COLONEL KATE'S _PROTEGEE_
"Colonel Kate," as both the Select and the Unassorted of Santa Fe societywere accustomed to speak of Mrs. Harrison Winthrop Coolidge, had long agoproved her right to do whatever she chose, by always accomplishingwhatever she attempted. She had done so many startling things, andalways with such dashing success, since Governor Coolidge had broughther, a bride, to the old town, that people had become accustomed to her,just as they had grown used to the climate, and expected her deeds ofdaring as unthinkingly as they did cool breezes in summer, or sunshine inwinter. Besides, everybody liked her; for she had both the charm whichmakes new friends and the tact which holds them loyal.
When, finally, Colonel Kate brought an Indian girl from the pueblo ofAcoma and made it known that she intended her _protegee_ to grace theinnermost circles of Santa Fe society, it is possible that some of theSelect may have shrugged their shoulders a trifle; but, if they did, theywere careful to have no witnesses. For Governor Coolidge was therichest, the most influential, and the most prominent American in NewMexico, and his wife could make and unmake social circles as she chose.The Santa Fe _Blast_, which was the organ of the Governor's party,announced the event as follows:
"Mrs. Governor Coolidge and guests returned yesterday from a trip toAcoma. As always, Mrs. Coolidge was the life of the party and charmedall by her wit and beauty and vivacity. . . . She even persuaded oldAmbrosio, the grizzled civil chief of the pueblo, to entrust to her carehis most precious treasure, his lovely and charming daughter, MissBarbara Koitza. This beautiful and talented young lady, whom Mrs.Coolidge has installed as a friend and guest in her hospitable andinteresting home, where she is soon to be introduced to Santa Fe society,is as cultured as she is handsome. She has spent a year in the Indianschool at Albuquerque and two years at Carlyle, and is well fitted toadorn the choicest social circles in the land. She will no doubt bewarmly welcomed by Santa Fe society and will at once take that positionin its midst to which her beauty, grace, and talents entitle her."
If she had known of it, poor little Barbara would have been overwhelmedby this flourish of trumpets. But Colonel Kate did not allow it to fallunder her eye. And the girl did not even know that, whatever she wasnot, she certainly was interesting and picturesque on the day when shefirst entered her new friend's door.
She wore her Indian costume, and was neat and clean as any white maidenwith a heritage of bath-tubs. Spotlessly white were her buckskinmoccasins and leggings, which encased a pair of tiny feet and then woundround and round her sturdy legs until they looked as shapeless astelegraph posts. Her scant, red calico skirt met her leggings at theknee; and her red mantle, of Navajo weave, fell back from her head, butwrapped closely her waist and arms, and then dropped long ends down thefront of her dress. Her coal-black hair, heavy and shining, was combedsmoothly back from her forehead and fastened in a _chongo_ behind. Herbrown face was handsomer than that of most Indian maidens, being longerin proportion to its width than is the pueblo type, the cheek bones lessprominent, the forehead broader, and the lips fuller and more delicatelychiselled. It is possible that, far back in Barbara's ancestry, perhapseven as far back as the times of the _Conquistadores_, there had beensome admixture of the white man's race which, after generations ofquiescence, in her had at last made its influence felt again.
As Mrs. Coolidge led the girl into her new home she looked down at herwith approving eye and inwardly exclaimed, the conqueror's joy alreadyfilling her heart, "She 'll be a success! A tremendous success! TheColonel's wife can do what she pleases now!"
For in the days of which this chronicle tells, Santa Fe was still amilitary post, and the wife of the commanding officer had been all wintera thorn in the flesh of Mrs. Coolidge. The Colonel had been recentlytransferred from an Eastern post; and his wife, who had never been Westbefore, had supposed that of course she would at once become the socialleader of Santa Fe. Her disappointment was bitter when she found thatplace already firmly held and learned that she, the wife of a colonel inthe army, and just from the East, would have to yield first place to thewife of a mere civilian who had lived in the West for a dozen years. Sherebelled and tried to start a clique of her own, and all winter she hadmade trouble among the Select by getting up affairs which clashed withColonel Kate's plans, and by introducing innovations of which ColonelKate did not approve. Mrs. Coolidge had no fears for her socialsupremacy,--she had reigned too long for the thought of downfall to bepossible,--but she was tired of being crossed and annoyed, and shepurposed with one audacious blow to humble the Colonel's wife and put anend to her pretensions.
The plan came to her suddenly while she talked with old Ambrosio'sdaughter in the street at Acoma. She saw that Barbara was discontentedand unhappy, and that she longed to return to even so much of the life ofthe whites as she had found in the Indian schools. Colonel Kate pitiedher and determined to help her. She was saying to herself that the girlwas certainly intelligent and attractive, when she suddenly realized thatthis Indian maid was gifted with that indefinable but most potent offeminine attractions--personal charm. And then, like an inspiration, theidea took possession of her mind. She turned impulsively to Barbara:
"Will you go home with me and be my guest for all this spring and summer?"
