The Pride of Palomar

  THE PRIDE of PALOMAR

  I

  For the first time in sixty years, Pablo Artelan, the majordomo of theRancho Palomar, was troubled of soul at the approach of winter. OldDon Miguel Farrel had observed signs of mental travail in Pablo for amonth past, and was at a loss to account for them. He knew Pablopossessed one extra pair of overalls, brand-new, two pairs of bootswhich young Don Miguel had bequeathed him when the Great White Fatherat Washington had summoned the boy to the war in April of 1917, threechambray shirts in an excellent state of repair, half of a fat steerjerked, a full bag of Bayo beans, and a string of red chilli-pepperspendant from the rafters of an adobe shack which Pablo and his wife,Carolina, occupied rent free. Certainly (thought old Don Miguel) lifecould hold no problems for one of Pablo's race thus pleasantly situated.

  Coming upon Pablo this morning, as the latter sat in his favorite seatunder the catalpa tree just outside the wall of the ancient adobecompound, where he could command a view of the white wagon-road windingdown the valley of the San Gregorio, Don Miguel decided to question hisancient retainer.

  "My good Pablo," he queried, "what has come over thee of late? Thouart of a mien as sorrowful as that of a sick steer. Can it be that thystomach refuses longer to digest thy food? Come; permit me to examinethy teeth. Yes, by my soul; therein lies the secret. Thou hast atoothache and decline to complain, thinking that, by thy silence, Ishall be saved a dentist's bill." But Pablo shook his head innegation. "Come!" roared old Don Miguel. "Open thy mouth!"

  Pablo rose creakily and opened a mouth in which not a tooth wasmissing. Old Don Miguel made a most minute examination, but failed todiscover the slightest evidence of deterioration.

  "Blood of the devil!" he cried, disgusted beyond measure. "Out withthy secret! It has annoyed me for a month."

  "The ache is not in my teeth, Don Miguel. It is here." And Pablo laida swarthy hand upon his torso. "There is a sadness in my heart, DonMiguel. Two years has Don Mike been with the soldiers. Is it not timethat he returned to us?"

  Don Miguel's aristocratic old face softened.

  "So that is what disturbs thee, my Pablo?"

  Pablo nodded miserably, seated himself, and resumed his task offashioning the hondo of a new rawhide riata.

  "It is a very dry year," he complained. "Never before have I seenDecember arrive ere the grass in the San Gregorio was green with theOctober rains. Everything is burned; the streams and the springs havedried up, and for a month I have listened to hear the quail call on thehillside yonder. But I listen in vain. The quail have moved toanother range."

  "Well, what of it, Pablo?"

  "How our beloved Don Mike enjoyed the quail-shooting in the fall!Should he return now to the Palomar, there will be no quail to shoot."He wagged his gray head sorrowfully. "Don Mike will think that, withthe years, laziness and ingratitude have descended upon old Pablo.Truly, Satan afflicts me." And he cursed with great depth offeeling--in English.

  "Yes, poor boy," old Don Miguel agreed; "he will miss more than thequail-shooting when he returns--if he should return. They sent him toSiberia to fight the Bolsheviki."

  "What sort of country is this where Don Mike slays our enemy?" Pabloqueried.

  "It is always winter there, Pablo. It is inhabited by a wild race ofmen with much whiskers."

  "Ah, our poor Don Mike! And he a child of the sun!"

  "He but does his duty," old Don Miguel replied proudly. "He adds tothe fame of an illustrious family, noted throughout the centuries forthe gallantry of its warriors."

  "A small comfort, Don Miguel, if our Don Mike comes not again to thosethat love him."

  "Pray for him," the old Don suggested piously.

  Fell a silence. Then,

  "Don Miguel, yonder comes one over the trail from El Toro."

  Don Miguel gazed across the valley to the crest of the hills. There,against the sky-line, a solitary horseman showed. Pablo cupped hishands over his eyes and gazed long and steadily.

  "It is Tony Moreno," he said, while the man was still a mile distant."I know that scuffling cripple of a horse he rides."

