l-^» K •r^ 'O'ft'r^iii CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES ITHACA, N. Y. 14853 John M. Echols Colkction on Southeast Asia JOHN N^ , ^ ' LIBRARY PS 3507.O23T2 """"™"' "■''"'>' Tawi Tawi / BY LOUIS DODGE TAWl TAWI WHISPERS ROSY A RUNAWAY WOMAN Illustrated by George Wright CHILDREN OF THE DESERT BONNIE MAY Illustrated by Reginald Birch THE SANDMAN'S MOUNTAIN Illustrated by Paul Bransom THE SANDMAN'S FOREST Illustrated by Paul Bransom CHARLES SCRIBhTER'S SONS TAWI TAWI B Cornell University 3 Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012175117 TAWI TAWI BY LOUIS DODGE 1921 COPTRIGHT, 1921, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published March, 1921 THE SCRIBNER PRESS TO LIEUT.-COL. SYDNEY A. CLOMAN, U. S. A. CONTENTS CBAPTR PAOl I. How FiDEsiA Visits a Seee in the Desert and How a Story of a Princess and Two Swans is Re- lated TO Her I II. How Trinidad Valverde, the Span- iard, Looks with Favor upon the Stranger who Comes to Dwell in His House i6 III. How Two Men Meet in the House IN THE Desert and How Both are Made Welcome .... 23 IV. How a Storm Descends upon the House in the Desert and How a Critical Moment is Met . . 35 V. How Ramon is Privileged to Carry a Weapon and How it Nearly Be- trays Him 50 VI- How Trinidad Valverde Hears a Call AND How THE HoUSE IN THE DeSERT Becomes Desolate .... 66 VII. How VicTORiANo Begins a Strange Pilgrimage and How He Sees a Light at the Head of a Stairway 79 VIII. How Victoriano Finds Himself on Board a Ship and How a Strange Tale is Related to Him . . 93 IX. How Victoriano Takes Unceremoni- ous Leave of Captain Hogg and the "Gray Wing," and How He Finds Himself in the Dark . .118 vm CONTENTS CEAFTEB PADS X. How VicTORiANo Finds a Light in a Dark Place and How He Opens a Door 128 XL XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIIL XIX. XX. How Victoriano is Waited upon by a Ruler Attended by Warriors and How Amicable Matters are Dis- cussed 139 How Victoriano Goes in Turn to Visit a Ruler and How He is Given the Freedom of an Island . 152 How Victoriano Comes to Dwell in the House of Old Fanakan the Silent 163 How Victoriano, Sleeping in the House of Old Fanakan, Finds Evil Spirits for Companions . . . 173 How Victoriano Visits the Hut of THE Mounted Birds and How He 'Makes a Distressing Discovery . 183 How Victorla.no Climbs the Hill OF Graves and Finds that Another Has Preceded Him .... loi How Victoriano Grapples with an Enemy and How He Loses a Friend 201 How Victoriano Would Have Taken A Life and How His Own Life is Spared 212 How Ramon Comes to Visit Vic- toriano in a Strange Place and How He Goes Away Repulsed . 224 How Victoriano Gains Strength Against the Day of His Greatest Need 234 CONTENTS IX CSHFtEk XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. How Four Men Begin a Voyage and How Fate Decrees That Two of Them Shall Know Each Other Better . , . . . . 241 How the Four Men End Their Voy- age AND Come Upon an Evil Shore How Perforce the Sun Goes Down upon the Wrath of Captain Standish How the Mosaic Law is Given to the Children of Mohammed and How They Acknowledge Its Merit How ViCTORIANO AND RaMON RiDE Back to Bongao Together and How VicTofeiANO Makes a Decision How Trinidad Valverde and His Daughter Come - Again to Their Home in the Desert How Fidesia Hears Two Tales of Things Seen and Done and How She Makes a Decision . How Victoriano and Ramon Meet for the Last Time and How Padre CoLUMBo Looks Into the Future . 259 279 284 304 312 320 332 TAWI TAWI CHAPTER I. HOW. FIDESIA VISITS A SEER IN THE DESERT AND HOW A STORY OF A PRINCESS AND TWO SWANS IS RELATED TO HER She stood at her father's door and looked away over the three desert trails, one after another. It was the sunset hour and it would not have been unusual if there had been lonely riders within her range of vision, or if she had caught sight of Padre Columbo driving his goats home for the night. But the trails were empty. She sighed and laid her hand, palm outward, against her eyes. The austere solemnity of the desert world engulfed everything, including her heart. For the moment it seemed to her that she could not bear her loneliness. She lived alone with her father saAre for the men and women who served, faithfully yet rather silently, about the house and ranch. Her mother had been dead many years. Just now her father had ridden away in the direction of the Rio Grande, a mile away,' to inspect a new canal which was to make more of his barren acres green and fruitful. She removed her hand from before her eyes and viewed the trails again. They were emerging from the dim expanse of the desert in a more clearly defined 2 TAWI TAWI way, now that the night was falling. She knew that when the night came they would stand forth, distinctly pallid, amid the surrounding obscurities. They ran in three directions: one to Eagle Pass, another to the Quemado Settlement, and the third straight north, climbing the distant red ridge beyond which their neigh- bor. Padre Columbo, had his dwelling. Padre Columbo was not a priest. He was a prophet. He dwelt alone, tending his flock and reading the stars and communicating with spirits. No, he was not a priest. He was not even a Christian, according to those who served God in the usual way. He was openly frowned upon by the Eagle Pass priest, who hinted that it was not good for simple folk to think about the stars too much, and who emphatically de- clared that the spirits of the desert were more likely to be evil spirits than any other kind. On one occasion the Eagle Pass priest had whispered to the old woman who vended stewed meat and beans near the broken staircase rising from the Rio Grande that Padre Co- lumbo was loco — ^insane. And the old woman — an anciana of simple faith — ^had inferred from the priest's manner that it would be quite proper for her to inform everybody that Padre Columbo was not in his right mind. But the girl who stood at her father's door looking out across the trails did not believe that Padre Columbo was insane. She smiled faintly when the thought crossed her mind. He was a good old man, a little strange, strange in that he did not hate the boisterous gringos who galloped past his house with a jingling of spurs and the creaking or slapping sound of saddles ; strange in that he believed that God would come to him if he did not strive too impatiently to go to God. Suddenly the girl felt an irresistible desire to talk FIDESIA VISITS A SEER 3 to Padre Columbo. She set forth immediately in the direction of the distant red ridge. As she advanced into the area of unfruitful earth her bearing underwent certain almost mystic changes. She drew something of tone, or quality, from the little green spikes of sage, from the sprawling nests of cactus, lifting their flat heads serpent-wise; from the stricken old mesquite trees which grew more knotted and gnarled throughout the drought-stricken summers without recording new stages of umbrageous strength. She became in a measure a tragic figure, even as all the other figures about her suggested tragedy. A certain dark rapture enveloped her. She walked all but noiselessly. It was as if she had become a spirit made visible. She was of a slight yet hardy build: exquisite without being at all delicate. She was strong, perfectly poised. She was surprisingly fair for a daughter of the desert. Born north of the Rio Grande, she was an American girl, though her father was a Spaniard by birth, and her mother had been a Mexi- can, daughter of an army officer dwelling in Coahuila. She came to a point where the trail ascended. She could see the top of Padre Columbo's house now. Smoke from its fireplace arose to the sky. The smoke gladdened her heart as even the thatched roof had not done. To her, smoke was a symbol of intimate companionships, of things delicious and com- forting. She welcomed it now the more because she was passing within sight of a disturbing vista: a far- away mesa with a dried water-hole in a saucer-like place, with the bleached bones of cattle strewn about ' The cattle, she knew, had died of thirst in a bygone year : waiting dumbly about the place where water had been, waiting for relief, and dying where they stood. She could never contemplate the suffering of dumb 4 TAWI TAWI animals without frowning faintly and pondering over what the priests said about the goodness of God. She somewhat clearly grasped the theory of imperfection in every system. She had no patience with agnosti- cism. But sometimes she was inclined to believe that Padre Cblumbo, with his reticent habit of leaving things unsaid, was closer to the truth than the precise persons who had fixed rules for everything. Padre Coltunbo never said that God must have good reasons for doing this or that. What reason could there be for permitting the dumb beasts to die of thirst — ^to wait, and call out in vain, and finally perish in agony? Padre Coltunbo only said, "Ah, the poor beasts . . . !" And a delicate tremor would move his lips. She came quite to his front door and looked into his hut. He was not there. The earthen floor was carefully swept; a fire burned in the fireplace. A kettle with three prongs stood over the coals, its lid rising and falling as the steam escaped. There was an appetizing odor of pepper and meat and frijoles in the room. The old man's bed, over against the wall imder an un- glazed window, was neatly made, and a rug of tanned and dyed kid's skin covered the earth before it. The place did not seem lonely. The bleating of goats was audible: not the impatient call of animals not yet fed, but rather a sound as of a kind of con- viviality. The flock was safe at home for the night in the corral, which seemed a very good place after the wanderings of the day. She went out into the lean-to at the rear. She was not eager to find her old neighbor right away. She was sure he was somewhere about, and she enjoyed the sensation of yielding a little to the atmosphere of his house. His presence was there, his very self. FIDESIA VISITS A SEER 5 though by chance his body had gone away. She sensed the serenity of a benign old heart, the wistfulness of a lonely mind that was y^t not alone, but in the com- pany of angels night and day. She could almost gather the fabric of his dreams into her hands and examine it. On a bench in the lean-to earthen pots of goat's milk stood. Hanging up under the eaves was another earthen pot containing water. The water, as she knew, he had carried all the way from the river, more than a mile away. There was no nearer source. There were men who vended water in carts, but Padre Co- lumbo was too poor to patronize them. He made a pleasant outing of going to the river in the early mornings. She advanced another step or two. She was now in an unenclosed garden. The mesquite trees here were really quite Uke trees: thorny and a little gaunt, it is true, but vigorous and green. Beneath one of the mesquites there was a comfortable old bench which complained and sagged if one sat on it, but which did not quite give way. There were grapevines clamber- ing over the wall of the corral a little further away. Little green grapes like marvelously cut precious stones were among the leaves. Presently she smiled with a kind of compassionate amusement. She had espied the old seer at last. He stood with his eyes fixed upon the far horizon, his body at rest. He seemed to be entranced, to be unaware of her presence. His soul was possessing that which was beyond the reach of his hands: perhaps beyond the reach of his comprehension. He was not merely a goatherd now. He was a child of God. He was a slight man, of a physical symmetry which had been disturbed but little by the weight of years. He was an Indian, rich in the possession of that dig- 6 TAWI TAWI nity which the Aztec race bequeathed its sons. In the fading light of day he stood like a figure in bronze, his American garments, which had rid themselves of their alien quality through long association with him, seemingly in complete harmony with all that he was. She stood regarding him, a faint quiver of amuse- ment about her lips. To her it seemed that he was play- ing his part as the desert seer of whom people spoke with a certain degree of awe. She thought perhaps he had heard her approach and that he was only pre- tending not to know that she was there. It was not that she did not believe in magic. She did. But she believed that everything was magical — ^that life in all its aspects was so mysterious that Padre Columbo's gift of clairvoyance or divination was not particularly wonderful. It was her belief that persons who engage in occult performances of any kind, like reading the future, or even praying for rain, were simply playing a game. Not a foolish game, but rather a lovely childish game in which their hearts might be wholly centered. She uttered his name. The faint smile on her lips departed when Padre Columbo turned toward her with an air of having been really startled. He seemed to bring his thoughts back to realities. Slowly his eyes began to beam. "Ah, Fidesia!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were never coming back," she de- clared. He smiled wanly, and she noticed as she had often done before that when he smiled his lips and even his chin quivered ever so slightly. "Yes," he replied, "I was coming back. I shall continue to come back for another score of years, I have no doubt." She looked at him searchingly. "Back from where?" she asked. He reflected. "How shall I explain?" he said. He FIDESIA VISITS A SEER 7 closed his eyes slowly and when he opened them again he was not looking at her. "Our minds go on little journeys of exploration," he said. "Day after day they do this, each day going a little further. They go in search." "In search ?" she echoed. "For their homeland — for their source . . . there are no words. Should I say — to find God? Each day they go a little further. On very good days they go very far indeed. Then at last they go and do not return. Is it that they have found that which they sought? Who knows? But on that day when they do not return^ the neighbors come in and say — 'We must send for the old woman who washes the bodies of the dead. We must make ready for the burial.' " After he had spoken he continued to regard her almost as if he did not see her. Then again recogni- tion dawned in his eyes. "It was good of you to come to see me," he said, smiling affectionately. "Come, you shall sit down." As she took her place on the old bench he fetched a gourd dipper filled with goat's milk. She drank, lift- ing her face higher and higher until the last drop was gone. The milk was drunk in token of the fact that hospitality was offered and accepted, after which she was to understand that she might not think unkindly of her host, or look with disfavor upon his house, or remember what she had heard to repeat it afterward to the detriment of him who had entertained her. He took the dipper away and returned to sit by her side. They did not speak for a time. They sat with their faces to the north, where the night was settling in the sky with deep solemnity. Mile upon mile of stricken desert stretched before them, and beyond the 8 TAWI TAWI rim of the desert there were invisible lands which neither Fidesia nor Padre Columbo ever thought of without wonder. First in that vast gulf of space there was the steel highway, the Southern Pacific railroad, cleaving the void and stringing together great cities: San Antonio, El Paso, Los Angeles, and at last San Francisco and the sea. Beyond the railroad there were other boundless lands, fruitful and arrogant, where millions of rich persons dwelt : strangers who — incredible fact! — could find little room in their hearts for men and women of Spanish blood or heritages. Fidesia tried for a moment to picture that land to the north, but she could not do so. She frowned im- patiently. She decided to turn immediately to the matter which had brought her to Padre Coltmibo's house. "Padre Columbo," she began a little formally, "yoa know I have never asked you to read my future for me, though I know others have done so." "It is true," he replied. "I want to do so now," she said. He regarded her with a gaze far fonder than a caress. "Ah, my child," he said, "but why? It would be too easy! There is little in the future hidden from those who have compassionate hearts. It is true, all such do not always journey along the same road, but of a certainty they all journey toward heaven." She nestled back in her seat with a sigh of content- ment. There was something in the old man's voice and manner . . , She spoke decisively. "But I wasn't thinking of heaven — ^just now. I was thinking of earth." He smiled so that the quivering of his lips was very mariced. "The difficulty is that one can scarcely say where earth ends and heaven begins," he replied. FIDESIA VISITS A SEER 9 She frowned musingly. "I know what you mean," she said, "but — ^well, I want to talk to you about lovers." His glance was frankly taunting when he turned to her and asked : "How many lovers ?" She was too intent upon some problem which en- grossed her to share his bantering mood. Quite dowm- rightly she asked, "Is it well for a girl to love a rich man?" "Yes — ^but he ought to be her father." "Then is it well for her to love a poor man?" "Of a surety. But' he ought to be her son." "But suppose she wishes a husband?" "Then she should choose a strong man." "A strong man. . . . Strong of arm or strong of mind?" "Strong of heart." "Padre Columbo!" she cried imploringly, "you know you're not helping me!" He put forth his hard, bronzed hand, and she put her firm white hand into it. "Do you need help, dear child ?" he asked. "I do — at least, I shall," she replied. He sat musing. Presently he released her hand slowly, as if he were falling asleep. He closed his eyes. "Let us consider your lovers," he said. And presently he continued: "I see one, two. Two of them. There may be others, but two have come for- ward and I see only them and you." She clasped her hands silently and listened, fearing to move. Yes, there were two of