The joy that beamed in the girl's face told how gladly she would go. Butit faded quickly and she shook her head sadly, as she answered:
"I can not. My father would not allow it. He will not even let me goback to school. He says that I am an Indian, and that I must stay inAcoma and be an Indian."
When Mrs. Coolidge saw that look of eager desire leap into Barbara's eyesshe determined that the thing should be brought to pass and set herselfto the task of overcoming old Ambrosio's determination that his daughtershould never again leave Acoma. It was not an easy thing to do, butColonel Kate finally accomplished it, on condition that Barbara shouldreturn whenever he wished her to do so.
During the remaining days of Lent, dressmakers were busy with Barbara'swardrobe; and Mrs. Coolidge carefully schooled her in a hundred littleparticulars of manner and deportment. And meanwhile the Select of SantaFe waited with impatience for a first view of the Indian girl. ForColonel Kate was too shrewd a manager to discount the sensation sheintended to produce, and so she kept Barbara at home, away from the frontdoors and windows, and out of sight of curious callers. In the meantimeshe diplomatically helped on the growing interest and excitement, andlost no opportunity of arousing curiosity about her _protegee_.
And at last, when Barbara had been three weeks in her home, and no oneoutside her own household had even seen the girl's face; when the townwas full of rumors and chatter and all manner of romantic stories aboutthe Indian girl; when everybody was wondering what she could be like, andwhy Colonel Kate had taken such a fancy to her, then Mrs. Coolidge gaveher a coming-out party which eclipsed everything in Santa Fe's socialannals.
All the Select were there, including the Colonel's wife, who had not eventhought of trying to have a card party the same night. The doors hadbeen opened wide, also, for the Unassorted. All the most eligible ofthese had received invitations, and not one had sent regrets. The editorof _The Blast_, which was the mouthpiece of the Governor's party, and theeditor of _The Bugle_, the organ of the opposition, were both there; andeach of them published a glowing account of the occasion, the formerbecause he considered it his duty to "stand in" with whatever concernedthe Governor; and the latter because he hoped the Governor's wife wouldmake it possible for him to be transferred from the Unassorted to theSelect.
_The Blast_ said: "The Governor's palatial mansion was a dream ofOriental magnificence, and the beautiful and artistic _placita_, lightedby sparkling eyes of ladies fair and Japanese lanterns, was a vision offairy land." _The Bugle_ declared: "No, not even in the marbledrawing-rooms of Fifth Avenue and adjoining streets, nor in the luxuriousmansions of Washington, could be gathered together a more cultured, amore polished, a more interesting, a more _recherche_ assemblag
e thanthat which filled the Governor's palatial residence and vied with oneanother in doing homage to the winsome Indian maiden."
To call the Governor's residence "palatial" was part of the common law ofSanta Fe journalism. In actual fact, it was a one-story, flat-roofed,adobe house, enclosing a _placita_, or little court, and having a_portal_, or roofed sidewalk, along its front.
When she first went to New Mexico, Mrs. Coolidge enjoyed transports ofenthusiasm over the quaintness and picturesqueness of its alien modes ofliving. So she hunted all over Santa Fe for a house of the requisiteage, dilapidation, and eventful history, to transform into her own home.And when at last she found this one, with an authenticated age of twohundred years, and a romance, a crime, or a startling event for almostevery year in its history; with rough, irregular walls four feet thick;with tiny, unglazed, iron-barred windows,--then time stopped, it seemedto her, until the deed was recorded in her name.
With much sadness of heart she made sentiment give way to civilizationand renovated the interior. Wooden floors, instead of the packed earth,hardened and glazed by the tread of many generations, plastered andpapered ceilings and walls and ample windows gave to the inside of thehouse a modern air which its mistress deeply regretted, but acceptedmournfully as a necessary evil. But she did not allow a weed or a bladeof grass to be plucked from its roof; and upon the suggestion that theold brown adobe walls should be treated to a coat of gray plaster shefrowned as if it had been blasphemy.
Upon the _placita_, which had been given over to weeds, tin cans, rags,and broken dishes, she lavished loving care and made it the blooming,fragrant heart of her home. In the centre was a locust tree of lustygrowth, plumy of foliage and brilliant of color; and underneath the treea little fountain shot upward a thin stream, which broke into a diamondshower and fell plashing back into a pool whose rim was outlined by acircle of purple-flowered iris. Around this spread a velvet turf, dottedwith dandelions and English daisies. An irregular, winding path inclosedthe tiny lawn, and all the space between the path and the narrow stonewalk that hugged the four sides of the house was rich with roses. LaFrance and American Beauty and Jacqueminot and many others were there inprofusion and made the placita a thing of beauty from the time the frostsended until they came again. A hand rail covered with climbing rosesguarded the stone walk on three sides of the court, while the fourth sideof the house was screened by a _portal_ over which roses and honeysucklesclambered to the roof. Facing the wide, roofed passage which gaveentrance from the street, stood an arch loaded with honeysuckle vines.
