Suzanna (10 page)

“Thou most beautiful girl in the world.” he murmured. “Thine eyes are as the most precious stones; thy hair as sheer as finest silk; thy brow fairer than any gentle sun or whispering wind ever kissed. Thy lips are more perfect than a cupid's bow, more colorful than a pomegranate.”

It was his favorite love-speech. Chiquita de Sola had answered to the tug of it. Surely this poor peon could not deny its appeal. Great was his suprise, then, to see Suzanna's dark, lustrous eyes molten with rage.

“What,
amor mia
, you are angry? You who I liken unto a rose blooming in a dark corner of some remote rancho, with only an occasional kiss from the kindly sun? True, you bloom, but not half so fully as you would did the sun but kiss you continually.”

“Yes; but a rose continually kissed by the sun soon withers and dies,” Suzanna exclaimed vehemently. “Unhand me!”

“Think you then that the sun would not distemper his rays did you but come within his vision? No, no,
querida!
You are out of place here. Mexico City with its beautiful gardens, its bowers, its gay life, its bull-fights,—there do you belong, Suzanna—with me!”

“So?” a voice boomed in unctious sweetness as its owner stepped forth from his concealment in back of the flower garden. “Your tongue is very glib, señor; but I am constrained to doubt its veracity.”

Montesoro taken at such a mean advantage, reo leased Suzanna and got to his feet stealthily. Too many times in his checkered career had he extricated himself from like circumstance to be discountenanced now. The man before him was a stranger, but undoubtedly a jealous lover. Pancho knew how to impress his sort. A show of prowess had opened the way more than once. So, apparently without design, he drew his knife, and singling out a moonlight tipped rosebud which clung to a post some fifteen feet distant, he flipped his blade toward it and pierced the flower to the heart.

The intruder turned his face then so that the light caught it. Suzanna gasped as she recognized the bandit, Benito Pérez. The outlaw smiled at her as he caught sight of her tear-filled eyes.

“No llores
,—don't cry—little one,” he reassured her. The braggadocio and challenge of Montesoro's act was not lost on the bandit. He had lived too long in Old Spain not to realize its significance. And yet, with the greatest indifference, he turned his back on the man, and moving so that the distance between himself and the post was much greater, he drew his knife and sent it whistling through the air, nor waited to see the quality of his aim. A dull thud followed as the knife struck and pierced the hilt of the other's weapon.

With varying degrees of emotion Pancho and Suzanna gazed at the quivering knives.

“Señor,” Pérez said in tones which carried the chilling coldness of death, “the inviolate rule of a gentleman is never to take advantage of his position as one. You are a guest here.”

“More than I dare you can say,” Montesoro answered angrily. “I haven't the
honor
of your acquaintance.”

“For your surmise,” Pérez muttered, “—it is correct. I am here without invitation. And certain it is that I would honor you in giving you acquaintance. I am Benito Pérez!”

“The outlaw?” Pancho questioned unbelievingly.

“Of my many titles it is the one I like the least; but I do not deny it.”

“Now that you have turned protector,” the toreador said surlily, “you can add another to your long list. You have had good care to stay clear of me as I have ridden about the rancho properly armed.”

“True,” Pérez grinned. “Wasted effort ever galled me. I have no time for empty pockets. Allow me, now, to bid you good-night.”

Pérez lifted a hand toward the casa. Montesoro snarled an oath at what he knew to be a command. “It grows late,” the robber-captain cautioned. The syllables clicked off his tongue. Pancho hesitated no longer.

When he was gone, the bandit turned to Suzanna. “And you, little one, art surprised to find me Pérez?”

“Your mogador betrayed you,” she answered. “Much ado I had explaining how I came by it. But your coming here—are you mad?”

“You hold the act so rash, then?”

“Doubly so, now. That coward will raise a cry against you. The pack will be upon you!”

“And yet I do not flee,” Pérez said softly. “I have had tales of this
torero
. He convicts himself! His words are as empty as his purse. He does well to mock me with the word ‘protector.' Is there no one here to see through the man? I am afraid for you.”

Suzanna stared at him speechlessly at this show of solicitude in her behalf.