them. "They are trying to read your heart, but they can- not. They cannot read each other's hearts. Their minds are darkened by jealousy. It seems they turn to you, and you will not help them." He remained lo TAWI TAWI silent for what seemed to Fidesia a long time; then softly, yet with dramatic intensity, he resumed : "They become obscure to my vision. I can scarcely see them now. . . . Ah, a storm has fallen upon them. A storm rages. It beats upon them, while you stand aside, re- garding them. . . . They seem to contend with each other like bitter enemies. There is conflict and rage; and now — ah ! They disappear. They disappear in a Whirling mist of red. Blood has been shed- " The girl cried out imploringly, "Whose blood. Padre Columbo?" The old man started and turned to her blankly. "What did you ask, Fidesia?" he inquired. She repeated her question: "Whose blood?" "Did I speak of blood?" "Oh, Padre Columbo!" she cried impulsively, "I have been fearing That's why I have come to you. What am I to do?" It did not seem to her very wwiderful that Padre Columbo had drawn the picture of two lovers. He could scarcely have helped knowing, as everybody on the road from Eagle Pass to the Quemado knew, that she had two lovers. There was scarcely a day on which one of them, either Victoriano or Ramon, did not ride to her father's house. Nor did it seem a mat- ter of clairvoyance that Padre Columbo should fore- see trouble between the two men. That was what must be expected. Who in all the valley was so headstrong and firm — for all his silent ways — as Victoriano, or so blithely provoking as Ramon? Yet she was shocked by the prediction of bloodshed. "Perhaps you might speak to me plainly of your difficulty, Fidesia," suggested the old man. She reflected. "It began by their being my friends," she said, "Victoriano and Ramon. I couldn't know in FIDESIA VISITS A SEER il the beginning that they would not always be just friends. They are both wonderful ! They never spoke of love. I did not think of marriage save as some- thing far away. Then suddenly I realized that they were lovers. And — and you know there cannot always be two." "Victoriano is a fine man," said Padre Columbo. "Yes — ^but so is Ramon.'' "Ah, yes, Ramon is admirable."' "But not more so than Victoriano!" The old man smiled. "They are very different," she said. "Victoriano^ he is so splendid ! No man between here and the Big Bend is as brave or strong. Do you know him well. Padre Columbo? Do you know how . . . you see, you need not talk to him all the while. Just being to- gether is enough sometimes. And there's the way he has of laughing: not when others laugh, but at simple, homely things. Do you know what I mean ?" "I know." "And then — children are not shy with him, and old persons lift beaming eyes when he comes. His horse calls to him in the dark as if they were brothers, and his dog never flinches from him." She paused, her face glowing. "And Ramon: what has Ramon to set against the perfections of this paragon among men?" "Ah, Ramon ! When I think of Ramon I think also of fine linen on the table, and delicate lights, and blos- soms in a vase." "And of Victoriano as of bread and meat and shel- ter in time of storm ?" She flushed, a little piqued. "Ramon is really won- derful. Padre Columbo, He is so learned 1 He never wants the right word. When others speak he listens 12 TAWI TAWI with skill — do you know how rare that is, Padre Co- lumbo? — ^and laughs precisely at the right time. Not because he is amused always, but because he is kind." "A polished gentleman," interposed the seer. "Yes, he is!" She glanced at him quickly to be sure that his words hid nothing. "And honorable?" She reflected a moment. "I know what you mean," she said at length. "Why shouldn't he be? I mean, why do people mistrust men who have elegant ways? Yes, he is honorable." The old man nodded. "No doubt you are right," he said. And after a moment he added, "And the difficulty is in deciding which of the two is the more admirable ?" When she did not reply save by a perplexed frown he seemed to put the matter out of his mind for a time. When he spoke at length it was seemingly to introduce a different subject. "Do you remember the story of the Aztec princess and the swans ?" he asked. She had not heard the story. Indeed, she knew it was a way of Padre Columbo to fabricate little tales for use as illustrations. She waited in silence, fixing her gaze on the somber north, where a lonely star had appeared low in the sky. The old man began to speak somewhat as if he were addressing a child. "Once upon a time there was a princess named Ixla," he said, "a princess who had everything her heart desired, because she was both good and beautiful. And the most lovely of all the things she possessed were her two swans, Cloud-in-the- Sky and Snow-on-the-Mountain. Now it chanced that the princess had a cousin, the Princess Citla, who dwelt in an adjoining kingdom ; and the Princess Citla also possessed two swans, each more lovely and proud FIDESIA VISITS A SEER 13 than the other. But it came to pass that a flock of wild swans flew across the sky above the lake where the Princess Citla's swans were swimming, and the wild swans uttered cries of love as they flew, so that the swans of the Princess Citla, hearing, arose from he water and flew away. Far away they flew until they were like snowflakes in the sky. And they re- turned to their place no more. Whereupon the Prin- cess Citla took to her bed and was like to die of grief because she had Ipst her swans. "Now it came to pass that the King Malinche, father of the Princess Ixla, learned that his brother's daugh- ter, the Princess Citla, was dying of grief for her lost swans. So he summoned his daughter, the Princess Ixla, and said to her, 'Do thou give thy swans to thy cousin.' But the mother of the Princess Ixla, hear- ing this, spoke in the mild manner of a wise woman, saying, 'She shall give one of her swans to her cousin, and the other she shall keep.' "The heart of the Princess Ixla bounded with joy because of what her mother had said, since she had feared her father would require her to give up both her swans. And she went straightway to the marble steps which descended to the lake where her swans were, saying, 'I shall decide which of my swans it will be easier to part with.' " Fidesia began to smile a little now. It was plain that Padre Columbo had not forgotten her, after all. "But alas! She could not make a choice; and at last she said, 'I cannot give away either of my swans.' She asked her mother, but her mother could not decide for her; and then she searched out her father from among his counselors and asked him which of her swans she should give away. But neither could her 14 TAWI TAWI father decide; yet after he had frowned in perplexity he suddenly smote his thigh. 'I know of a wise man who dwelleth in the mountains,' said he. 'He shall be summoned and it shall be his duty to decide.' "Now when the wise man came he did not even look at the two swans, saying that the merits of swans were rightly known only to the gods. Yet was he not bafHed by the task which had been put upon him. Said he to the Princess Ixla: 'Do thou give over looking at thy swans, which will only appear lovelier at the thought of parting. But do thou go to thy chamber and close thy blinds and sit alone. And it may be that the image of one of thy swans will appear to thee more clearly than the image of the other ; so shalt thou know which of the two to keep.' "So the Princess Ixla did as she was bid. And whether the gods aided her or not I cannot say, but this I know: it came to pass that presently she beheld one of her swans very clearly, while the image of the other became indistinct and soon vanished altogether. "Then did she go to her mother and say, 'O mother, bid them take away my swan, Snow-on-the-Mountain, so that it shall not be there when I look again. And have it given to my cousin, the Princess Citla. For I know now which of my swans is closer to my heart' " When Padre Columbo had finished his story he looked at Fidesia whimsically, but she was unaware of this. Her gaze was fixed dreamily on that lonely star in the north. Suddenly she turned toward him. "Was it the custom for the Princess Ixla to visit the Princess Citla sometimes?" she asked. The old man was unprepared for the question. "Very likely," he replied, obviously taken aback. "I am wondering," she continued, "what might have FIDESIA VISITS A SEER 15 happened if she ever saw the swan she had given away." He glanced at her sharply. "She would have been more and more assured every day that she had kept the right swan," he said. "That is the nature of a woman." She bade him good-night and set oflf toward her father's house, walking rapidly. Darkness had settled over the desert. She began to think of her father — of him and of nothing else. That, after all, was the strongest bond her heart knew as yet : her almost maternal fondness for the leonine, gray old Spaniard who was her father. And presently her heart grew light because in the open door of the house across the mesa a loved figure stood outlined against the light in the room beyond. Her father was waiting for her. CHAPTER II HOW TRINIDAD VALVERDE, THE SPANIARD, LOOKS WITH FAVOR UPON THE STRANGER WHO COMES TO DWELL IN HIS HOUSE If any one had said to Trinidad Valverde, "Trini- dad, you are a lucky man," the grizzled old father of Fidesia would have stared incredulously. It is not certain that he would have made audible denial, since he was a man who seldom spoke unnecessarily. But certjunly he did not consider himself luciky. He had wandered far since the days of his childhood in the Spanish town of Pamplona, in the shadow of the CantabricUi mountains. As a youth he had drifted to Mexico, where he had become by turns miner and rider and adventurer, and at forty he had amassed nothing more valuable than experience. Then he had married; and rather by chance than design he had journeyed north of the Rio Grande, becoming a citizen of Texas. At about that time his mother had died in Spain, leaving him a small estate; and this he presently converted into a large tract of land near the Rio Grande : an arid tract which he thought to reclaim by means of a small irrigation plant. He had made a study of irrigation methods in Mex- ico; and these he applied with immediate and surpris- ing success to his desert tract. He became prosperous, a man of distinction among the American ranchmen who were his neighbors. I6 VALVERDE AND THE STRANGER 17 After ten years of married life, and nearly as many of marked prosperity, his wife bore him a child, a daughter ; and then she died. A Mexican woman was employed as nurse and housekeeper and under her watchful supervision the little daughter, Fidesia, de- veloped promisingly both in mind and body. There were years during which Valverde seemingly gave little thought to his daughter. He worked hard and became taciturn. He was one of those keen yet somber men who are always a little mysterious. He was very successful. But when Fidesia was six years old he rode away into Eagle Pass one day and visited an American lady whom he knew. When he returned home arrangements had been made for the removal of his daughter to the home of the American lady and for her attendance at the public school. It was then that Fidesia asserted herself decisively for the first time in her life. She had been a thought- ful, seemingly passive child up to that time. When she learned what her father's plans were she refused to be sent away. She uncovered her heart; and Valverde learned — with strange and exquisite emotions — that the somewhat solemn habit his daughter had of gazing at him at a distance, without speaking to him, was in reality the evidence of an ardent worship. His glance became like steel when she said "I will not go." But when she began to weep and rushed toward him and hid her face in his coat, he cried out with pleased wonder and tender solace. No, she need not go — at least, not until . . . For the first time he talked to her candidly, freely. It would grieve him to part with her, he explained ; but she must have lessons, companions, pleasures. It ended in 3. compromise, sug- gested by Fidesia. She was to have a horse in the stable of the American lady, and she was to ride home l8 TAWI TAWI every Friday evening, to remain until Monday morn- ing. It was arranged so. An escort was provided, so that she might come and go safely. But she speedily outgrew the need of an escort. She came and went like a breeze. She became a different person. She made her appearance on Friday evenings with so much of dash and exuberance that her arrival came to be the biggest thing in Valverde's life. When she was ten her father obtained a somewhat formal report of her status and prc^ess from the lady with whom she made her home in Eagle Pass. The lady smiled with gratification, yet with some- thing of mystery too, when she was bidden to say how the little girl was getting along. "She is a very nice child," she said. "Yes," replied her father, "she is obedient and good." "I didn't mean precisely that," said the lady. "I mean she is very discriminating, very fastidious. Though of course she is obedient and good, too, as children go." Her father was puzzled, perhaps slightly alarmed. "What I mean," continued the lady, "is that she makes her choice and decisions with a certain wilful- ness. In all things : in her choice of dresses and orna- ments, in her companionships, in her words, her actions." "And you think " ventured Valverde, fixing his glance anxiously on the lady. "That she will be a young woman of character. You shall be proud of her. She is very lovely." Valverde rode away flushed with pleasure. It was a great thing to be the father of such a child; and VALVERDE AND THE STRANGER 19 it seemed that the lady had had in mind much that was not to be put into words readily. It was certain that Fidesia had fallen into very good hands. She was dressed like a little princess of the better sort : not like a doll, but like a real human be- ing for whom proper respect was entertained. She was taught music, as the American expression has it. She went to parties and made her way into the homes of other children who were carefully governed and cherished. She was blessed with a happy heart. On one occasion — shortly after her twelfth birth- day — her father was summoned to Eagle Pass of an evening to attend an entertainment in the Court House Hall. A piano was on the platform. One child after another performed on the piano neatly and accurately. Fidesia appeared at length. She took her place at the piano serenely. Her dark hair in plaits down her back was tied with a crimson bow. Her dark eyes and brows were unruffled. She played quite creditably. But her father was certain that no child in the world had ever played so well. Those thunderous notes in the bass . . . marvelous! He grew red in the face and desired greatly to look about to see envy reflected in the faces of other parents. But he generously re- frained from doing this. This was a great occasion for Trinidad Valverde. One of her developments was at first disconcerting to her father; but upon second thought he concluded that this was the best development of all. She be- came so thoroughly American: in essence as in outer signs. In her case the democratic influence of the public school had exerted itself perfectly. There was nothing in her manner or moods hinting at those ob- scure and subtle forms of homesickness which are sometimes noticeable in children of alien stock. She 20 TAWI TAWI seemed scarcely conscious of any life save the life she lived. Her playmates and companions were not strange to her save in those ways in which they were Strange to one another. Her acceptance of American customs and of the idiomatic speech of American chil- dren was complete. She made the acquaintance of American story-writers and found them precisely to her liking. Her first strongly defined consciousness of music came with her knowledge of American melo- dies. The strongly rhythmic airs of Mexico, with their wild Moorish cadences and backgrounds of coquetry and castanets, seemed lovely — ^yet alien. She turned, as one who comes home, to the mere candid and naive songs of the Anglo-Saxon peoples: the Scotch and Irish and English melodies which are the American people's heritage, and the plantation melo- dies which are their own. When she came galloping home on Friday evenings she made her appearance as an amazing stranger. Her father and the taciturn old moso of the household re- garded her with wonder and pride which they strove in vain to hide — somewhat as Peer Gynt was regarded by his mother. They led her by sly suggestion and stratagem to express herself in what were to them outlandish ways. They tricked her into repeating certain vernacular sayings, while they stole glances at each other and revealed merry wrinkles around their eyes. They took furtive notice of her dresses, which were of an extreme simplicity and chasteness. Her father sometimes gazed at her with brooding eyes. He was puzzled. She was his daughter, yet she seemed a kind of guest. However, he set about to do honor to this bright guest. He had a new house built — a. typical Texas ranchhouse — of materials which came from far away. VALVERDE AND THE STRANGER 21 He bought a piano for her. She had a wonderful boudoir carpeted with dyed kidskins. He directed her to buy books and pictures. And these things he came to cherish because his daughter cherished them. In his secret heart he became inexpressibly proud because he had a daughter who was also a daughter of America. It is true that with the beginning of those years which mark the beginning of life's decline he gave way occasionally to dark moods. After all, his life was made up chiefly of lonely hours. He had come to a full realization of the fact that one of his long-cher- ished dreams could never come true. He never should return to Spain. He should complete his life here among men who were not his blood brothers. He