Mrs. Coolidge's enthusiasm over New Mexican history, and her admirationfor the heroic times of the _Conquistadores_, had caused her to make theinterior of her home almost a museum of antiquities. On the floorsNavajo blankets--fifty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty years old, andeach one with its own dramatic tale--served as rugs. Silken _rebozos_,worn by high-hearted cavaliers riding in search of "_la gran Quivera_"draped her windows. Pueblo pottery, dug from villages that were in ruinswhen the first white men saw them, filled cabinets and shelves. Saddleskirts of embroidered leather, which had pleased the fancy of some brave_capitan_ leading a handful of men against a rebellious pueblo twocenturies ago, made a background for the huge silver spurs of cunningworkmanship with which some other daring _caballero_ had urged his horsein search of adventures and of gold. And beside them lay the stone axewith which a courageous senora, a heroine of the Southwest, had cleft theskull of a Navajo chief and saved her townspeople from falling into thehands of the savage enemy. On the walls were old, old paintings of_Nuestra Senora de_ this and that, proud of neck and sad and sweet offace, which had been brought from the City of Mexico on the backs ofburros, and adored in little adobe churches by generations of men, women,and children, and pierced by the arrows of angry and revengeful Indiansduring the pueblo rebellion, or scarred by fires of destruction, fromwhich they had been saved by brave and pious devotees.
Such things as these made a picturesque setting for the Indian maid onthe night of her debut. It might have been a painful ordeal for her hadshe known that all these people were there mainly to satisfy theircuriosity concerning her. But Mrs. Coolidge had carefully kept from herthe knowledge that she was of especial interest and was expected toproduce a sensation. So she knew only that she was having a delightfultime and that everybody was so kind and cordial and took so much interestin her that she did not have a minute during the whole evening in whichto think about herself. Everybody was eager to dance, or talk, or strollin the _placita_ with her, and all who were not engaged with her weretalking enthusiastically in praise of her appearance, her manner, or herconversation.
Colonel Kate moved about, proud and happy in the brilliant success of herhazardous undertaking and serene in the confidence that the Colonel'swife would not again attempt rebellion. She was even more glad and happyfor Barbara's sake, for the two had grown very fond of each other and shehad begun to wonder if old Ambrosio could not be induced to let her adoptthe girl. Already it made her heart ache to think she might have to giveup her _protegee_. She cast a glance at Barbara, who was holding herusual court, a circle of men about her, and thought:
"Nonsense! Old Ambrosio is not so stupid as to refuse his daughter sucha chance as I can give her!"
For Colonel Kate, with all her cleverness, had never measured, or evenimagined, the world-wide difference between the view-points of a pueblochief and an ambitious white woman. So she felt happy and secure, as shesmiled in response to one of Barbara's bright glances, and noticed thatLieutenant Wemple was still dancing close attendance upon her youngfriend.
Barbara was gowned very simply in white, and carried a bouquet ofJacqueminot roses. Her shining black hair was drawn back from herforehead in loose, waving masses and filleted with bands of silverfiligree. The brown-faced girl, in her white dress with the glowingroses at her breast, made a pleasing picture as she stood beside acabinet of pueblo pottery, against a Navajo _portiere_. LieutenantWemple, who stood nearest her, thought that, altogether, it made the moststriking and suggestive composition he had ever seen, and that he wouldlike to see her portrait painted just as she stood there; but that wouldbe impossible, for no artist could paint two girls into one figure. Andshe--at one moment she was a bronze figure, listening with droopedeyelids, closed lips, and impassive face, and the next she was vibrantwith life; her big black eyes, which would have redeemed a countenance ofless attractiveness than hers, sparkled and glowed; her face was radiantwith eager interest; and the Lieutenant felt that beneath those rich redroses must beat a heart as glowing with warm bright life as they.
Santa Fe might be, geographically, far in the deeps of the red and woollyWest, but the feminine portion of its social circles did not think thatany reason why they should relapse into barbarism. And as one means ofpreventing such a dire catastrophe, they made the law of party calls evenas the laws of the Medes and Persians. Among themselves the men mightgroan and swear and protest as much as they pleased, but if any one ofthem neglected that duty the ladies forthwith hurled him from the circlesof the Select into the outer shades of the Unassorted. After the nightof Barbara's success these calls did not lag as usual, and LieutenantWemple, who was wont to be the last, was the very first to presenthimself.
