. He would never have admitted it, but there were certain sweet memories which made that particular pup not at all like other black pups. He got the shovel, and he dug in the little grave until he was certain that Tige lay there, and that he was alone.

"Well, he's taken the pup along, then; and that proves to me that Jerry wasn't crazy, or anything like that. He's just pulled out, because he couldn't stand it around here any longer--and I don't blame him. But I wish I knew where; we'd take him up to the mine with us; huh?"

"Yes--but we're about fourteen hours too late to find out where he went.

If I'm any judge, these bodies have been dead that long. And if we found him, the chances are he wouldn't go. If I'm any good at guessing poor Jerry's state of mind, right now, he don't want to see or speak to any human being on earth."

"I guess you're right," Jack a.s.sented, after a meditative pause. "He just worshiped that poor little woman."

Beyond that, neither of them attempted to put into speech the tragedy; it was beyond the poor words we have thus far coined for our needs, like many another thing that happens in these lives we live. They waited a little while longer, wondering what they could or should do.

Mrs. Jerry lay easily where she had been placed by the man who loved her. The killers had been killed by the same hand that laid her deep, in her faded, patchwork quilt. There seemed nothing further to be done.

But Valencia, when he had ridden a thoughtful half-mile, did think of something.

"Me, I shall give ten pesos of the gold I won yesterday upon the duelo,"

he said, glancing back at the grim little cabin, "that ma.s.s may be said for the repose of the Senora Seem'son's soul. For thus will sleep come easier to me, Senors. And you?"

"I think, Valencia, if I were going to say any prayers, they'd be said for Jerry," Dade told him. "He needs 'em worse than she does."

"Oh, come on, Dade; let's be getting out of this valley!" Jack urged irritably. "And I hope," he added, "I'll never see the place again!"

"But, Senor!" Valencia rode alongside to protest almost tearfully, "The valley, it is not to be blame. Saw you ever a sweeter land than this?"

He flung his arm outward to include the whole beautiful expanse of it.

"The valley, it is glorious! Am I not right? Blame not the beautiful land, Senor, for the trouble that has come; for trouble will find a man out, though he climb the loneliest mountain peak and hide himself among the rocks there! And the valley--Senors, the valley will hold friends that are true to thee."

Jack flushed at the reproach; flushed and owned himself wrong. "I'll remember the friends," he said. "And I'll forget the things that hurt; I'm a selfish brute--whee-ee! I should say!" He pulled up as short as Solano would let him, and stared from Dade to Valencia with guilty eyes.

"Diego--I forgot that Injun, Dade; and next to you, I believe he's the best friend I've got on earth! I was so wrapped up in my own bruises that I clean overlooked something that I ought to be mighty grateful for. Dade, do you think he'd like to go along to the mine? You know his wife died a few months ago, and he's kind of alone; do you think he'd go?"

"I think the chance to go would look like a ticket to glory," Dade a.s.sured him sententiously.

Whereupon Jack dismounted, that he might write a few lines as he had written the note to Bill Wilson, a couple of months before: with a leaf from his memorandum book and a bullet for pencil.

"Give that to Don Andres, will you, Valencia? It's to ask how much is Diego's debt, and to say that I'll pay it if the peon wants to come with me. We'll wait in town until we hear; perhaps Don Andres will let you come up with Diego--that is, if Diego wants to come. You ask him, Valencia."

"He will come, Senor; nothing would give him greater joy. And," he added wishfully, "but for my sweetheart, Senors, I would ask that I might come with you also!"

"You stick to your sweetheart, Valencia--if she's true," Jack advised him somberly. "Now, Dade, I guess we're ready for the long ride to supper. Why don't you kick me for being such a selfish cuss?"

"Maybe because I'm used to you," Dade's lips quirked humorously after the retort. "You're just Jack--and you couldn't be any different, I reckon, if you tried. Well, come along, then. Adios, Valencia."

Once more they shook hands solemnly with the vaquero, who had no smile for the parting.

"Adios, adios," Valencia called lingeringly after them, and held his horse quiet that he might gaze after them until a willow bend hid them finally from his view.