“Truly,” she said when she had regained the use of her tongue, “you almost make me forget that when last we met you, yourself, were none too mindful of my innocence. Hast our robber turned friar?”

Suzanna did not see the man's mouth set or the look of sadness which crept into his eyes as he bowed his head. The next instant, however, Suzanna's fingers gripped the man's arm. Pérez had snapped erect. A cry had rang out from the casa:

“Socorro!—Help—El bandido Pérez!”

“Go at once!” Suzanna urged excitedly. “A dozen men will answer him.”

“First, I shall see you safe from gossip. Hasten while I hold the ladder.”

Stairways were a luxury confined at this early date to the houses of the masters. The workers on the hacienda ascended to their quarters above the granary by ladder. Pérez steadied the one which the girl used, and half-lifting her, he set her upon a rung waist-high with himself and sent her scrambling upward. But she had not reached the window which led into her room before the outlaw heard himself hailed, and turning, he found Ramon facing him.

“It
is
you, then!” the boy cried. “Stand ready to defend yourself!”

Ramon had been the first to answer Pancho's cry and hear his story. Bidding his guest wait to direct the others to the scene, the boy had dashed into the patio. Pérez did not raise his voice as he addressed him.

“For my presence here, you shall have whatever satisfaction you may demand; but not until this child is safe from the scandal mongering tongues of those who soon will be here. For, peon or not, I hold that she is a lady. Would you have her made party to a brawl?”

Ramon had not forgotten the taunts Pérez had tossed at him the day of the attack on the wagon, nor had he forgiven the man for his attentions to Suzanna. Hot anger had consumed him upon finding them together here in the patio of his own home.

He cooled perceptibly as he saw Péerez wave Suzanna on. The man's words were not in keeping with the conduct Montesoro had accused him of in his hurried tale. Ramon felt rebuffed,—a crude lout, whereas the man before him bore himself as a cavalier.

Not until Suzanna had stepped through the window did the outlaw turn to the boy. Ramon had caught the sound of hurrying feet and he knew that in another minute the patio would be overflowing with men. Pérez had drawn his sword and stood ready to defend himself. Surely the man could not be deaf to that sound of scurrying feet. And yet, he waited with seeming unconcern for the boy to raise his blade.

“You are more the don than I,” Ramon said to him. “I bow my head in shame that it was necessary for you to remind me of my conduct as a gentleman. Lower your weapon and go.”

“What a lad!” Pérez murmured to himself as he gazed at Ramon. He made to turn, then, toward the arch which led to the road, but as he did so Pancho and the others confronted him.

Without hesitation, Ramon leaped to the robher's side. “Stand back!” he cried. “This man goes untouched.”

“Is he not Pérez, the bandit?” Pancho demanded. “You do not mean that you are going to allow such a rich prize to slip through your fingers?”

“He goes free!” Ramon repeated.

Montesoro drew back dumfounded. A surprised murmur broke from the others, also. The boy walked toward them, and as he did so, he came face to face with the knives the two men had thrown. A question in his eyes, he looked at Pérez.

“The one in your hand is mine,” the outlaw admitted.

He reached out for it as Ramon offered it to him.

“And this other one, imbedded in the post,—how came it here?”

Pérez paused before he replied. The crowd had caught the question and waited for the answer.

“Perhaps your guest will enlighten you,” he drawled provokingly. And then, stiffly erect, he marched to the gate and was gone.

CHAPTER XI

T
HE
effect of this affair was to cast a shadow over the heretofore smiling hacienda. Suzanna refused—absolutely—to tell Ramon what had happened, and his guest not volunteering any information, the boy felt constrained not to insist.

Don Fernando had received a very unsatisfactory account of the bandit's visit, and he sensed that something moved under the surface in connection with the episode.

Suspicion is always an excellent instrument of torture, and it proved itself so in this instance. Fortunately, the following day brought news of great moment to all at the
Rancho de Gutierrez
,—Don Diego, his daughter and their retinue of servants were returning!

They were but a day's journey away to the south at present. The post-rider who brought word from them had passed their coach at Santa Barbara.