Then followed a series of gayeties in which Barbara was the centralfigure, and Lieutenant Wemple her constant attendant. Whether it was adinner, or a reception, or a picnic party up the canyon, or a horsebackexcursion to the turquoise mines, he spent as much time by her side asthe other people allowed. Barbara enjoyed it all with the zest of amortal let loose in wonderland, and thought that nowhere else in theworld could there be such delightful people as her new friends. Itseemed to her that she had at last come into her own inheritance andfound the people among whom she really belonged. But she liked best ofall the quiet afternoons at home, when she and Mrs. Coolidge sat in the_placita_, and Lieutenant Wemple came, and they three read and talkedtogether.
The young officer thought he
r a more interesting companion than any whitegirl he had ever met. The world--his world--was all so new andmarvellous to her that it was like opening its doors to some visitor fromanother planet. He took great pleasure in doing that service and inseeing how quickly and eagerly she absorbed everything she saw and heardand read; and he found her fresh and constant interest entirelydelightful. So it soon came about that the quiet afternoons at home grewmore and more frequent.
One day in early June they stood together in the _placita_ and agreedthat it was very beautiful. The proposition was evident enough andlikely to cap forth enthusiastic assent from any one. For the plumygreen branches of the locust tree were heavy with pendent clusters ofodorous white bloom; the iris that circled the fountain was glorious inits purple raiment; the honeysuckle arch was a mass of red and whiteblossoms trumpeting their fragrance; beside it a great spreadingrose-bush was yellow with golden treasure; the velvety, emerald turf wasdotted with white and gold; the rose-bushes were weighted with openingbuds or perfect flowers, and the warm, soft air was vivid with sunlight,and sweet with mingled odors.
So they could hardly have done anything but agree upon the beauty of thelittle court, even if they had wanted to quarrel. But for the hundredthtime it struck him that it was very remarkable they should so often thinkalike. When he made mention of this remarkable fact, she flashed up athim one of her eager, brilliant glances. Then, meeting something morethan usual in his look, she quickly dropped her eyes again, and over hermanner there came that mystifying air of shyness and reserve, as if someinvisible attendant had wrapped about her an impenetrable veil. In theirearly acquaintance he had often noticed that quick and baffling change inher manner, and had liked it, because it seemed to tell of a refined andsensitive nature. From their later frank and friendly intercourse it hadbeen absent, and now, when it appeared again and seemed to take her awayfrom him, his heart beat fast with the longing to tear the veil away.
For a moment she stood with her gaze resolutely upon the ground and herexpression and figure impassive. But she felt his eyes upon her, and herbrown fingers trembled over the yellow rose in her hand. Suddenly, as ifcompelled, she lifted her face and the look in his eyes called all herheart into hers. For a second they stood so, revealing to each othertheir inmost feeling, and then, covering her face with her hands, she raninto the house. The Lieutenant picked up the yellow rose she had droppedand went out through the street entrance, a very thoughtful look upon hiscountenance.
Wemple had not realized before what was happening to them both, althoughall Santa Fe, except themselves, knew it very well. But at last heunderstood that he loved her and that she knew it, and that she also knewshe had confessed in her eyes her love for him. What was he going to doabout it? That was the question he had to face and to settle; and hewent out alone and tramped over the brown hills and across _arroyos_ andthrough clumps of sage brush and juniper and cactus, and argued it outwith himself.
He loved her, and she loved him. Yet--she was an Indian, and did he wantan Indian wife? But after all that had passed between them, and thesilent, mutual confession of the afternoon, could he in honor do elsethan marry her? Ever since he had come West he had held the firmconviction that an Indian can never be anything but an Indian, and thatto attempt to make anything else out of him is not only a sheer waste oftime, effort, and money, but is also an injury to the Indian himself,because it gives him desires and ambitions that can do nothing but makediscord with his Indian nature.
But it seemed different with her. In truth, he told himself, she seemedmore akin to the white than to the Indian race. That age-long heritageof religious belief and practice that has made a basis of character forthe pueblo Indian did not seem to have found expression in her. But ifafter years should bring it to the surface and she should prove to beIndian at heart, would it raise a wall between them or would it drag himdown, because of his great love for her, to that same Indian level? Ifthat Indian nature was there now, patched over and hidden by presentsurroundings, would not happiness be impossible between them? And if hebelieved that unhappiness would be the sure result of their marriagewould it not be more dishonorable to marry her than to leave her at once?But at the idea of leaving her a sharp pain pierced his heart. He thrustat it the thought that in the long run she would probably be happier ifshe were never to see him again. Then he ground his teeth together,whirled about and started for the town.