  Don Miguel seated himself On the bench beside Pablo and awaited thearrival of the horseman. As he drew nearer, the Don saw that Pablo wasright.

  "Now, what news does that vagabond bear?" he muttered. "Assuredly hebrings a telegram; otherwise the devil himself could not induce thatlazy wastrel to ride twenty miles."

  "Of a truth you are right, Don Miguel. Tony Moreno is the only man inEl Toro who is forever out of a job, and the agent of the telegraphcompany calls upon him always to deliver messages of importance."

  With the Don, he awaited, with vague apprehension, the arrival of TonyMoreno. As the latter pulled his sweating horse up before them, theyrose and gazed upon him questioningly. Tony Moreno, on his part,doffed his shabby sombrero with his right hand and murmured courteously,

  "_Buenas tardes_, Don Miguel."

  Pablo he ignored. With his left hand, he caught a yellow envelope asit fell from under the hat.

  "Good-afternoon, Moreno." Don Miguel returned his salutation with agravity he felt incumbent upon one of his station to assume whenaddressing a social inferior. "You bring me a telegram?" He spoke inEnglish, for the sole purpose of indicating to the messenger that thegulf between them could not be spanned by the bridge of their mothertongue. He suspected Tony Moreno very strongly of having stolen ayearling from him many years ago.

  Tony Moreno remembered his manners, and dismounted before handing DonMiguel the telegram.

  "The delivery charges?" Don Miguel queried courteously.

  "Nothing, Don Miguel." Moreno's voice was strangely subdued. "It is apleasure to serve you, _senor_."

  "You are very kind." And Don Miguel thrust the telegram, unopened,into his pocket. "However," he continued, "it will please me, Moreno,if you accept this slight token of my appreciation." And he handed themessenger a five-dollar bill. The don was a proud man, and dislikedbeing under obligation to the Tony Morenos of this world. Tonyprotested, but the don stood his ground, silently insistent, and, inthe end, the other pouched the bill, and rode away. Don Miguel seatedhimself once more beside his retainer and drew forth the telegram.

  "It must be evil news," he murmured, with the shade of a tremor in hismusical voice; "otherwise, that fellow could not have felt so much pityfor me that it moved him to decline a gratuity."

  "Read, Don Miguel!" Pablo croaked. "Read!"

  Don Miguel read. Then he carefully folded the telegram and replaced itin the envelope; as deliberately, he returned the envelope to hispocket. Suddenly his hands gripped the bench, and he trembledviolently.

  "Don Mike is dead?" old Pablo queried softly. He possessed all theacute intuition of a primitive people.

  Don Miguel did not reply; so presently Pablo turned his head and gazedup into the master's face. Then he knew--his fingers trembled slightlyas he returned to work on the hondo, and, for a long time, no soundbroke the silence save the song of an oriole in the catalpa tree.

  Suddenly, the sound for which old Pablo had waited so long burst forthfrom the sage-clad hillside. It was a cock quail calling, and, to themajordomo, it seemed to say: "Don Mike! Come home! Don Mike! Comehome!"

  "Ah, little truant, who has told you that you are safe?" Pablo cried inagony. "For Don Mike shall not come home--no, no--never any more!"

  His Indian stoicism broke at last; he clasped his hands and fell to hisknees beside the bench, sobbing aloud.

  Don Miguel regarded him not, and when Pablo's babbling becameincoherent, the aged master of Palomar controlled his twitching handssufficiently to roll and light a cigarette. Then he reread thetelegram.

  Yes; it was true. It was from Washington, and signed by theadjutant-general; it informed Don Miguel Jose Farrel, with regret, thathis son, First Sergeant Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel,Number 765,438, had been killed in action in Siberia on the fourthinstant.

  "At least," the old don murmur
ed, "he died like a gentleman. Had hereturned to the Rancho Palomar, he could not have continued to livelike one. Oh, my son, my son!"

  He rose blindly and groped his way along the wall until he came to theinset gate leading into the patio; like a stricken animal retreating toits lair, he sought the privacy of his old-fashioned garden, where nonemight intrude upon his grief.