thought with bitterness of the ironical chance by which one of his name — ^Valverde, meaning a green valley — ^should come to end his days where the valleys were never green. He could never go back now. The money was not lacking, but he realized that poverty is almost the least of those impeding agencies which bind a man in his place. It is the years that bind. However, he was a respected and even admired man in his new home. When he rode into Eagle Pass on a Saturday, sitting proudly erect on a powerful gray horse, every one accosted him gladly. In his advancing years he had become a little heavy, but he retained great vigor. A splendid iron-gray mus- tache swept away from his powerful chin and jaw. His eyes were tranquil, yet they held an enigmatic, lurking unrest, like the eyes of a Hon. He employed a somewhat feudal air of grandeur when in public, and even in his home. He never understood why a man should seek to conceal the fact that he was proud. When Fidesia was seventeen she graduated from the 22 TAWI TAWI Eagle Pass high school. She sat on a platform in a white dress, with the daughter of the banker and the judge and the leading merchants, as well as other chil- dren, no less happy and admirable, of poor families. She received a scroll and was applauded. She was frankly happy. She went home in state. A man came to convey her trunks — three of them. A feast was spread. She was a little self-conscious, but not too much so. She put her arms arotmd her father's neck and kissed him — ^and kissed him again when he blushed with pride and made a rumbling sound of peace and affection in his throat. After all, as things go in this world, Trinidad Val- verde was, a lucky man. CHAPTER III HOW TWO MEN MEET IN THE HOUSE IN THE DESERT AND HOW BOTH ARE MADE WELCOME Fidesia's American ways extended to her friend- ships. She chose her own intimates; and it was she who decided that it would be proper for her to be kind to both Victoriano and Ramon, men of wholly opposite types. Victoriano was the son of a land-poor ranchman who owned a tract of many thousands of acres out on the Quemado Road. He was bom to a degree of freedom known usually only to Bedouins and gipsies. Named for one of his father's loyal and fearless Mexi- can riders, his childhood passions, developing rapidly, centered about horses and the range. As a youth he took pride in the fact that he could ride for days on end without crossing the boundaries of his father's land — ^though the land was all but worthless: barren wastes on which cattle could barely keep life in their bodies. The family life was one of a sort of splendid poverty. The ranch was like a kingdom — ^but a king- dom without money. Funds to pay taxes and to pur- chase food and clothing were scraped together pre- cariously. There was neither need nor desire for more. The ranchhouse was large but primitive, with the life of the corral in the rear, and with a gray desert trail winding away into space from the front door. Victoriano spent the earlier years of his youth at- 23 24 TAWI TAWI tending the public school at the Quemado, one of a small group of boys and girls as unsophisticated as wild antelope. He sat in the one room which housed all the pupils, Mexicans and Americans alike, and looked at his Third Reader as if it were a cunningly devised trap. He finally learned to read fairiy well: but from a distance, as it were. He refused to be trapped by printed words. When he wanted to know anything he closed his book and went and found out Life was his preceptor, action his text. He did not spend a great deal of time in school. The lure of the plains was too strong. He rode far and wide on his father's lands, hunting wild javelinas or chaparral cock or quail. He spent days with his father's riders, becoming mature before his time. He was a sensa- tional horseman, eager to try his hand at conquering the wildest horses in the herds brought in from the range. He acquired habits of silence and solitude, like an old man. From being an overgrown boy he became a stalwart and sinewy man of almost untested strength. He was dark and straight, like a brother to the Indian. He had known the daughter of Trinidad Valverde since the day she was bom. He had from the begin- ning been a welcome guest in Valverde's house — or rather, on his ranch. He had comparatively little use for a house. While Fidesia was yet a small girl she and Victoriano had explored wide tracts of the Rio Grande valley together. They had early formed a kind of tacit partnership. Fidesia found him gentle and tractable, quietly cheerful, quickly efficient when minor mishaps occurred. She was always bliss- fully content when she could ride with him. They often rode together for miles without ^>eaking, so perfectly were they in harmony. TWO MEN MEET 25 He used to spend days with her father when she was away at school, seemingly content with no society other than that of the taciturn Spaniard. He came to the ranch occasionally on a Sunday when Fidesia was at home. She accepted this gladly and as a matter of course. He always anticipated her wishes. He sat, tensely attentive, when she played on the piano, and laughed delightedly when the widely ranging cadenza occurred in My Old Kentucky Home with variations. He watched rather than listened. The movements of her fingers were simply delicious. When she leaned a little forward and to the right, while her fingers went crossing one another up the keyboard, he held his breath and conquered the impulse to shout, as if he were witnessing a race. The long black plait of her hair would fall forward when she did this. She had a habit of dashing the plait over her shoulder with a movement which caused his heart to stand still. When one day he saw her for the first time with her hair combed straight up from her neck and forehead and done into coils, with little wisps playing at liberty, he slipped out into the corral as if he feared he might shout in spite of everything. "And long skirts!" he confided to persons who were nowhere about. He felt suddenly alarmed. She was a young lady now. The days of their delightful intimacy were at an end, he was sure. He would have been savagely angry with himself if a thought of making love to her had crossed his mind. He believed it would never be at all proper for him to do this. She was much too fine for him. However, he reserved the right to watch over her from a distance. Other men for whom she was too fine must not be permitted to approach too closely. He felt that his work was cut out for him, 26 TAWI TAWI as Fidesia's guardian, when a youth named Ramon presently appeared. It was in Eagle Pass, while she was yet in school, that Fidesia first met Ramon. He was slight and youthful and blond, a gay and vital creature. He had just graduated from the Uni- versity at Austin. He had come out to Maverick County to rough it, he said. He lived at the old Dolch Hotel and kept a horse and a dog, both thoroughbreds. He was the sort of man who must be waited upon all the time. He was well liked, nevertheless, because of his generosity and his blithe manner. He became acquainted with every one: he had brought letters from his father, a San Antonio banker. He rode through Eagle Pass one day on his thor- oughbred horse: a splendid animal with a bony, box-shaped nose and sensitive nostrils and large, rest- less eyes set well apart. At a street crossing he drew up sharply because a girl had appeared before him. He lifted his cap by way of apology, though she had not been at all alarmed. She met his glance for an instant before he moved on. His eyes were blue and piercirig, with humor and graciousness in them. The girl was Fidesia, and she went on her way mus- ing pleasantly. The picture of the rider did not fade. She recalled how easily he sat his horse, and what a distinguished figure he presented as he rode away, adjusting his cap over his flaxen hair. She was impressed by the manner in which he got into the very heart of the town immediately. A few days later she saw him again, riding at a sharp canter along Main street in company with the wife of the General Manager of the railroad across the river. The General Manager's little girls, two in number. TWO MEN MEET 27 were galloping behind on smaller horses, sitting astride and manifesting the happiest freedom of manner. It seemed that the wife of the General Manager was a sort of social monitor. Before the week was out Fidesia had met the young man at a lawn party. She did not pretend not to re- member him; and his eyes declared cheerfully, "Ah, here you are again!" They drew together like water escaping from the bottom of a bowl. They were both delighted. It seemed they had any number of things to talk about. They met frequently after that: on the sidewalk as she went to or from school, at the post office, at parties. In a little town such meetings are inevitable and innocent. They danced together a good deal, and went riding together. Whenever they met he drew the most sprightly pictures of his comings and goings on the border. He was almost childishly interested in everything that happened to him. He rode with the rangers and with the customs men up and down the river, on the alert for smugglers and "rustlers." There was no actual smuggling to be dealt with, it is true; but there were poor Mexicans who crossed the river, concealing small quantities of mescal in ingenious ways, or perhaps food for their own use, or trinkets to sell : ornaments of filigree silver, or Chinese silk, or Mexican opals. Occasionally an unruly or defiant Mexican was en- countered. These experiences he related to Fidesia, exaggerat- ing them a little, perhaps. They did not impress her as thrilling episodes. Her sense of drama was more exacting. As for the poor Mexicans, she thought of them as pitiable persons who ought not to be judged severely because they were trying by childish means 28 TAWr TAWI to make a livelihood. But she liked to hear him talk. He manifested a certain distinction in his use of words, she thought. Besides, his lips were elfishly thin and assumed comic expressions easily, though she sensed an undercurrent of irony beneath his gaiety. His voice had a pleasant quality of insinuation; his eyes were the most beamingly expressive she had ever seen. Per- haps she had seen too much of somber men and ways. His happiness captivated her. It was not long before he confided to her the fact that he could not live happily at home. His mother and father were continually disagreeing over questions of policy touching his future. His mother felt that he ought to be qualifying himself for a career ; his father held that since he was not at all mischievous there was no reason why he should not have a good time. "My mother is a very dear lady," he explained. "A lovely, fanciful creature who is forever making a play out of everything, and exaggerating things, and imagining them. Not really truthful, really — ^but un- truthful in the interests of art. And when I fail to play up to her she gets into rages. I mean, when I set her right, or refuse to see things fantastically." Fidesia gazed at him with candid amazement. "My father used to play up to her until he got too old and busy," continued Ramon, "and then he quit. He understands just how I am placed. But she's the dearest and loveliest creature when she's good. That is, when the play is running smoothly." He added eagerly, "You're going to meet her some day. She'll be out here to look after me if I stay away from home long enough." She asked him if he had no sisters. He brought his hands together with an air of utter TWO MEN MEET 29 abasement. "Didn't I say anything about Phoebe?" he demanded. "That's a shame. Of course there's Phoebe, a treasure above price. She's always there to save my life. She's really wonderful. She under- stands everything. She'll be coming out too, to chap- erone our young mother. You'll certainly enjoy Phoebe." He assumed a new attitude, as if everything he had said thus far had been merely introductory. "I don't believe I've met your mother," he said in a lower tone, a delicately serious manner. "She is dead," replied Fidesia. She had a rather downright manner of speaking; her tones were round and full. She was then nearly seventeen. "Oh — ^pardon me !" he said softly. "I don't believe you've met my father either," she said, to efface the awkward memory of his words. "Well, I certainly must," he said. "He is Trinidad Valverde," explained Fidesia; He had never heard the name, but his pleased man- ner stopped just short of incredulity. "Indeed!" her exclaimed; and then, "How stupid of me not to have guessed." "He seldom leaves the ranch," she said. "Then I'm going to ride out and get acquainted." It was at this period that the new ranchhouse had been completed, with its great veranda all the front width of the structure, and its dark, substantial pil- lars. , "Any time," she said. She believed she achieved precisely the correct degree of casualness. The second Friday afternoon after that Fidesia heard the clatter of hoofs behind her as she rode home. She guessed without turning that it was Ramon. A moment later he checked his horse beside 30 TAWI TAWI hers. "I'm going home with you," he announced. He was quite radiant. She was glad she had paved the way for something like this. She had mentioned the young man to her father more than once. She did not quite understand his taking everjfthing for granted, but she could not help being glad that he had joined her. They arrived at the ranchhouse like a whirlwind. "Is this the place ?" he shouted to her. His eyes were shining. A Mexican appeared to relieve Fidesia of her horse. Ramon flung his bridle to the man, who received it with a stare. It did not occur to Ramon that he might look after his own horse. The Mexican moved away morosely. It was his belief that all gringos had arro- gant airs — all save Victoriano, who had arrived at the ranch earlier in the afternoon, and who, according to his custom, had put his own horse away, like a man. Fidesia underwent a brief moment of trepidation at the last. What would her father say ? A darker mo- ment followed. What if Victoriano were about? What would Victoriano say? Her father appeared on the veranda. His attitude was courteous, though his grisly hair and mustache seemed to bristle truculantly, and a furrow between his eyes deepened. He cast a penetrating glance at Ramon. Ramon liked that. Fidesia's father was the real thing, he reflected. He went forward with eager re- spect when Fidesia introduced him. "Greene?" said Valverde, repeating the name after Fidesia. "Not of Maverick County, I think?" "Of Bexar County. Of San Antonio," said Ramon. He added casually, "My father is Jim Greene of the Alamo Bank.' ' TWO MEN MEET 31 The appraising expression in Valverde's eyes re^ mained. "President of the bank," added Ramon: not vain- gloriously, but quite as a matter of fact. To himself he added, "That ought to impress him." But it did not, seemingly. "Will you sit down?" said Valverde, indicating a chair. Fidesia had disap- peared into the house. Valverde sat down at a dis- tance from his guest. "And you," he continued, "I suppose you are . . . ?" "This is certainly fine," declared Ramon, breathing deeply. He looked out across the vast stretch of desert in which there was no sign of habitation save a feath- ery column of smoke marking the place where Padre Columbo's hut stood. "Magnificent! I? Why, I suppose I shall succeed my father in time." He met Valverde's glance and smiled. "And be president of the bank?" The youth's laughter was like an explosion. "No, indeed !" he said. "I haven't my father's ability." Valverde smiled grimly at last. Something wholly candid in Ramon's manner struck him as novel. It was as if Fidesia had brought home one more Ameri- can exhibit, like a pat phrase or a popular song. Fidesia came out and sat down close to her father, lifting her skirts very slightly and permitting them to fall again. A Mexican girl appeared with something to drink. A big, awkward puppy escaped from some- where and bounded out, sniffing at Ramon's legs, and then plunging at Fidesia. Temporary confusion fol- lowed the advent of the puppy. Fidesia clasped the ungainly creature's head and called out appealingly. Some one emerged from the house and induced the puppy to go away. Ramon glanced furtively at the wide front door, which seemed to him like a door in ^2 TAWI TAWI a theater, through which everybody appears without any regard for logic. The sun was setting; the desert was settling into the repose of dusk; the distMit noises of the corral could be heard. Victoriano appeared. There was an instant of constraint. Fidesia arose with ceremony and introduced Ramon to Victoriano. It seemed ttiat Victoriano was the commanding figure in the group for a mdment. He put forth his hand slowly. He silently regarded the youth who was ■a stranger to him. Ramon seemed scarcely to heed him for a moment. He gave his hand cordially enough, but as he did so he turned toward Valverde. "You have quite a little community here," he said amiably. He took his seat again and addressed Fidesia. "It's no wonder you always wanted Friday afternoon to come," he said. "I supposed you lived a lonely sort of life out here — and now I don't see how you could ever bear to leave it." He sipped deliberately, elegantly, from the glass the woman servant had brought. It could be seen that his hand was delicate. He wore a jewel on his finger. Valverde, looking away now, reflected: "A thor- oughbred sort of cub, evidently." He arose. "We'll go in," he said. Inside the door he became less re- served; he made Ramon feel at home. And in the dining room, a little later, Ramon voiced his enthusi- asm again: not as if he were surprised, but simply appreciative. The room was large and like an old inn, with dark rafters overhead, and a massive table and chairs of black wood. It was yet a little early to light the lamps. A cloister-like dusk, cool and restful, softened objects in the room. TWO MEN MEET 33; It was the custom to eat in silence at Valverde's