Presently he put his hand in his pocket and his fingers closed overBarbara's yellow rose. He raised it to his lips and something very likea sob trembled through his soldierly figure. And then suddenly, in agreat wave, came the remembrance of her graces of mind and heart andbody, and of how frank and simple and sincere she was, how sweet andgentle and womanly and winning. At the same moment his own faults roseup and upbraided him, and his heart cast away the arguments his brain hadbeen weaving, and cried out with all its strength, "Indian or not, she isbetter than I!" All his white-man's pride and prejudice of race fellfrom him as he pressed her rose to his lips and kissed it again and again.
On the morrow it happened that Lieutenant Wemple was officer of the dayat the post and his duties kept him so closely confined in and about thefort that he had not time to see Barbara. But in the latter part of theafternoon it became necessary for him to see the commanding officer. TheColonel had gone, he knew, on a business errand to the farther end of thetown, and the Lieutenant started out to find him. His way back took himpast the Coolidge residence. He was walking hurriedly down the street,in haste to return to his duties, his blonde head erect, his cap atright-eyed angle, his uniform buttoned tightly across his broad shouldersand around his trim waist, his sword on hip, and his eyes straight infront of him. But his thoughts were inside the adobe walls of theGovernor's home and he was calculating how long it would be until,released from duty, he could hasten back to pour into a little brown earthe words of love of which his heart was full.
Across the street, in the shadow of a _portal_, an old Indian,gray-haired and wrinkled, was curiously surveying the Coolidge house.
The heavy, double doors of the _placita_ entrance were open, and asLieutenant Wemple strode past he heard a sound from within, a halfsuppressed exclamation in a voice that trembled with feeling. It sentthrough him a sudden shock, stopped him in mid-step, and swiftly turnedhim to the _placita_ door. Barbara, in a white muslin gown, stood underthe honeysuckle arch, her hands full of yellow roses which she had justbeen plucking from the bush that glowed behind her. She was looking athim with soft and glowing eyes, her eager face radiant with love, herlips still parted by the exclamation which sight of him had forcedthrough them.
The old Indian under the _portal_ considered him impassively for a momentand then sauntered across the street.
An instant only the Lieutenant stood looking at her, spellbound by thebeauty and sweetness of the picture, and then he sprang to her side andgathered her in his arms, forgetful alike of the open doors behind themand of his duties at the fort. It was only for a moment, and then hetook her hand and led her to Mrs. Coolidge.
But during that moment the Indian with the gray hair and the wrinkledface stood in front of the _placita_ doors and looked at them withevident interest. When they went indoors he shut his thin lips closetogether, crossed to the other side of the street, and leaned against thecolumn of a _portal_ while he watched the doors and windows of theGovernor's residence.
It was only a few minutes until Lieutenant Wemple appeared again andwalked rapidly away. For army discipline must be remembered andmaintained, even in times of peace and days of love. The old man gazedat him until he disappeared around a corner, and then crossed the streetand knocked at the Coolidge door. Colonel Kate herself opened it and atonce held out her hands in welcome, crying, "_Entra_! _Entra_!" Sheseized his hands and drew him in, pouring forth a voluble welcome inSpanish. He did not give much heed to her words, but coldly asked, inthe same tongue:
"Where is my daughter?"
Barbara,
in the next room, heard his voice, and her first unthinkingthrill of pleasure was quickly followed by a sinking of her heart whichchilled and saddened her happy face. Intuitively she knew what wouldhappen.
"She is here," Mrs. Coolidge replied. "She will be so glad! Barbara!Come quickly! Here is some one very anxious to see you!"
The girl came slowly and stood before her father with downcast eyes. Hispiercing glance ran over her dress, and then he grunted in severedisapproval.
"Go, put on your own clothing. Then stand before your father."
"Yes, dear," chimed in Colonel Kate soothingly, "you must seem verystrange to him in that dress,--scarcely like his daughter. Put on yournative costume and come back to us quickly."
Barbara went to her room and Mrs. Coolidge began to tell her visitor,with her most charming enthusiasm and with all the delighted expletiveswhich her knowledge of Spanish made possible, of Barbara's success, ofher love affair, and of how very desirable the match would be. The oldman listened quietly to the end, looked at her steadily for a moment insilence, and then spoke:
"No!"
Colonel Kate's eyes opened wide in amazement at the word. "What! DonAmbrosio! Surely--"
"He wishes to marry her?" the old man broke in.
"Indeed he does! He told me so scarcely ten minutes ago. He is verymuch in love with her and she with him!"
"No!" repeated the Indian emphatically. "It cannot be!"
"Surely, senor, you do not understand! You could not find a moredesirable husband for Barbara! Why, he is a lieutenant in the army, afirst lieutenant, too, and his position will take her into any societyshe wishes to enter. He has money enough to keep her well, and he lovesher devotedly!"
"No! He forgets she is an Indian! He has seen her in all these clothesof the white women in which you have tricked her out, and he thinks sheis the same as a white woman. She is not. She was born an Indian, andan Indian she must be until she dies. Never again shall she leave Acoma."