Don Fernando and Doña Luz could not have received more agreeable information. A hundred tasks presented themselves immediately. Their friend's house must be put in order after these years of accumulating dust. Delicacies must be purchased in Monterey for the sumptuous dinner with which their friends should be greeted. Their own house, though spotless now, must needs be gone over painstakingly, for such is the way of human beings.

Those things pertaining to her own home, the flowers, and foods to be prepared, Doña Luz saw to. Ruiz, as major-domo of the hacienda, transmitted Don Fernando's orders to his servants.

Ruiz received the news of their neighbors' return with a sour face. He had been quite in accord with his master regarding Suzanna's education and her enforced absence from the hacienda. The old man was not blind to Ramon's interest in the girl, and he half-suspected the real reason lying beneath Don Fernando's magnanimous offer to Suzanna. The unexpected return of Don Diego and his daughter was very likely to upset these plans.

Immediately after giving his orders in the scullery and truck garden, Ruiz sought Suzanna. He found her watching Ramon, who was busily engaged in braiding a horsehair
reata
. The old man bowed to his young master and then spoke to the girl.

“Get a jug and brooms,” he ordered, “and follow me.”

“But why, father?” Suzanna demanded, loth to leave.

“Ask no questions,” Ruiz answered sharply, annoyed at this impertinence before the boy. “There is work in plenty to be done before to-morrow.”

Some half-dozen servants laden with brooms and other utensils entered the compound at this instant, and catching sight of them, Suzanna's eyes widened.

“What are we to do?” she asked.

“Don Diego and his family return to-morrow,” Ruiz replied sharply. “His house is to be cleaned and aired. Come, we have little time to waste.”

Suzanna and Ramon stared at each other in mute surprise at this news. The boy's face fell as comprehension came to him. Something akin to terror filled Suzanna's eyes.

“Coming home—to-morrow!” she gasped.

Ruiz ignored her and said to Ramon:

“Your father had word by post-rider not half an hour ago. The news must fill you with happiness.”

“Why?” Ramon snapped sullenly.

“La Señorita de Sola
, your betrothed—”

“A good servant minds his own business, Ruiz,” Ramon warned.

Ruiz took the rebuff in silence. Turning to the waiting servants, he waved them on, and then said to Suzanna:

“See that you follow us immediately.”

The boy and the girl looked at each other dumbly when they were alone. Both felt that they had reached a crisis in their lives. As the days had passed without further word of her going to San Luis Bautista, Suzanna had allowed the ultimatum to rest lightly upon her head. Woman-like she had been able to distill rare pleasure from the embroglio in which Ramon and Pancho had confronted Pérez. She realized now that golden days had slipped by her which she could have shared with the boy. She berated herself for having cast eyes at Montesoro. Pérez, she was forced to admit, interested her, but it was not because of love for him.

Love? What a strange thing it was! She had looked forward to love as a rightful heritage of her sex. Love to her had meant happiness, a gladness of heart and body; yet misery, such as she had heard dogs voice, was in her soul. And yet, with womanly instinct she knew this thing was love. The thought crushed her and dimmed her eyes with tears. The Holy Mother's name escaped her lips as she asked herself why she had been born; the tragedy of life spreading out before her endlessly.

In a flash of understanding the girl saw just how wide was the gulf which separated this man from her. To-morrow, a woman who was his equal in everything the world set store by, would come to take her place at his side. What chance had she, a poor, uneducated peon, beside her?

Ramon almost followed her train of thought, and the hot blood of youth flaring up in him, he was minded to take her and flee. Chiquita de Sola was less than the dust to him. Suzanna held the culmination of every desire he had known. What did riches and caste matter? This was a new world,—a new land—men were done with the cant of kings and friars. California was the land of opportunity, of freedom,—a man's future was what he wished to make it.

Answering this urge, Ramon stepped toward Suzanna, eyes flashing, his arms outstretched.

“O, Blessed Mother of God,” she muttered in despair as she sensed the meaning of those outstretched arms. The desire to rest within their embrace but for a second overcame her, but even as she made her decision, Don Fernando walked into the compound.