table, because there were seldom talkative persons there. Now, however, the host thought of w^iys of drawing Ramon out. He was interested in this latest of Fidesia's discoveries. Fifteen minutes later Ramon became uneasily aware that he had been talking almost uninterruptedly — of his life in San Antonio and Austin, and later on the border. He checked himself with a sense of shame. He had talked too niuch, and with a certain loftiness,, he feared. His eyes met Victoriano's. His own glance fell. He felt obscurely that he was an alien, despite the formal welcome he had received. It was perhaps Victoriano who made him feel thus. But how? He sought Victoriano's eyes again; and meeting them, he said cordially, "I take it you are one of Mr. Valverde's neighbors— as neighbors are counted here?" He smiled with an almost himible plea for friendliness. Fidesia hastily replied to the question. "Yes," she said, "and he's our best friend." "I congratulate you," said Ramon, again addressing Victoriano. But he looked no more at Victoriano. Why seek to conciliate one who would scarcely speak ? Yet the image of Victoriano's dark countenance, with its repose and power, took indelible form in his con- sciousness. Strangely, Victoriano's presence and quality took first place in Valverde's consciousness too, after a time. The old Spaniard withdrew into himself grad- ually, and thought of Victoriano. That was the sort of son he should have liked to have. It seemed to him that Victoriano was the kind of man who would know how to meet life's disillusions in the right way : 34 TAWI TAWI tranquilly, courageously, always making the best of what remained. Little by little Fidesia and Ramon began to speak iin low tones, as if they were in the presence of stran- gers. CHAPTER IV HOW A STORM DESCENDS UPON THE HOUSE IN THE DESERT AND HOW A CRITICAL MOMENT IS MET Fidesia's school days came to an end very soon after that and she had a triumphant home-coming, as we have seen. She was converted over-night — in seeming, at least — from a school girl to a young lady with lengthened skirts and a somewhat serious man- ner. She became the mistress of her father's house. Since she appeared no more — or rarely — in Eagle Pass, Ramon fell into the habit of riding out to the ranch with but slight ceremony. It would have seemed that he came to see Trinidad Valverde quite as much as Fidesia. He spent hours with Valverde, riding or walking about the ranch. He became deeply interested in the irrigation plant the Spaniard had installed. His admiration of what had been achieved was in effect the most adroit flattery. Valverde found him amus- ing, yet he noted a certain manliness in him too. Be- neath the youth's affability there was firmness, char- acter. He wore with ease the manner of those born to authority. He often met Victoriano at the Valverdes'. His manner toward Victoriano was admirable. He offered nicely-measured courtesy and respect and friendliness — but with an almost brisk implication that they might be accepted or let alone. It was a little difficult for him to conceal the annoyance he felt because Vic- 35 36 TAWI TAWI toriano's oddly masterful complacency was never dis- turbed. Victoriano too achieved an admirable man- ner. He seemed to be justly weighing Ramon — ^justly, and also with a measure of indifference. He had not yet accepted him. In the main he ignored him without seeming to be conscious of doing so. It would have seemed that he regarded Ramon as a harmless but insignificant person. Ramon's mother and sister came out to Eagle Pass, just as he had predicted they would do. They estab- lished themselves at the Dolch Hotel. However, with- in forty-eight hours after their arrival Fidesia had succeeding in having them transferred to the ranch- house and made completely at home. That pleased Valverde. That was why he had built the new house — ^that Fidesia might entertain her friends when she grew up. He displayed a quiet mas- terfulness in getting his daughter's guests installed comfortably in his house, and then he withdrew into a not too remote background. Mrs. Greene became the center of attention from the moment she entered the house. She was gracious, but she was determined not to make any sacrifices. It was not wholly clear to her what sort of persons she was visiting. She began by living for herself. She accepted everything. And then she began to sense the quality of Trinidad Valverde and his daughter. She perceived that they were fine in every way. They desired nothing but her comfort and happiness. They calmly placed these well within her reach, after which they seemed disposed not to intrude upon her in any way. She readjusted herself : where she had been simply gracious she became genuinely friendly. From wear- ing the air of a personage she became almost childlike A STORM 37 and lovely, eager to please and to be pleased. She was piqued by Valverde's unstudied aloofness. She tried to attract him. It did not seem to her that he was very old. She thought him splendid in his dark, for- eign way. The easy formality of his manner delighted her. She wanted to discover where he had acquired that. She was certain he had had experiences in high places. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he could read her like a book : that he knew of her caprices and rages and pride, her instability and restlessness. She came near to losing her temper when she realized how; very self-possessed he was. She perceived suddenly that Fidesia was altogether lovely. She began to talk to her not in a matronly fashion, but as if they two were little girls. She dis- played her dresses and ornaments; she began giving things to Fidesia. She would have given necklaces and rings and bracelets, even her watch. Fidesia chided her with lovely amazement and rejected every- thing save small keepsakes. They told each other secrets. On the third day of her visit Mrs. Greene, sitting out on the veranda in a kind of nestling attitude, sud- denly demanded of Fidesia: "Who is that gentle- man?" Fidesia, glancing up, perceived that the horseman who had just alighted was Victoriano. She summoned him. "I want you to know Ramon's mother," she said. Victoriano mounted the veranda, regarding Mrs. Greene a little too studiously, perhaps. He had come with the intention of seeing what sort of relatives Ramon had. He had heard of their arrival. He wanted specially to see Ramon's mother. When he was introduced he greeted Mrs. Greene with a kind 38 TAWI TAWI of wondering manner which changed quickly to per- fect gentleness. He knew almost nothing of various types of women, and here was a woman who was wholly strange to him. It was as if he had been brought into contact with a new kind of child. She was, indeed, the sort of woman who is always a child : a beautiful child in youth and a grotesque, almost tragic child in old age. She was small, of delicate features; her eyes were of a misty blue, her brows were sensitive, her complexion soft, her hair prettily unruly. Victoriano wanted to laugh at her joyously; he wished this so much that he became quite grave. They became good friends instantly. She did not care at all that he had brought the odor of a horse with him and that his shirt was of gray flannel. The man- ner in which he wore his watch-chain atoned for everything, she thought — ^that and something wild and magnificent about him. On his part, he stole furtive glances at the almost incredibly fine things about her : the fabric of her dress, almost like cobweb, marvel- ously colored, and of a texture which seemed to share the life of her flesh and skin. He wanted to ask her what color that was. It made him think of witch- craft. There was the chain she wore, too. One could have placed a hundred yards of it in the hollow of one's palm. It also seemed alive. It wasn't jewelry. It was magic. It carried a locket of a wistful blue, like her eyes. She inexplicably began to remove the locket, thrust- ing her chin into the soft flesh of her bosom that she might see. The locket evaded her. She captured it in a little hollow. "You were looking at my lodcet," she said. "It's quite inexpensive. Some kind of enamel. Put it on your watch-chain — do !" A STORM 39 He stared at her in amazement. "No," he said. She might almost as well have asked him to wear her dress. Her face flamed. "I didn't expect to be insulted," ishe said, rising. "Insulted, Ma'am!" he exclaimed. "I never knew any one to be so rude in my life," she said. She was gone, scattering tokens as she went : an absurdly tiny handkerchief, a paper-knife, a maga- zine, a box of confections. Fidesia gazed quietly after her. "She seems to have become undone," she said, with a glance at the tokens. "It would be easy to follow her, wouldn't it? I think that's what they expect." She stooped and began picking up things. She was the sort of person who never drops things. She arose with a flush. "Never mind, Victoriano," she said. "I don't mind," he replied. He was smiling oddly. But it was Fidesia and not Victoriano who went with the tokens and sought to make peace with Mrs. Greene. Victoriano's interest in Ramon was stimulated rath- er than lessened by the behavior of Ramon's mother. Ramon was expected at the ranchhouse that evening. There was to be music. And when Ramon arrived he was interested to note that Victoriano was less re- served than usual. Victoriano and Ramon and Val- verde sat on the veranda and listened to the music. It had developed that Phoebe, Ramon's sister, pos- sessed a wholly unusual voice, at once powerful and musical. She had brought an old-fashioned song folio filled with such songs as The Bltie Alsatian Mountains and Twickenham Ferry and We'd Better Bide a'Wee. She could not play for herself. She stood almost stolidly beside Fidesia at the piano, turning the pages and singing. She was quite prodigal in the use of her 40 ' TAWI TAWI voice. It was as if she did not realize how beautiful it was. She was a rather sad young woman with a dull complexion and a habit of glancing uneasily at her mother from time to time. She seemed never to have been young, really. Her mother was now in the room with them, listening to the mjsic. She liked the music for itself, and she always felt her heart swell and her lips quiver when she listened to the romantic stories related in the songs. She would have liked to go out to the veranda where the men were, but she felt that she had acted badly during the day. On the veranda Trinidad Velverde and Victoriano were recalling the exploits of certain famous hunters of West Texas. Ramon broke into these reminiscences. "Hunting wild javelinas — that's the thing," he declared, perhaps too authoritatively. Valverde and Victoriano were silent a moment; and then Victoriano, regarding Ramon curiourfy in the dim light cast from an inside lamp, remarked: "I suppose you'd care for that kind of hunting your- self?" "Can you give me the chance?" retorted Ramon challengingly. "Yes," said Victoriano quietly. "To-morrow. If you like, we'll go out to my place to-morrow. It's generally easy to find a herd of wild hogs out there." Ramon detected no covert intention. He broke out enthusiastically, gratefully. "It's the very thing I've been hoping for !" he exclaimed. Figuratively he enveloped Victoriano with his delight and good will. Together they rode out to the Shreve ranch the next day. Ramc«i was enraptured by the primitive, wild life of the ranch. He rode with Victoriano fif- A STORM 41 teen miles without reaching the outer bounds of the Shreve estate. In a regfion of indescribable barren- ness and tragic grandeur — among rocky eminences and canons and caves — the wild javdinas were found. Half a score of dogs which had fdlowed them out from the ranchhouse scented the quarry in a cave. A fire was built at the mouth of the cave, the dogs were held back. Ramon, mounted and with his re- volver in his hand, was stationed near the mouth of the cave. Said Victoriano: "They'll be coming out before long. They'll run like the wind. You'll have to be quick. I'll go down into the arroyo to be ready for them if they come that way." Ramon could not help feeling that he formed part of a q)ectacular picture as he sat his horse outside the cave. He was rather high up above the surrounding territory. A dangerously steep incline lay between him ajid the arroyo into which Victoriano had de- scended. Far away there were blue peaks, an infinity of barren wilderness. There was a shadow-like movement about the mouth oi the cave; the dogs whimpered anxiously. The jave- linas appeared like bolts : they tore down the steep in- cline, followed and engulfed by the dogs. Ramon fired once; and then his horse wheeled frantically and plunged down the dangerous incHne. The revolver in Ramon's hand left a trail of smoke behind. A gaunt dead limb depending from a mesquite tree plucked his hat from his head and held it. He was too dazed to realize all that happened. He clung instinctively to his horse. By nothing short of a miracle hcM-se and rider made the foot of the incline without falling. The horse, a veteran of the chase, tore down the arroyo after Victoriano's horse. It veered aside dangerously when a particularly high clump of cactus appeared 42 TAWI TAWI ahead; it leaped over the lesser clumps with undimin- ished speed. For a time Victoriano was lost in the excitement of the hunt; but soon he began to regard Ramon critically. Ramon was urging his horse on now, until it seemed he would run down the hounds. In a pocket in the arroyo the javelinas were temporarily cornered. Here a gaunt and ferocious tusked boar turned and attacked the dogs. It had maimed one of the dogs when Ramon lifted his revolver again. There was an echoing re- port and the boar turned in a rage, abandoning the hound — and dropped dead. The other javdinas had escaped from the pocket and were gone. In the dis- tance the baying of the hounds was heard, echoing among the rocks. Victoriano came up to where Ramon was examin- ing the maimed hound. He was paying no attention to the tusked boar which lay stretched out in a run- ning attitude. "You did very well," he said. Ramon looked back the way he had come, an in- credulous expression in his eyes. He smiled delighted- ly when he saw his hat impaled on the dead mesquite limb. Late in the evening they rode together toward the Valverde ranch. Ramon was inclined to be exultant, heartily friendly. But little by little Victoriano fell silent. He became somberly thoughtful, almost moody. He would have seemed to be a guide rather than a friend. He rode a little behind — ^it was not always practicable for two to ride abreast — ^and withdrew into himself completely. Perhaps he was merely himself here on the trail. He was silent by nature and had never conquered his natural inclination. Toward sunset they fell in with two rangers known A STORM 43 to Ramon; and as a result of this they took what was called 'the river road on their way home, that Ramon might ride with the rangers. Ramon began to talk to them exuberantly. "I'll be one of you — nearly — in a week or so," he said. "I've been ap- pointed a customs guard. One of the mounted force." He turned to Victoriano to explain: "That was to please the mother," he said with an air of confidence. "She thought I ought to get into something." Victoriano nodded a little darkly. It seemed to him that Ramon was asserting himself somewhat sur- prisingly. He came to the conclusion that he had certainly underrated Ramon. That day had been a rather trying one for Fidesia. There were indications that Mrs. Greene was going to be bad, as her son would have said. She did not agree with any statement that was made to her. She seemed determined not to be pleased with anything that was done for her. This in itself would have put a strain upon Fidesia, but the behavior of Phoebe, the daughter, was even more taxing. Phoebe, whose really strong character was veiled by an anxious meekness, was evidently fearful that her mother was in for one of her bad days, and she could not conceal her distress at the thought that this should happen while they were guests. She watched her mother fur- tively — she listened furtively — for evidences of an outburst. She was evidently prepared to check such an outburst before it got out of hand. She had be- come highly expert in this. She knew how to change a subject without arousing her mother's suspicions, and precisely to what extent to acquiesce when her mother declared that she had been slighted or insulted or otherwise injured. She dreaded these outbursts :44 ■ TAWI TAWI of her mother's the more because she knew better than any one else how painful was the remorse which followed them. As evening approached Fidesia concluded that Phoebe and her mother would be better alone, and she announced that she meant to ride out toward the Quemado a mile or two to meet Victoriano and Ramon. She rode away at a gallop. She could have shouted with joy because of the uneasiness and constraint she was now rid of. Victoriano and Ramon arrived before she had been gone long, riding up through the ranch from the di- rection of the river. They had put their horses away before they were informed that Fidesia had gone to meet them. Valverde would not permit them to go in search of her. "At least, not until after you have eaten," he said. He observed that Ramon was exhausted, but blissful ; while Victoriano was more silent than ever. After the two had eaten their supper they entered the great front room which always served as a gath- ering place when the veranda was for any reason un- inviting. Just now there were little flurries of wind and sand outside; and besides it had come time to light the lamps. Mrs. Greene and Phoebe were seated rather close together, not unlike patient and nurse, and Valverde sat at a distance: too far away to seem to intrude, yet not too far away to be of service if op- portunity arose. ' "She's not here yet," said Ramon to Victoriano. He seemed disappointed. He drew a chair close to his mother's and began gazing at her searchingly, per- haps a trifle accusingly. Victoriano