"Senor! How can you be so blind to your daughter's interests? You willbreak her heart! Surely you cannot be so cruel!"
But Mrs. Coolidge's protests were broken off by Barbara's return. Thegirl stood before her father with her eyes on the floor and her face coldand impassive. She was dressed again in the garments she had worn whenshe first entered the house, three months before, and she seemed a fardifferent creature from the happy and radiant girl to whom her lover hadbut just said good-bye. Ambrosio looked her over approvingly.
"Now you are my daughter. Come."
With the pueblo children centuries of training have caused unhesitatingobedience to parents to become an instinct. So Barbara did not question,but at once followed her father toward the door. Mrs. Coolidge wasweeping. Barbara threw both arms around her neck and kissed her againand again. The girl's face was expressionless and there were no tears inher voice, but her wide, black eyes, paling now to brown, told the agonythat was in her heart.
"Tell him," she whispered in English, "that I must go back. My fatherbids me, and I must go. My father will never again let me leave Acoma.Tell him I shall never see him again, but I shall love him always."
"My poor child!" sobbed Mrs. Coolidge. "We must find some way to bringyou back!"
"It is useless to try. I know my father, and I know it will beimpossible for me ever again to leave the pueblo. I must be an Indianall the rest of my life. But I shall love him always. Tell him so."
"Come!" called Ambrosio from the _portal_.
Half an hour later the train was carrying them back to Acoma. ColonelKate at once sent a note to Barbara's lover, telling him what hadhappened. But the messenger, being a small boy, met other small boys onthe way, and by the time the young officer read the news the Indian girlwas well on her way toward home.
Lieutenant Wemple applied for leave of absence, and as soon as possiblehe followed old Ambrosio. At Laguna, where he left the railroad, hehired a horse and inquired the way to Acoma. It was the middle of thenight, but he refused to wait for daylight, and started at once acrossthe plain, galloping as though life and death depended on his mission.In the early morning he reached the great rock-island of Acoma, toweringfour hundred feet above the plain, and climbed the steep ascent to thevillage on its summit. A file of maidens, and among them his lover's eyequickly sought out Barbara, were coming from the pool far beyond,carrying water jars upon their heads, graceful as a procession ofCaryatides. Wemple found his way to Ambrosio's door, where the old chiefwas sitting in the early sunlight. As he stopped his horse Barbara cameup the street, her _tinaja_ poised on her head. One swift and frightenedflash of her black eyes was all the recognition she gave him as shehurried into the house.
Briefly the Lieutenant told the old man that he loved Barbara and wishedto marry her. Inside the house the girl stood out of sight, listeninganxiously for her father's reply, although she well knew what it would be.
"The senor forgets that my daughter is an Indian and that he is a whiteman."
"I do not care whether she is Indian or white. I love her and I want herto be my wife."
"You mean that you do not care what she is now. But after she is yourwife you want her to be a white woman in her heart. You want to take heraway from me, her father, and away from her mother, and her clan, and allour people, and make her forget us and forget that she is an Indian. No!"
"No, senor!" urged the Lieutenant, "I do not wish her to forget you. Sheshall come back to visit you whenever she wishes."
A crafty look came into Ambrosio's eyes. "There is one way," he went onquietly, not heeding Wemple's reply, "in which you may make her yourwife. But there is only one."
The officer leaned eagerly forward in his saddle and the girl inside thedoor clasped her hands and listened breathlessly. The old Indian wenton, slowly and deliberately, as if to give his listener time to weigh hiswords, while his keen eyes searched the white man's face.
"You think my daughter loves you well enough to forsake and forget herpeople if I would let her. Do you love her well enough to leave yourpeople and become one of us? Do you love her well enough to be an Indianall the rest of your life, wear your hair in side-locks, enter the clanof the eagle, or the panther, become Koshare or Cuirana, dance at thefeasts, forget your people, and never again be other than an Indian? Ifyou do, speak, and she shall be your wife."
Ambrosio shut his lips tightly and waited for the young man's answer.And the young man stared back, his ruddy cheek paling under its sunburn,and spoke not. A whirling panorama of visions was filling his brain ashe realized what the old chief's words meant. He saw himself living thelife of these people; renouncing everything that meant "the world" and"life" to him--everything except Barbara; driving burros loaded with woodto town and tramping about its streets with a basket of pottery at hisback; saw himself with painted face and nude, smeared body dancing theclownish antics of the Koshare; planting prayer sticks; sprinkling thesacred meal; taking part and pretending belief in all the heathen ritesof the pueblo secret religion--and then Barbara sprang out of the house,crying to her father in the Indian tongue, "Wait! Wait!"
Both men turned toward her inquiringly. She stood before them,hesitating, excited, her eyes on the ground, as if anxious but yetunwilling to speak.
"Father," she began in Spanish, "it is useless for you and the senor tospeak longer about this. For since I have returned to my home I do notfeel as I did before." She stopped an instant and then went onhurriedly, pouring out her words with now and then little, gasping stopsfor breath. "Now I do not wish to marry him. I wish to marry one of myown people. He is not an Indian and never can become one. I know nowthat I can never be anything but an Indian and so it is better for me tomarry one of my own people. I do not wish to marry the senor, even if heshould become one of us."
Wemple looked at her blankly, as if hardly comprehending her words, andthen cried out, "Barbara! You cannot mean this!"
"You see, senor," said the old man, "there is n
othing more to say."
"Is there nothing more to say, Barbara?" Wemple appealed to her in abroken voice.
She did not look at him, but shook her head and went back into the house.
Lieutenant Wemple turned his horse and with head hanging on his breastrode slowly, very slowly, back toward the long declivity leading to theplain below. If he had not ridden so slowly this tale might have had adifferent ending.
Ambrosio went into the house and began telling his wife what hadhappened. Barbara took an empty _tinaja_ and said she would go for morewater. When she stepped outside she could still see the forlorn figureof her lover riding slowly down the trail. Her heart yearned after himas she bitterly thought:
"He will believe it! I made him believe it! And I can never tell himthat it is not true!"
Then something set her heart on fire and put into it the thought ofrebellion. She looked around her at the village and thought of the lifeit meant for her, as long as she should live; of the heartbreak she wouldhave to conceal from sneering eyes, of the obscene dances in which shewould soon be forced to take part, of the persecutions she would have tosuffer because she could no longer think as her people thought; andhatred of it all filled her to the teeth. Rebellion burned high in hersoul and with clenched fingers she said to herself, "I hate the Indians!In my heart I am a white woman!" She cast one more longing, lovingglance at the disappearing figure and resolution was born in her heart:"And I will be a white woman, or die!"
She looked hastily about. No one seemed to be watching her. She droppedthe _tinaja_ beside the house and walked swiftly--she feared to run lestshe might attract attention--to the edge of the precipice. There shelooked down over the flight of rude steps, hacked centuries ago in thestone and worn smooth by many scores of generations of moccasined feet,which was once the only approach to the fortress-pueblo. It was threehundred feet down that precipitous wall to where the steps joined thetrail, but from babyhood she had gone up and down, and she knew themevery one. From one to another she fearlessly sprang, and over severalat a time she dropped herself, catching here by her hands and there byher toes and finally landed, with a last long leap, on the trail. Oneglance told her that her lover had almost reached the road at the foot ofthe cliff and that if he should then quicken his pace she could scarcelyhope to catch him. But love and determination made steel springs of hermuscles, and she bent herself to the task. For if she could not overtakehim there was no hope anywhere.
Lieutenant Wemple, with his head still hanging on his breast and hishorse creeping along at its own pace, turned from the declivity into theroad which would take him back to Laguna, to the railroad, and to his ownlife. There the horse decided to take a rest; and Wemple, aroused torealization of his surroundings by the sudden stop, jerked himselftogether again, straightened up, sent a keen glance across the plain andover the road in front of him, and struck home his spurs for the gallopto the railroad station. As the horse leaped forward, he thought heheard some one calling. Turning in his saddle he saw Barbara runningtoward him, her breast heaving, her arms outstretched. She almost fellagainst the horse's side, panting for breath.
"It was not true," she gasped, "what I said up there! I wanted to saveyou. Take me with you if you still love me! For I love you and Ihate--I hate all that--" turning her face for an instant toward theheights above them--"and if you do not want me I must die, for I will notgo back."
For an instant their eyes read each other's souls, and then she hastilyput up her hand to stop him from leaping from his horse.
"No, no! Do not get off! They will be sure to follow us and we mustlose no time. Take me up behind you and gallop for Laguna. If we cancatch the next train we'll be all right!"
She seized his hand and sprang to her seat behind his saddle. He turnedand kissed her.
"Put spurs to your horse," she said. "They will be sure to follow ussoon."
There was need of haste, for scarcely had the horse pricked up his earsand sprung into a long gallop when they heard loud shouts from the top ofthe mesa.
"Hurry, hurry!" exclaimed Barbara. "They have found me out and they willfollow us!"
Scarcely had she spoken when the sound of a rifle report came from thetop of the cliff, and Wemple's left arm dropped helpless beside him.
"They dare not shoot to kill," she said, "but they think they canfrighten you, and they may cripple the horse. My darling, you will notlet them have me again?" The terror in her voice told how intense washer fear of capture.
"Sweetheart, they shall not have you again unless they kill me first!"
A dozen Indians were galloping recklessly down the steep trail. "Promiseme," Barbara, pleaded, "if it comes to that, if you must die, you willkill me first! For it would be hell--it would be worse than hell--to goback there now!"