had not replied to him. Instead, a de- tached expression in his eyes gave place to an expres- A STORM 45 sion of alarm. His body stiffened. He was the first of the group to note that some evil impended. Immediately, servants rushed into the room without ceremony. They began closing everything: the front windows, the door. They brought an air of bustling merriment with them, but they were plainly excited also. Ramon's eyes followed them keenly and then sought Valverde's for an explanation. "A norther," said Valverde briefly. To Victoriano the matter was too obvious to require comment. Throughout the house there was the sound of doors and windows closing, of excited hurrying to and fro. A moment later wind struck the house with the force of a battering ram. The walls groaned and trembled. Ramon followed Valverde to one of the front win- dows. Victoriano took his place at another window. The scene without was indescribably wild. Gigantic streamers of powdered dust were advancing before a demoniac wind. The sky was blotted out. Little by little the earth was engulfed in the swirling sand, which seemed to fill the universe. A servant entered the room with another lamp. At intervals the house rocked and groaned; a great roaring and hissing sound enveloped it. Ramon stepped back from the window with a dawn- ing sense of uneasiness. A question had arisen in his mind: What would happen to Fidesia? He was perplexed to note that Valverde and Vic- toriano were no longer in the room. Under cover of the noise of the storm they had withdrawn. He paused only long enough to say to his mother and sister: "You'll not be alarmed, will you?" and then he went in search of the others. He came upon 46 TAWI TAWI one of the women servants. "Where is Mr. Val- verde?" he asked. "I think they went out to see about the horses," the woman replied. He felt annoyed that he had not anticipated this, that he had not gone with the other men. He realized that Victoriano would not have had to be reminded of the horses or requested to go to look after them. Then he thought again of Fidesia. Where would she find shelter? Was she not, perhaps, in great peril? He rushed from the house in the general direction of the corral and stables, both now invisible. He was shocked to note how cold the wind was. The powdered dust and sand swirled about him, stinging him, blind- ing him. He could scarcely see his hand before him. A gust of the tempest thrust him forward so violently that he would have fallen, had he not encountered an obstacle. He had collided with Valverde, who, with head down and eyes all but closed, was beating back into the house. He grasped Ramon by the arm, indi- cating by a pressure that they were both to seek cover. If he spoke, the howling of the wind drowned his voice. Inside the house Ramon began excitedly: "Fi- desia . . . ?" Valverde frowned. "I've been thinking of her, of course," he said. He seemed annoyed rather than alarmed. He flung his sombrero from him. He seemed on the point of speaking further, but checked himself. Ramon's impression was that Valverde had been about to utter some sort of complaint. Certainly Valverde was taking the matter pretty calmly. "Isn't she in danger?" Ramon ventured to ask. The Spaniard shook his head. "It's not that bad. She's been caught in a norther before. She will know A STORM 47 what to do. She knows every foot of ground for miles around. She'll find an arroyo to shelter herself in, or rocks to hide behind. She'll make a cover of her rid- ing-habit." But all this only served to confirm Ramon's fears. He was surprised that Valverde could be so calm. He stared at him an instant. "Where's Victoriano?" he asked. He had decided that something must be done : a search party organized — ^he scarcely knew what. He recalled his own helplessness in the wind a moment before, and his face lost color. "He went to the stables," replied Valverde. "He may stay awhile." Ramon turned away from him, moving toward one of the windows again. But there was nothing to be seen. He might have been staring at a concrete wall, save that the sand-cloud ebbed and flowed a little, re- vealing at intervals a partly open space. It seemed to him that he could not endure the thought of being inactive an instant longer. And then relief came in a strange manner. The front door opened. An old man entered the room, immediately followed by Victoriano. Both turned and placed their weight against the door, forcing it shut. The shrieking of the storm, which had arisen loudly, subsided as the door went to. Victoriano moved silently aside while the old man approached Valverde, slowly unwinding a kind of scarf from his face as he did so. Sand which had lodged in the folds of his scarf fell about him. He presented a strange spectacle : the calmness of eternity seemed to cling to Wm, though he had come out of the storm as if he were its creature. Mrs. Greene gazed at him with awe, her hands clasped, her brows delicately furrowed. She was 48 TAWI TAWI startled when Valverde cried out in a genial tone — "Ah, Padre Columbo!" "Your daughter — she is quite safe," said the old man. He smiled. "The storm overtook her and my roof was nearer than her own. She tock. refuge with me. "Quite right," said Valverde cordially. His man- ner was merely conventionally polite. But Ramon, standing apart, gazed fixedly at the old man whose apparition had been so strange, so dramatic. He had not known that any one dwelt within miles of the ranchhouse. He was also considering Victoriano's unexpected arrival with the old man. He took a step forward. "Please tell me — how did you get here?" he asked in a low tone. He was appraising the fine, tranquil face which was now turned toward him. Padre Co- lumbo was smiling at him with a faint, ambiguous kindliness, and he added, "It is impossible to see one's way!" Perfect silence reigned in the room for an instant, and then the old man, without ceasing to smile strange- ly, said, "Sometimes one is enabled to move by the aid of an inner light." An assault as of a thousand battering rams smote the house so that it trembled in all its parts. Ramon's brow darkened with perplexity. What did the old man mean? That he possessed supernatural powers? Absurd! His meaning was, doubtless, that he knew the way so intimately that his feet guided him when his eyes might not The inner light, in such an event, would be memory. But the cloud did not lift from his brow as he turned to Victoriano with an in- quiring glance. If Victoriano comprehended the meaning of that A STORM v 49 glance he gave no sign. It was Padre Columbo who replied for the young man : "Victoriano had ventured forth to seek Fidesia. I encountered him by chance. I induced him to return with me." To Victoriano Ramon said with warm reproach: "At least, you might have spoken to me, so that I could have gone with you!" Victoriano replied candidly: "It's not every one who can move about in a norther. I've been out in them before. And I knew the way." There was no trace of triumph or contempt in the response ; yet REimon realized that in a way he and Victoriano had been placed on trial, and that the day had gone to Victoriano. CHAPTER V HOW RAMON IS PRIVILEGED TO CARRY A WEAPON AND HOW IT NEARLY BETRAYS HIM It was Victoriano who went to bring Fidesia home after the storm subsided. He managed this with a certain wilfulness which left no opportunity for any one else to perform the task or to share it with him. It seemed that he knew precisely when the storm had spent itself, and he set out for Padre Columbo's with- out a word. His state of mind had undergone something like a complete transformation during the day and eve- ning. He had made two discoveries : one, that Ramon was in the way of falling in love with Fidesia, if he had not already done so ; the other, that he was a youth of such unquestionable merit that his suit might very well be considered favorably. And these discoveries had brought with them a condition of sharp unrest. He had long accustomed himself to think of Fidesia as beyond his reach; and now he realized that he had not been wholly sincere in this, or at least, that he had not considered the matter thoroughly. She would want a man some day. That was the destiny of a normal woman. And why not himself as well as an- other? There was a good deal of noise and chatter when he brought her home. Mrs. Greene and Phoebe and 50 RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 51 Ramon all wanted to know just what had happened. They sat in the living room talking excitedly. They went over every detail repeatedly. Mrs. Greene wanted to know about the old man with the strange eyes. It seemed to her the wildest adventure for a young girl to find refuge in an old Mexican's hut. Ramon was scarcely less interested in this part of the story. He asked a great many questions. And at last he dis- covered that it was time for him to go back to his hotel. He observed that Valverde and Victorian© were sit- ting on the veranda speaking in low tones as he went away. The fact impressed him uncomfortably. What were they talking about, as if it was a secret? He experienced a kind of fear of Victoriano. Why should any man be so reserved? He feared he had made a mistake in remaining inside with the women, sharing their excitement, instead of joining the men on the veranda. He thought he detected a faint irony in Valverde's polite "Good-night." As a matter of fact Valverde and Victoriano had talked but little during the hour they had sat on the veranda alone. That was one of the proofs of the genuine bond between them, that they could sit a long time silent yet comfortable. They were not unlike in a number of essentials; they were most alike in the fact that they took no delight in the employment of words. The sources of their pleasure ran deeper. But after Ramon was gone and the clatter of his horse's hoofs had grown faint, Valverde altered the position of his chair and cleared his throat. He be- gan to speak of a matter which had interested and even troubled him for a long time. He said somewhat casually: "Fidesia seems to have become quite a woman all of a sudden. You've noticed it ?" 52 TAWI TAWI "Yes," said Victoriano. There was an interval of silence, not at all com- fortable in this instance, and then Valverde continued : "I've somehow had the impression that sooner or later you and Fidesia would come to some sort of un- derstanding ..." Victoriano reflected: "He's been noticing Ramon too." He said aloud: "I've hoped we might." He altered the position of his chair noisily. "And — do things seem to be going all right?" "I can't say anything's gone wrong," said Vic- toriano slowly. It was difficult for Valverde to go on. He had hoped that if he announced the text Victoriano would take up the burden of the discourse. He frowned slightly and finally added : "You'd not have any doubt, I think, about how I'd feel if you were to — to arrive at an understanding with her?" ' "As to that," said Victoriano, "I suppose that what- ever suited Fidesia would suit you." "That's right. Yes, that puts it clearly." But still Victoriano failed to go forward volun- tarily. "I believe," continued Valverde, his voice betraying, his perplexity, "that it's not unusual for American girls to wait until they are well past twenty before they think of marriage. But you know Fidesia comes of a race that develops earlier." He could say no more. It had cost him an effort to say so much. Yet Victoriano seemed unready to speak his mind. However, he was weighing some- thing, and Valverde waited. "You know," said Victoriano at last, "I've always been ready for Fidesia — any way you can take the words. She never could have helped knowing I like RAMON, CARRIES A WEAPON 53 to do things for her, to see her have whatever she wants. That's my position now — ^to the limit. There's some things I haven't felt like saying to her. It wouldn't have seemed quite right or fair, somehow; and besides, we know each other pretty well. I'd not want to force myself on her, or to overpersuade her. It might be you could, you know. She's gen- erous. But she seems to see a lot in Ramon; and I'd want her to be sure she'd not rather have Ramon than me. It would be bad for both of us — for everybody — if she took me and found out later that she ought to have taken Ramon." He paused; and presently he concluded decisively : "Fidesia has got a lot of sense. Sometimes I think she has more sense than any one else I know. I think she can be trusted to do the right thing. I'd rather risk it, anyway. If she wants Ramon it wouldn't do for me to interfere. If she decides he's not the man for her — ^why, then I'm here." It seemed to Trinidad Valverde that that was the way an old man might talk about "choosing a friend — not as a young man should talk about winning" a wife. He said dryly : "You said you'd not want to»overper- suade her. You said 'You could, you know.' You can. Women are like that, if you go about it right. And suppose Ramon should overpersuade her? He's no scrub, you know: money, a good family — ^all that."' "How, a good family?" asked Victoriano crisply. Valverde feared he had blundered. He continued : "Besides, that isn't the way it's done.'* "The way what's done?" "Why, the winning bf a girl." "I can't say I'm out to win her," said Victoriano. "That sounds like you might be playing poker. That's not the way I think about Fidesia. I want to be 54 TAWI, TAWI the right man for -her. I want her to see that. That's about as far as I'd care to go." "And tell you she wants you?" Valverde's tone was a little scornful. "She'd not have to tdl me. She'd just have to cut loose from Ramon a little and stand out in the open." The next morning Mrs. Greene decided — ^and an- nounced coldly — ^that she intended to return to San Antonio immediately. This seemed a little surprising, and her daughter Phoebe had to seem slightly surprised, though she was not really surprised. It was plain to her that her mother was in for one of her bad spells. She said a little sadly, "Very well, mother." They were alone for the moment. Valverde had gone away toward the river after breakfast and Fidesia was in the kitchen. Mrs. Greene's color began to rise ; there was a tem- pestuous and wilful expression in her eyes and about her lips. She seemed to be controlling herself by an €ffort. She was choosing her share of the dialogue in the scene she meant to bring about. She said pres- ently: "Mr. Valverde isn't a gentleman." Phoebe said again, "Very well, mother." Mrs. Greene brought her hands together sharply. "Why don't you ask me why he isn't a gentleman?" she demanded furiously. Phoebe quailed and cast about for her part. She said : "Well, mother : why isn't he a gentleman ?" "His manner toward me since the moment I entered the house has been an insult. What I took to be reti- cence is a subtle method of slighting me. He is con- sidering, every moment of the day, how he can make me uncomfortable. You're very stupid if you don't see it for yourself." RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 55 Phoebe said: "It's a shame. He might so easily have shown you a little attention." But it seemed that Mrs. Greene was not pleased by this ready acquiescence. She cast a baleful and thwarted glance at Phoebe and turned her back. How- ever, she permitted her thought of going home to get the upper hand of her, and before she could gracefully change front she had settled the point by informing Valverde and Fidesia that she must go home. Valverde was again silently masterful in looking after his guests' comfort — in making preparations for their departure — and then he moved somberly into the background, not unlike an ambassador in the pres- ence of a queen. It seemed to Mrs. Greene, as she went away, that he was really an admirable person. As for Phoebe, she was very glad to go. She had taken a great liking to the Valverdes in her undemon- strative way, and she shrank from having her mother amaze and distress them by one of her tantrums. Moreover, she had perceived that her brother admired Fidesia very greatly. It even seemed to her that Ramon was in love. And she couldn't bear to have her mother spoil things for people who had been so generous and well-behaved. They went away after lunch, in time for the early afternoon train back to San Antonio. Ramon got wind of their departure somehow and made his appearance dutifully at the railway station. He glanced inquiringly at Phoebe : Had their mother been at it again? And Phoebe replied by a kind of washed-out manner : Yes. There were three Mexicans in peaked hats and wearing gipsy-like colors standing in the sun outside the waiting-room door, but other- wise the Greenes were alone. It seemed the train was late. Ramon gazed into space a moment; then he as- 56 TAWI TAWI sumed control of his eyes and moved them furtively so that he could observe his mother again. She was now preternaturally serene. He impulsivdy took her hand into both his. She couldn't help it ! She was a perfectly "dear creature in spite of it all. He said prou'dly : "You know I'm going to work for the gov- ernment, mother." Her face trembled slightly. She understood everything. "You're a good son, Ramon," she said. She winked hard because of tears. "I knew you were right about wanting me to do something. You're nearly always right, mother. You're so nearly "always right that it's good to see you a little wrong once in awhile." He patted her hand slowly. "Don't, Ramon !" she said. "I know I don't deserve it. I am proud of you. I'll come out again to see you on your horse, collecting taxes — or whatever it is you do." He smiled at Phoebe. "Not collect taxes!" he said in a horrified tone. "Just ride, and see that no smuggling's done. Really heroic looking, you know." He glanced at Phoebe again and jerked his head almost imperceptibly. She arose and strolled away to a railroad map on the wall. Ramon said in an abashed jret impetuous tone: "Mother — what do you think of Fidesia?" She sighed blissfully, all her troubles forgot. She was in for what she loved best of all, her specialty: an emotional drama into which she could put her whole heart and which need not leave her with a guilty feeling in the end. "She is a lady," she said. "She is a dear girl." "I'm so glad you think so!" said Ramon, his color rising with the joy he felt. "I wanted so much that you should like her." RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 57 It pleased his mother to assume that everything was settled, that there was a perfect understanding. "I've seen it all," she said. "I won't say I shall not feel re- gret at losing you, in a sense. But I shall be happy because she is such a lovely girl." He was carried away by her assumed assurance; he took his cue from her. "I am certainly glad you feel that way about it," he said. He could scarcely command his emotions sufficiently to say more. He realized clearly that he was hopelessly in love with Fidesia. A baggage man began moving stonnily about on the platform, pushing a truck that was high in the middle and low at both ends. The Greenes' baggage was on the truck. There was an inrush of persons. The train was coming. Confusion reigned a moment or two and then the train was gone and Ramon stood alone on the platform. He had told his mother that he had been appointed a customs guard. That was quite true; but he had had only an unofficial notification as yet. His formal appointment came to him in an unstamped official en- velope that day in the late afternoon. mail. He knew what was in the envelope, yet he would not open it in the hotel lobby. He hid away on an upper balcony where he was alone. He read the words of the ap- pointment with bounding pulses. He replaced the ap- pointment in its envelope and sat gazing away before him. There was the river, and the bridge, and beyond, Mexico, with its white-washed Cuartel with pennons flying from it, and the unfinished Cathedral, and here and there a turreted housetop, or a dome. It was like a Bible picture. It was all strange, impressive, ro- mantic. His work had to do with that city over there, with its twinging forward of Moorish forms and at- 58 TAWI TAWI mosphere. He thrilled with eagerness. He drew his appointment from its envelope and read it again. He descended to the street and hurried with an air of importance which he could not wholly subdue away in the direction of the Custom House. He stood in the street a moment and then climbed the outside stair- case ascending to the upper offices of the Collector of the Port. It was after office hours, he realized, and it would be only by chance if he succeeded in finding even the janitor. But it seemed unthinkable not to carry the good news of his appointment to certain of the veteran guards with whom he had spent many a mildly adventurous day. It seemed good to approach the Custom House, now that he was part of the ma- chinery it represented. Two veteran mounted men were lingering in the general offices gossiping. The low sun filled liie room with an atmosphere of repose; and the two inspectors sat with their heels on a table, smoking a-nd resting. When Ramon entered the room they brought their heels to the floor with a clatter. They were the most democratic of men at heart ; but in the presence of Jim Greene's son they would not have been comfortable with their heels in the air. They professed eagerness to see the official appointment. They made much over it, wholly because he was so childishly pleased. They ventured to give him fatherly advice. It would be a different matter, they reminded him — riding on his own hook, as he would be expected to do now, and go- ing along with them as a guest, as he had done in the past. They wanted to know if he should use Selim, his thoroughbred. It seemed that one of the veterans had an old holster, and the other an extra revolver. These were offered to Ramon until he could provide his own equipment. He RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 59 accepted the offer with delight. To carry the weather- beaten trappings belonging to veterans — how much more thrilling than to carry untried articles of his own choosing ! He did not rest until he had got the holster and the revolver and had strapped them about him. His exuberant pleasure scarcely sprung from the fact that he was now warranted in carrying a weapon no matter where he went. There was nothing of the bully in him. But the revolver and holster were a symbol of service — the sign by which the world might now know that he was a placed man. He was now a member of the community in the completest sense. Still, he could not conceal from himself the fact that it seemed just a little dashing to go about wearing a weapon. Such a thing was common enough along the border; but he was city-bred. He was wearing his holster and revolver when, a little after sundown, he rode out of the town on the splendid Selim. He rode toward the Valverdes', of course, to tell Fidesia — and Trinidad Valverde — ^how his written appointment had arrived and his official career beg^n. It chanced that on that day Victoriano had also been engaged in a somewhat exciting task. The month was November and the cattle ranges, after affording a diminishing supply of sustenance for the dumb creatures roaming over them, had become almost en- tirely barren. Even the supply of mesquite twigs was exhausted and the cattle had been driven to seek relief from hunger in the sprawling nests of cactus with their tiny, penetrating spines which caused them in- evitable misery sooner or later. The helpless beasts were beginning to stand with their muzzles extended, uttering mournful cries, because their tongues were swollen and feverish and their hunger unappeased. 6o TAWITAWI Victoriano had decided upon a course which was not uncommon in those years. He had assembled his cat- tle and driven tljem into Eagle Pass, confining them in the stockade adjoining the railroad tracks. They were to be sent to pastures far to the east, where the rains had not failed and where pasturage was yet abundant. It was scarcely a profitable way out of a dilemma; yet such cattle as survived the journey would be assured of relief, if they were not permitted to founder themselves at the outset. It was one of Victoriano's traits — one of his limita- tions, perhaps — ^that he rarely thought of financial gains. To do his best by his cattle, and to be ready when the tax collector came — these were his chief aim& He loved life, but in a primitive, almost re- clusive way. After his last trip to the stockade in Eagle Pass — after all the cattle were cared for, so far as he could care for them — ^he drew up at the Valverde ranch on his way home. He was a little down-hearted, as a man might be who had parted with a company of friends. It is true that he scarcely knew his cattle one from another : there were too many of them, and they ranged too far and were seen too sddom. But the herd taken as a whole afforded him all the society he had much of the time, and it was one of his solaces in lonely seasons to look out across the desert plains and realize that the creatures of his care were out yonder, browsing their way along the skyline, appear- ing and disappearing in the arroyos where a little moisture yet remained, and patiently abiding in their place. He tethered his horse to a post in front. He did not mean to remain long. He was tired and dispirited. He heard Fidesia playing on the piano and he sat down RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 6i on the veranda to listen. She would be coming out presently, he thought ; or Valverde would appear. He did not know that the Spaniard had ridden away to- ward the river and would not return for an hour or so. Fidesia continued to play musingly; and then she stopped with a startling abruptness, with a shattered end of harmony. What had happened was simple enough, though Victorian© could at first make no guess. Ramon, sit- ting beside Fidesia — ^he had arrived at the ranchhouse half an hour earlier — ^had suddenly reached out and seized Fidesia's hand in his own. "Stop, Fidesia!" he cried in a voice which vibrated, though he had spoken almost in a whisper. "There's something I must say to you!" Victoriano felt a wave of heat engulf him. In all his life he had never experienced so disturbing a sen- sation. He knew — ^without knowing how he knew — that the drama in which he himself was intimately if silently engaged had reached a climax. Ramon was about to force a decision. His first thought was that he ought not to listen to what must now be said — that he could not bear to listen. Yet it seemed difficult to go away. His foot- steps on the veranda, if he moved, would startle the persons inside the house; and he shrank from stealthy movement. After all, what could he hear that he did not already know? Ramon could only say that he was in love — could only ask if his love was returned. Still, he could not bear to be in the position of an eaves- dropper, and he might have gone away in a moment; but while he hesitated Ramon spoke. He could not hear all that Ramon said, but he heard 62 TAWI TAWI every word of Fidesia's reply. "You startled me !" she said, and there was a note of dismay in her voice. "And yet," said Ramon, "you must have guessed for a long time that I love you ?" "No ..." was Fidesia's faltering reply. Victoriano's heart cast off half its load. He had been right, then. Fidesia had fwt meant her friend- ship for Ramon to be accepted as a sign of preference. He leaned forward, his hands clasped so powerfully that the blood deserted them, his eyes fixed with a mar- veUng, almost incredulous expression upon the floor. Silence inside the house for a space. Fidesia was striving to regain her self-possession. Ramon was trying to think of some special plea to make. His voice arose again, waveringly, pleadingly: "I'm sure your father would approve, if you thought you could care for me." Victoriano moved suddenly. It seemed for an in- stant that he would spring to his feet. That was not true ! It couldn't be true. "My father would wish me to decide for myself," said Fidesia. Victoriano relaxed a little. That was a fact, of course. He was calmed by Fidesia's voice. She was in that sweetly reasonable mood which he knew very well. "Then, Fidesia — ^Fidesia — ^tell me that you love me a little — that you're willing to love me . . ." There was a jarring discord on the piano, as if he had sought to recapture her hand. Ramon had been carried off his feet. "You know there's no one in the world who loves you as I do " Victoriano arose. He heard Fidesia pleading soft- ly — "Don't, Ramon!" She seemed in distress. He moved quickly toward the door. His tense figure RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 63 appeared suddenly before them. He spoke in an al- most casual tone to Ramon, who was just releasing Fidesia's hand. "You remarked just now that there was no one in the world that loves her as you do. I'm here to say you're wrong there!" Ramon sprang to his feet, passionately angry, help- lessly embarrassed. "You've said your say,'* continued Victoriano. "You've put it plain enough. Your next move is to let her make up her mind. It's up to her, now." "You've been eavesdropping," said Ramon. "No; I just happened to hear what you said. By accident." "Very well, then; you're intruding." He spoke sharply, in a tone of condescension, of forbearance. "Later you may say what you please to Fidesia, but at present she is engaged." As he spoke he perceived for the first time a star- tling expression of ferocity in Victoriano's eyes — a terrible expression wholly at variance with his calm voice. He lost his head for the moment — a confusion of conceptions guided him. A subconscious thought of his newly-acquired dignity influenced him. With-, out fully realizing what he did he drew his weapon from its holster. He was stunned by what instantly transpired. Vic- toriano bent to a crouching attitude with incredible swiftness. He darted forward, seizing from beneath Ramon's hand and the weapon it held. He force'd the hand upward with a fierce thrust. He wrenched the revolver out of Ramon's paralyzed fingers. Then he sprang back, his whole being flashing fierce defiance and triumph. It was Fidesia who awakened him from his wild 64 TAWI TAWI mood. Her voice arose passionately: "Shame on you— both!" They forgot each other, seemingly. They turned toward Fidesia. Ramon was the first to speak. "Forgive me," he said humbly. She regarded him intently for an instant; then her glance moved to Victoriano. But he remained dumb, giving back her fixed gaze. "An apology wouldn't be out of place, Victoriano," she said. He icould not understand why he should apologize. What had he done that his own heart condemned? Why use words idly, in a pretty and fashionable sense, i f they meant nothing ? "He had no business to draw,' ' he said, not quite defiantly, but steadily. "You're right," said Ramon. "It was cheap. I [forgot myself." Victoriano again regarded Fidesia steadily — ^as if Ramon had said all that required saying. She stepped forward and took the weapon from his hand. She turned to Ramon almost absentminded- ly. "You have no need of a weapon in this house," she said. "There are none but gentlemen here, unless — unless I am mistaken in you, as I do not think I am. Put it away." She placed the weapon in his hand, observing him steadily. His hand trembled as he hurriedly replaced the revolver in its holster. He turned away with hag- gard eyes. "Good-night," he said. She watched him go. Then she turned to Vic- toriano. "Maybe I'd better go too," he said. , "No," she said, "not just now." "You needn't be afraid I'll harm him," he said, gazing at Jier searchingly. RAMON CARRIES A WEAPON 65 "I don't want him to hurt you," she replied. His lips twitched, and then his eyes beamed. "Don't you, Fidesia?" he said. The color came back to his face in a flood. "Wouldn't you want him to harm me, Fidesia?" he repeated. She listened until she heard the beat of Ramon's horse's hoofs dying away in the night Then she turned to Victoriano with a faint frown. "You'll excuse me," she said in an almost lifeless voice. "Good- night,'* CHAPTER Vr HOW TRINIDAD VALVERDE HEARS A CALL AND HOW THE HOUSE IN THE DESERT BECOMES DESOLATE The next day was a difficult one for Fidesia. It seemed to her that she ought to tell her father about the clash between Victoriano and Ramon, yet she shrank from doing so. There was much in that affair which he might not clearly understand, she thought. She was glad that he gave her no opportunity. He seemed preoccupied; he was very busy. They were putting in a new pumping station down by the river and things were not going well. She hoped — ^yet feared — ^to see Victoriano or Ramon — or both — during the day; but she saw neither. As a matter of fact, Victoriano was laboriously employed about the stockade in Eagle Pass. The cattle were going away. He was unpresentable at the end of the day and he went home without drawing rein at the Valverdes'. And Ramon was being formally inducted into the paths of his new task. He was drawing solace from earnest application to this. He was deeply mortified over his misbehavior of the night before. To himself, at least, he was trying to make amends. That was the day of Fidesia's visit to Padre Co- lumbo, when he had related the story of the Aztec princess and the manner in which she had made a difficult choice. 66 VALVERDE HEARS A CALL dy Even after her return from Padre Columbo's hut she had not found herself ready to confess to her father the burden which was on her mind. She thought rather of the things the old seer had said. She was inclined to wish that Padre Columbo had not employed figures of speech; yet she was not certain. It was possible to think longer about a matter when it was a little obscure, she reflected. One could get more out of it. But the next morning after breakfast she said to her father : "You didn't know that there was a little trouble between Victoriano and Ramon, did you?" He did not know. When? Here in his house? His brow darkened, his penetrating gaze did not leave her. She gave him details. "And Ramon drew his weapon?" he asked harshly. When she inclined her head, her eyes avoiding his, he added with grim relish, "And Victoriano took it away from him ?" She resented her father's interpretation. "It's not really as bad as it appears," she said with a judicious air, "Ramon behaved childishly — that's all. He's been excited about his new position. It seems a great thing to him. And you can't blame him for that : the first thing he's ever done, really. He wasn't himself for the moment." Her father changed the position of his chair; he regarded her dubiously. "Childishly — ^yes," he saidv "And how do you think Victoriano behaved?" "Very well," she said. "He needn't have been so angry. Still, that was natural." She reflected a. moment. "They're so different," she continued. "Vic- toriano knows what a gun means. It's not a thing to make gestures with. He's learned that among the men he knows. Ramon has lived among people that don't know anything about guns." 68 TAWI TAWI Valverde smiled grimly. "He's probably seen them in plays," he remarked. Fidesia did not know about that "And he apol- ogized like a gentleman," she said. That did not seem to signify greatly, to Valverde. It seemed to him that words have only to do with superfici^ls.' You have to judge a man by what he does, he held. A knave may master the elegant forms and uses of speech. It is like learning to sing correctly. She seemed to read part of what was in his mind. "The best of men blunder," she declared; "and they have to begin seeking pardon by asking for it" But already he had ceased to listen to her. Certain decadent forces in his character made discussion of any kind a futile thing to him. He fell into a muse. He yielded almost with a sense of luxury to a heavy mood. Soon he arose with an air of having forgotten something. He had a great deal of exacting wotk to do that day. He went away toward the river, a dark cloud on his brow. He was not thinking of his daughter now. Thought of her a moment ago had led to his