Wemple did not answer. "Promise me that you will," she begged. "You donot know what you would save me from; but believe me, and promise me thatyou will not send me back to it!"
"I promise!" he answered as another shot whistled in front of them andclipped the top of the horse's ear. Wemple dug his spurs into itssweating side and the beast sprang forward at a faster gallop. TheIndians, shouting loudly, were urging their ponies across the plain atbreakneck speed. Lieutenant Wemple glanced back again and a frownwrinkled his forehead, as he said, "If our horse does not break down wemay keep ahead of them until we reach Laguna."
Wemple dug his spurs into its sweating side and the beastsprang forward at a faster gallop.]
Barbara patted the horse and whispered soft words of encouragement andthen under her breath she sent up a fervent petition to the Virgin Maryto protect them. Looking back, she recognized their pursuers, and toldWemple that one of them was her brother, and another was a young man whomher parents wished her to marry. This one had a faster horse than theothers and perceptibly gained upon the fugitives. He left the road wherea turn in it seemed to offer an advantage and, galloping across theplain, was presently parallel with them and not more than two hundredyards away. He raised his gun and Wemple, with quick perception notingthat his aim was toward their horse's neck, gave the bridle a jerk thatbrought the animal to its hind feet as the bullet whistled barely infront of them. It would have been quickly followed by another, but theIndian's pony stumbled, went down on its knees, and horse and riderrolled over together.
The other Indians came trooping on in a cloud of dust, yelling andshouting, and now and then firing a shot, apparently aimed at the goodhorse that so steadily kept his pace.
"They only want me," said Barbara. "If they can overtake us there areenough of them to overpower you. They will not try to do much harm toyou, for they would not dare. But they will take me and carry me backwith them--if you let them."
"I will not let them," he replied between set teeth.
At last Wemple saw that their pursuers were slowly but surely gaining onthem. Barbara saw it too, and she redoubled her prayers to the Virgin,and both she and her lover with words and caresses strove to keep up thecourage in their horse's heart. The good steed was of the sort whosespirit does not falter until strength is gone, and he seemed tounderstand that these people on his back were under some mighty need.For with unwavering pace he kept up his long, swift gallop,notwithstanding his double burden and the distance he had travelledbefore the race began.
So they kept on, mile after mile, with their pursuers gaining, little bylittle, upon them, and when at last they neared Laguna the Indians werewithin a hundred yards. A banner of smoke across the plain told themthat the east-bound train was approaching.
"I believe we can make it!" exclaimed Wemple, as they heard the engine'sannouncing scream. Apparently their pursuers guessed what the fugitiveswould try to do, for as they saw the train they shouted and yelled louderthan before and urged their ponies to a still higher speed. They gainedrapidly for a little while, for the Lieutenant's horse was beginning toflag, and Wemple, leaning to one side, gave the bridle into Barbara'shands and, with lef
t arm dangling useless, reached for his revolver. Hebegan to fear that they might yet head him off and surround him. Theyoutnumbered him hopelessly, but he would try to fight his way throughthem. If worst came to worst,--he would save two shots out of thesix,--Barbara should not fall into their hands.
The train drew into the station and the Indians were not more than ahundred feet behind him. The horse's faltering gait and heaving sidesshowed that he had reached almost his limit of strength. Some dogs ranout from a house, barking furiously. But being in his rear they onlymade Wemple's horse quicken his pace. They darted at the heads of theponies, which shied and pranced about, and so lost to their riders somevaluable seconds.
The train was already moving as Wemple dashed up to its hindmost car, hishorse staggering and their pursuers almost upon them.
"Jump for the car-steps!" he shouted to Barbara. She had not leaped andclambered up and down the stair in the Acoma cliff all her life fornothing, and her strength and agility stood her in good stead in thismoment of supreme necessity. She leaped from the horse's back, landedupon the upper step, and whirled about to assist her lover.
The train was moving faster, the Indians, with shouts and yells andcurses, were grasping at his bridle, and Wemple felt his horse giving waybeneath him. With a last encouraging call to the poor beast he urged itto one more leap, and as it brought him again even with the end of thecar he threw his leg over its neck and jumped. The horse staggered andfell as he left the saddle and caused him to lose his balance. He wentdown upon the car-steps, his wounded left arm beside him and his rightdoubled beneath his body. In another instant he would have rolled backto the ground beneath the hoofs of the Indian ponies, but Barbara seizedhim by the shoulders, and held him until he recovered his footing.
The Indians, seeing his predicament, whipped up their horses and gallopedbeside the platform, reviling and jeering at him. Wemple scrambled tohis feet and put his arm about Barbara, as though fearful they might yettry to take her from him. She leaned over the rail, laughed in theirfaces, and called out, in the Indian tongue:
"Good-bye! Good-bye, forever! Now I shall be a white woman!"