thinking of life as a whole, and he was ready to declare that life was a failure. He had got the impression more deeply than ever before, and in a disagreeable way, that his daughter was an alien. The way she had of pausing and then asserting herself positively : what sort of way was that for a young woman? She ought to be docile, tractable. Her mind ought to be a page for her father to write in. What should a woman know of logic? Yet she had a way of holding her own with firmness, if not with actual hardness. She had not the disposition of either a kitten or a lamb, but rather the attitude of an eagle, which can be as beau- VALVERDE HEARS A CALL 69 tiful as another bird, but which does not forget that it can also be swift and strong. Had she got this sort of thing at that American school and in the house of that American lady who had said with an ambiguous smile that she was going to be a young woman of character ? He realized that he was falling a victim to a form of nostalgia. He experienced a wish to turn back many pages in the book of Time. He measured the span of his life and perceived that it was a long one. He had dwelt in two hemispheres, had been at home in the Old World and the New. He had accustomed himself to think as well as to speak in two languages. His wife had been dead so long that her grave bore evidences of ruin and decay. The stone was stained with years. And his daughter had grown to be a woman with views of her own. It seemed to him that ever)i:hing in the world had dianged from what it had been when he was young. He reflected: "Nothing is permanent save principles, and the most active principle of all is that life is a mere breath on a glass, to vanish into nothingness." He tried to free himself from a mood which he knew could lead to no good — ^which, certainly, could not aid him in getting intelligent work out of the Mexican workmen, casually chosen, upon whom he must depend that day for work which required precision and force. He lifted his head and walked more vigorously, pre- senting now a pleasantly romantic picture, with his great physical strength and his slightly rakish som- brero, his truculently bristling gray hair and swarthy complexion and brooding, generous eyes. The cause of his discontent was of the simplest. He had arrived at the conclusion that his daughter was instinctively moving toward Ramon and that she would 70 TAWI TAWI eventually lose herself in him. And this was at vari- ance with his own deeply cherished dream. He had had his own mind on Victoriano. Victoriano was adaptable and handy; he saw straight. He was no talker, and he was a man. He would know how to be useful about the ranch; he was the sort of man who might be trusted some day to take over its man- agement. And he was a comfortable companion. As for Ramon, having him about the house permanently would be as impossible as sitting down to a dinner of black bread with a ballet dancer. Ramon was the sort of person for whom one ought to have a curtain that would lift and fall. He was an indoors man, with a pernicious habit of wanting to say everything. He lifted his head again; he was within sight of the river now. He could see his own group of work- men — ^the men of the ranch — ^together with outsiders specially employed. He tried to make out what they were doing. His puzzled gaze slowly gave place to an incredulous expression, which was immediately suc- ceeded by black rage. The distant workmen were opening a sluiceway with the obvious intention of inun- dating one of the larger fields : a field which he particu- larly wished kept dry because of alterations which were to be made in its system of tiny canals. Water would be rushing into the field in another moment. He shouted with such power that cords stood out on his face and throat. His voice had no cirrying power. ,The workmen continued their deliberate efforts. He shouted again, and then he began to run in the direction of the- river. He waved his sombrero and again he tried to shout. He had been wrong in his appraisal of his daughter's attitude. She was not drifting instinctively toward VALVERDE HEARS A CALL 71 Ramon. She was not really in love with any one as yet. She was in love with the thought of being in love. She had no one in mind as a possible lover, save iVictoriano and Ramon. She was trying to decide which of the two she wished to enshrine in her heart. She wished to love one of them. She knew that when she permitted herself to do so the other one would mean almost nothing to her. But she was still weigh- ing, considering, dreaming. She weighed Ramon's enthusiasm, his vivacity, against Victoriano's sim- plicity, his somber depths. She thought of Ramon's wealth : certainly she thought of Ramon's wealth, and of his family, which she felt sure was really prominent and elegant. She smiled and gazed into distance with parted lips when she thought of Ramon's mother, whose dresses had no starch in them and who wanted to give away everything. As against this picture she brought to mind images of the home life of the Shreves, Vic- toriano's mother and father. She recalled the barren house in which there was no money to buy things, the boundless acres which she associated with hawks in the sky rather than with valuable produce or anything green. Her brows contracted when she thought how Victoriano must spend his hours at home, with a mother who was as taciturn as himself and a father who came and went irregularly, and who found his recreations among the Mexicans along the river. She thought of Ramon as an inexhaustible store- house of nice sayings; and then when she thought of Victoriano her mind halted. She recalled how she had sometimes gazed at him almost impatiently and won- dered what images he was building up in his mind. He was far from being without mystery in her eyes. She pondered the mystery in him. It drew her by that power which induces human, beings occasionally 72 TAWI TAWI to turn away from pleasant friends needlessly and roam away into the dark. "Ramon has a beautiful mind," she mused; and im- mediately she reflected that Victoriano had a great heart. Both were gifts of God, both were to be admired and cherished. "And perhaps," she thought, "Vic- toriano has a beautiful mind, too, and Ramon a great heart." She wondered if she need arrive at a preference for either just yet. It was pleasant to be with either of them; and really, marriage was not all of life. Of course it was the greatest thing, but there was so much for mind and body to enjoy before one entered the deep waters. She began to think of her father. She could not have said why it was that she remembered him par- ticularly on a day when she and he had gone to visit her mother's grave. She recalled how he had gazed at the grave. Some grasses he had gathered into his fingers had dropped to the ground listlessly. When he had spoken again there had been a plaintive note in his voice, and a kind of huskiness. She suddenly realized that her father was growing old. He was growing old and rather pathetic. What friends had he in the world ? There was Victoriano. How closely knit they had become with the passing of years ! They were really alike in some ways. Both possessed a maturity, a gravity — ^as if they never forgot that life has its periods of storm. Her heart warmed at the unspoken — ^perhaps the almost unguessed — ^affection between these two. She started up with blanched cheeks. One of the women servants in the rear had screamed and others had quickly admonished her to hush. There was the VALVERDE HEARS A CALL 73 tread of feet, heavy, measured. She rushed to the door. Her father . . . They^ were carrying him! He was in a recumbent attitude ; he was nearly hid by men who were bearing him into the house. She caught a glimpse of his face, like wax. She had a couch ready instantly; she held the door open. She gave directions: "Bring him in here. Mind, Pasquale! — hold his head more carefully. Oh, let me have your place !" His eyes were almost fixed upon hers, yet he did not see her. She felt her limbs tremble, though she was now holding his head steadily. She heard the clatter of hoofs. The doctor had come out from Eagle Pass. Word must have been sent to him, she reflected. He bustled into the room, which he cleared instantly of all save Fidesia. There was the clatter of hoofs again. Fidesia glanced up to see Ramon enter. She felt that she wished he had not come just then. Trinidad Valverde was not dead. He had simply suffered a stroke, from the effects of which he recov- ered amazingly. Something remained: he moved his right hand and foot uncertainly, as if they were partly asleep; but his mind was clear and hopeful. The doctor from Eagle Pass sat by his side the third day after he had suffered the stroke and nodded approv- ingly: nature had obviously adopted precisely the proper course in this instance. Valverde was recov- ering. The doctor had done practically nothing. There had seeiped nothing for him to do. But now he undertook to merit a fee. "The only thing," he said, "is rest and absence. You must do nothing. You must get away. The fur- ther and the longer the better. A complete change." 74 TAWI TAWI "I can't leave my daughter," said Valverde sharply. "You needn't," said Fidesia, leaning forward. "I'll go with you. I'm sure the doctor is right." "Where should I go?" asked Valverde. "Anywhere you've ever wished to go," suggested the doctor. "Down to the City, to New York, anywhere." Valverde laughed as if all this were nonsense of a delicious sort. "To Spain?" he asked. Fidesia made reply. "Yes," she said, "to Spain. It's the very place." Valverde's eyes darkened. "To Spain?" he repeated in a changed tone. "Why not?" asked the doctor. He was not to be driven. He would not consent readily; but for three days his manner was thoughtful and a little mysterious. It came to him gradually that a way had been offered by which he might save Fidesia from Ramon. If he were to keep her abroad a year, Ramon would be gone when she returned. They might never hear of him again. While Victoriano, on the other hand, might have awakened. He might by that time realize that Fidesia had become a woman and that the time had come to win her. To Fidesia he said at length, decisively, "We'll go." He observed her sMfcrply as he spoke, and he was surprised that she seemed actually delighted because of his decision. He could not fathom this; but then he had never heard that story of an Aztec princess and her two swans. There was endless preparation to make ; the care of the ranch had to be mapped out and a manager en- gaged. There were scores of things for Fidesia to do, and there was the need of waiting until Valverde was able to travel. During this period Fidesia avoided confidential mo- VALVERDE HEARS A CALL 75 ments with Victoriano and Ramon. She thought of them much, perhaps almost constantly. She was a little afraid they might meet and quarrel. But she gave them to understand that she had no time for any one but her father. And indeed, they both ac- cepted this. Nothing was further from their minds than a quarrel — now. They looked at Trinidad Val- verde with awe. They missed something in him, the old force and truculence. To Victoriano he seemed like a splendid structure meant to house wariike spirits, but given over to religious relics. However, Fidesia reserved an afternoon for the two young men. She sent for them the day before she and her father went away. She did this somewhat with the air of a Portia putting out her caskets. They came into her presence constrainedly, glancing at each other askance. Victoriano despised Ramon now: it seemed to him that Ramon was flashy, that he lacked genuineness, that he might be counted upon at any time to behave cheaply, if he were suddenly cornered. Ramon subtly felt the weight of this con- demnation and smarted from it. He assumed an indifference which he did not feel. Fidesia began a little nervously the story of her departure and farewell. She had that to say wMfeh must be said with tact and kindness. When she faltered for the first time Ramon took the opportunity to say : "You'll be willing to answer my question, Fidesia, before you go away ?" He spoke with dignity. She flushed and said: "Please, Ramon, let me answer your question when I come back." He weighed this. Presently he said mildly, "Yes, if you wish." Victoriano stirred impatiently. "And when will you answer my question?" he asked. 76 TAWI TAWI She did not pretend that he had asked no questioa She would not trifle with him. His whole life had been a question. "I shall have an answer for you at the same time," she said. Perhaps they were both afraid of losing her. Vic- toriano voiced this fear when he said: "It will be a fine journey for you, Fidesia." She read his heart, and Ramon's. "Yes," she said, "but I expect to find here, when I come back, that which I prize above all other things." They wondered what she meant. Ramon came near to guessing. "Of course," he ventured, "love would come first of all " Victoriano cast a rebuking glance at him. How could a man utter such words? How, especially, if he knew what they meant? "Love would be part of it," said Fidesia; "perhaps, in a sense, the whole of it. Yet that wasn't what I meant." Ramon was smiling. "Couldn't you tell us what it is, Fidesia?" he asked. She shook her head slowly. "It wouldn't help you any to be told," she declared. "It's something that can't be put into words — something that becomes meaningless when you try to describe it as you would other things." Ramon continued to smile. "It sounds like Portia's caskets," he said. She glanced at him, hinting her disapproval. Vic- toriano wouldn't know what he meant by that. It was inconsiderate, even rude, for Ramon to ignore Vic- toriano in that way. There was silence again during which Fidesia sought an approach to a delicate subject which could not be ignored. How was she to leave Victoriano and Ramon VALVERDE HEARS A CALL ^7 together, unless they promised not to quarrel? It was as if Ramon read her mind; for he said casually, "I shall not stay here while you are gone, Fidesia. I shall go away for a year : back to San Antonio, perhaps. Any-where." She replied to this quickly, almost forlornly : "But you've only just begun your work," she said. Victoriano glanced at her curiously. She seemed too deeply interested in Ramon's welfare. And as for Ramon : was it possible that he was planning to follow Fidesia ?^-perhaps at a distance? His pulses began to leap. He had no fear that Fidesia would deal unfairly with him ; but things might go badly with him if Ramon found ways to serve her while she was thousands of miles from home. He interposed firmly, his voice startling the others because of its emphasis. "You needn't give up your position," he said to Ramon. The words seemed like an accusation. "I'll go away," he added. They both looked at him in amazement. "How can you ?" asked Fidesia. He flushed. "Why shouldn't I?" he demanded. "There's little to hold me here when you and your father are gone." He looked from one to the other. "My work here is finished," he added. "I've sent the cattle away. Ramon can stay where he is." They went away, Fidesia and her father, a day later. Because of Valverde's condition they had to go in the old surrey, unused for many a year. A cavalcade sur- rounded them. Their progress to Eagle Pass and the station was a spectacle, almost feudal. Victoriano and Ramon were there, of course. At the station, at the last moment, Victoriano said — "Good-by, Fidesia." He experienced a sudden, tremendous wish to express 78 TAWI TAWI himself. He was almost beside himself in that moment. He was on the point of seizing her in his arms. He would have done so but for the fact that her manner clearly forbade it. She was wearing a gay manner for the occasion. She spoke of trivial things to others who were about her. She was gone, presently. The train was making its way toward Spofford Junction and the Southern Pacific, already a diminishing object on the distant plain. Soon the rumble of wheels had become faint, far-away. There remained only silence and a blur of smoke against the horizon. CHAPTER VII HOW VICTOEIANO BEGINS A STRANGE PILGRIMAGE AND HOW HE SEES A LIGHT AT THE HEAD OF A STAIR- WAY Before Victoriano became a wanderer — before his almost incredible new experiences began — he spent a week in his father's house. Once during the week he rode out over the range, but he returned to the house resolved to do this no more. He could not bear the sight of the abandoned plains where the silent cattle had formerly drifted. The spirit of companionship had departed. His father's countless acres had become as a lifeless body. At the end of a week he supplied himself with a little money by selling his horse and other personal possessions, and then he went away. At the last he found this step strangely diiBcult. His father's ranch had been like a little kingdom. He had wanted for nothing, he had been permitted to come and go at will. It had been a pleasant way of living — if only there had been a little more grass ! He should have to accustom himself to other conditions when he went among strangers. He should have to receive money for his labor, and pay out money for everything he received. There would be working hours to observe, masters to please, associates to get along with — a. har- ness to wear. No more for him the solace of long silences and loneliness and aimless rides! 79 8o TAWI TAWI He journeyed toward the north until he came to the Southern Pacific railroad : two lines of steel run- ning away to the sunset. That night he was on a train which sped with a loud roaring noise through arroyos and over bridges spanning dry beds of streams : he was among strangers, he was on his way to strange places. Days and nights passed. There had been for a time a certain diversion, riding on the train. He noted the plush seats, dust-covered yet luxurious, and the wood- work, heavy and substantial, even elegant. But at length the monotony of riding became intolerable, and when the train stopped again he made his escape as from a prison. Indeed, he had beheld an enticing, stra'nge picture through the car window. He found himself in a beautiful land where every- thing was green. He beheld oranges growing. There were thousands of oranges, like golden nuggets, lying on the ground — ^because the pickers were few. There were crystal streams, full-banked, unfailing. He might have gone to work in the orange belt. Even inexperi- enced men were acceptable. But he was quickly estranged by the ways of the people among whom he had come. They were foolishly busy, almost frantic They talked a great deal about money: money which the oranges would fetch, money the pickers could earn, money which the railroads charged, even money which the orange boxes cost. Money for rentals, for land, for trees, for service. But not a word about the miracle of a green and gold world. He was asked if he wanted a job. A job? The word struck him oddly. He pon- dered, disconcerted, and presently he continued on his way. As a result of a chance companionship he presently boarded another train. Late one afternoon he aroused himself from dozing A PILGRIMAGE 8i to find a great city all about him : San Francisco. ' He left the train and wandered aimlessly along a street like a new sort of canon. High walls looked down upon him from either side. He wondered if men were as restless and strange here as those men back in the orange belt had been. He soon found idle persons. He found them in numbers. But they were like persons in an evil dream. They stood at street corners, they leaned against things, they drifted from point to point. They were grimy, stale. They seemed not to know one another. They had nothing to say. They looked at nothing, though all about them was a wonderful panorama, a splendid city. He tried to mingle with these men. They looked at him strangely. "What did he want?" they seemed to inquire by their glances. They had nothing to say to him, they did not care what he had to say. The few who were interested manifested a furtive, inimical interest. He found a boarding-house as night was falling : an old residence which had formerly been a place of ele- gance and wealth. Now factories crowded it. When he entered the front door he observed a noble staircase which had been much defaced by persons who did not prize it. No one admitted him. The door was open and he had entered, after deciding that no one meant to respond to his knock. A dozen young men and women were waiting for their evening meal. They were young persons who seemed spent, yet who were noisy, who chattered with a strange levity, all together. Their voices were loud and unpleasant. They were employees of a factory nearby. They paid no attention to Victoriano. He could see that they were not unaware of his presence but that they ignored him con- 82 TAWI TAWI scibusly. Presently he sat at the tablC;! between two men -wl© were branded in body and mind by per- functory toil. They talked across him in a code-like language. He gathered that they had heard of a job where the wages were better than they were now being paid. "A job," he mused. That unfamiliar word again! He arose from the table after one or two others had done so. He paid for a meal : a slatternly woman with the eyes of a dishonest merchant came forward to receive pa3nment. His hat, which he had left on a hall-tree, was not at first to be found. The place where he had left it was now covered by a woman's hat and wrap. He found his hat on the floor. He took it up, dusting it. He descended the front steps, which sug- gested far-away, fine things, and went on his way. He must find another place to sleep in. He found himself after half an hour's walk in the Barbary Coast region. This was better, he thought At least, it was less noisy. He even caught a kind of simplicity about him, a something which he recognized. He came upon a sign-board in the form of an inverted V, with announcements written upon it in chalk. Food was to be had for ten cents — ^that was the essence of it. He had not relished the boarding-house supper; he was yet hungry, and more particularly, he was lone- some. He looked into the place. No one was in sight save a jolly-appearing fat man who wore an apron. He went in out of the dismal night which was lowering about him. Here were no outward flourishes of a respectability tarnished and mean. He asked if he might be served. The fat man's jollity faded as if it had been done poorly in the beginning — ^like a fabric colored with a A PILGRIMAGE , 83 cheap dye. He appraised Victoriano; and then the jollity came back. "Sit down," he said. *»-» Victoriano did so. The man brought him a wooden block and a mallet and went away again. Victoriano looked at the block and the mallet thoughtfully. The man returned with a big, sprawling red thing, depositing it on the wooden block. "What is it?" asked Victoriano. The man was of a certain cosmopolitanism. He was as capable of concealing surprise as the most expert diplomat, as those who dine with kings. "A crab," he said. He perceived that Victoriano was really simple. "I'll show you," he added. He drew a chair to the other side of the block. He took up the mallet and tore a limb from the crab. He cracked the limb with the mallet. He brought forth white meat which he ate with a perfect imitation of relish. "See?" he asked. Victoriano was interested. He took the mallet from the other's hand and followed the other's example. He uttered a low exclamation. Here was a real feast ! The man arose and went away, returning with a vessel like an aquarium, with a handle on either side. It was running over with a creamy foam. He put it down before Victoriano. Then he went back behind his bar, which he rubbed with a cloth, using prodigious energy. Presently he lifted his head and held the cloth suspended in one hand. "How you like her ?" he asked. "Fine !" said Victoriano. "Good !" said the man. That was all the conversation there was. Others came in and had to be served with blocks and mallets and crabs. The proprietor also turned on a light. The place acquired a delightful cheerfulness without ceasing 84 TAWI TAWI at all to be/implicity itself. Two men in uniform came in — soldiers from the Presidio. They were neat, vi- vacious-appearing young fellows, impervious to ordi- nary mental disturbances because they were wards of a generous — even a spendthrift — ^government. They found places near Victoriano and engaged him in a conversation by methods so spontaneous that he was afterward quite unaware of how he had become ac- quainted with them. They recognized his unusualness, his quality. They managed to discover almost imme- diately that he was looking for a boarding-house. They might be able to help him, they said. Where was he working? When they learned that he was not working any- where they looked him up and down. Why not enlist? He put the suggestion from him without even con- sidering it. He had different plans, he said. One of them suggested that at least he might go with them to the Presidio. They'd find him a bunk for the night and he could have breakfast in the morning. It was allowed, they .explained. If he didn't like the looks of things after he'd spent the night with them he could go away. He shook his head. He was sorry to part with them, nevertheless. There was a quality of largeness about them which matched his own plainsman's view of things. He bade them good-night reluctantly. He turned as he went out, meaning to say good-by to the proprietor; but the jolly fat man was plying his trade of being jolly with others now, and he could not catch his eye. He was a little dismayed when he came out on the street. Night had fallen, a darkness more complicated and confusing than any he had ever known. The sky was overcast, a sinister blank. There were street lamps A PILGRIMAGE 85 in all directions, but they were only as conventional voices, announcing the dark without dispelling it. They cast their beams only a little way, while outside the radius of their illumination there were engulfing voids. The street descended sharply, he knew not whither. He paused to get his bearings. At the end of the incline he was descending — at the end and beyond— a region of an alluring complexity loomed. There were groups of lights which were duplicated by some mys- terious process : a dozen or so beacons above, an equal number, showing in a blurred and diminished fashion, below. He was, in fact, almost within a stone's throw of the bay, where scores of ships lay at rest. He continued on his way, marveling a little, partly forgetting for the moment his need of a place of shelter. Then he was rudely reminded of his need. A clap of thunder, explosive and reverberating, shook the walls near him. It seemed like a proclamation that the places of the real noises — of the real silences — ^were present, despite all the mean enterprises of the men who dwelt in the city. He turned a street comer a little anxiously,^ because it seemed to him that he was approaching too near to the water front. He was not insensible of the mag- nitude of that experience — approaching the sea for the first time. He reflected that it would be a revelation and a delight, in the morning, to stand where he now stood, to draw closer, and look upon the places of the ships and the tides and the trackless thoroughfares over all the world. But this was not the sort of experi- ence he should have chosen in the dark, especially at a time when he was as yet shelterless. He became aware gradually of a sort of stillness 86 TAWI TAWI which was disturbing rather than restful — a stillness hinting at stealth and secrecy and evil. He had come into a thoroughfare which was deserted as well as dark. Yet perhaps not wholly deserted. There were echoing footsteps, it seemed; echoes, shadows, whispers. A place of specters, it might have been. The street was narrow; the buildings on either side, high and dark, presented an uneven yet unbroken sky- line. He was wholly at a loss as to the character of this region. It was not a place where men and women dwelt, almost certainly; and yet he began to note evi- dences of the presence of human beings behind the dark walls. In one window across the way a vapor-like glow appeared. It deepened and then faded. Some one up there was carrying a lamp, perhaps in a rear room. A little further down the street one window glowed steadily. Into this lighted space two figures obtruded themselves: a man and a woman. Their heads and shoulders formed ogre-like silhouettes against the background of light. They appeared to be on their knees before their window. One and then the other arose and wandered away, disappearing like objects in roily water. Victoriano paused and looked back over the way he had come. His memory held no impressions of opportunities missed. Perhaps he had better press for- ward until he came into a neighborhood of a less furtive and dreary tj^je. He was about to continue on his way when the sound of thunder filled the narrow street with a shocking detonation. Almost simultaneously rain began to fall. Great drops smote him, penetrating his clothing. He stepped hurriedly into a doorway. He stepped into a doorway, but for a moment he was as unconscious of the region into which that doorway opened as if he had found shelter under a rock in the A PILGRIMAGE 87 desert. His mind was fixed on the street. Despite the din of the hardflung rain he now heard other noises. Somewhere in that region of impenetrable shadows men were running. He could see them pass a street-lamp at a corner, beyond which they were swal- lowed up again. He could hear shouts. Whatever human beings were abroad, it was plain that they were seeking shelter. The rain became heavier, a steady downpour. A wind arose, carrying the drops out of their course in the form of a drenching spray. Victoriano stepped back further, into a hallway. He had now found a satisfactory refuge : the rain could no longer reach him. And then at last it occurred to him to turn, to obtain some sort of knowledge of this place into which he had intruded. A stairway ascended behind him. It ended upon a landing above his head. The landing was illuminated faintly by an invisible lamp. He was also aware now that there were voices murmuring, rumbling, some- where in that unknown region to which the lighted landing admitted. Men's voices, certainly; yet the roar of the rain so cloaked that sound of voices that he could not have said whether they conversed amicably or with malevolence. He listened attentively. It was good to know that others of his kind were not far away. Then it suddenly seemed that his heart had stopped beating, that his whole being had been disorganized. There was an outcry up beyond the head of the stair- way, a sound at once horrible and incredible. It was the unashamed cry of a man in deadly terror, screaming for mercy. Victoriano was half-way up the flight of stairs before he was aware of having moved. He was on 88 TAWI TAWI the landing before it had occurred to him that he might be setting his feet in a forbidden place. The scream had ended. It seemed to have been annihilated rather than cut short. It had been succeeded by the fall of a heavy body: Victoriano had felt the floor vibrate. Then there was the sound of footsteps, succeeded by complete silence. These lesser sounds guided him to a closed door, which he thrust wide open. His eyes narrowed suddenly. He had come into a lighted room — ^but also he had come into a place of violence and tragedy. A man lay on the floor bleeding freely from a stab-wound near the heart. In the main, the body had already become inert, though there were involuntary twitchings of the muscles, and the eyes were open, and the face yet distorted by an agony which might have been mental as well as physical. Beyond this body, which was that of a man a little beyond his prime, an open window was visible. There was no one else in the room. There was no avenue of escape from the room save that open window. The man on the floor had obviously been slain, and his slayer had escaped from the open window. Victoriano crossed the floor, stepping over a broad- ening red flood, and looked from the window. He looked into the beating rain, made visible along one narrow avenue formed by a distant street lamp. He could not see into the region below the window. He looked down, but he might as well have looked into a bottomless pit. He reflected: he had mounted but a short flight of stairs since leaving the street. The leap from the window to the earth below could be but a comparatively short one. A man might have made that leap with but slight risk of injury. He turned toward the interior of the room "again. A PILGRIMAGE 89 approaching the body on the floor. The muscular movements had ended. He stooped and took up a short, heavy knife, the blade two-edged and with a haft of unusual width, which lay beside the man who had been slain. By some obscure law of the senses he remembered now — ^though he had not realized this before — that at the moment he had burst into the room of tragedy he had heard an agitated scampering in some invisible region of the house. Other persons escaping, he now concluded ; perhaps by way of a back staircase. Now he again heard footsteps, heavy, rapid. Men were ascending that staircase by which he had come. He continued to stand above the prostrate body of the slain man, the two-edged blade yet in his hand. Then with a nervous and alarmed straightening of his body he witnessed the entrance of those men who had come clattering up the stairs. They were police officers, two of them, and instantly they were regarding Victoriano in a manner which there was no mistaking. His mouth suddenly went dry. What a position was this in which he had placed himself! It would seem that he had committed the crime, of course! The gleam of a weapon in the foremost officer's hand caught his eye. Instinctively he thought of the open .window, of the short leap to the ground, of the impenetrable darkness into which he might escape. With the agility of a wild creature he w^at the window, a foot on the low sill. He sprang just as the officer fired. He heard the hiss of the bullet close to his ear. For one interminable second he dropped through black space ; then he struck what seemed to be a bricked court or sidewalk. He pitched forward on his shoulder and head and arm. A pain like fire enveloped him; 90 TAWI TAWI he heard the sound of a bone snapping. He could feel the sharp fragments of broken bone piercing his flesh. In his fall he had broken a leg. He lay motionless, despite the pain of his injury. In a mere flash of time he had measured the situation which confronted him. His escape depended upon his own silence and upon a continuation of the drumming rain which blotted out the earth. If it were not known that he lay there, disabled, he might find strength to crawl away presently. He reproached himself angrily for having made that leap in the dark. The act had been a confession of guilt. At least it would be so construed. He had made his situation a thousand times worse by his cowardly impulse. He had transformed a merely unpleasant situation into a dangerous one. He heard no movement above. He moved a little so that he might glance up toward the open window. If the officers had looked out after him they had with- drawn from the window again. It occurred to him that they would certainly descend and search the yard, or areaway, into which he had fallen. But he couUi hear no sound save the beat of the rain on the hard surface around him. Then again he felt the ugly grip of terror. A hand, put forth warily, had found him. It had rested upon his side, and now it felt its away along his body toward his shoulder, his arm. It found his hand — ^and pressed it ! A voice scarcely a foot from him uttered a warning whisper. That hissing message of caution and that pressure of his hand were not to be misread. A friend, not a foe, had found him. This was his conclusion. At any rate, there seemed little chance that he might save himself unassisted, and it seemed the part of wisdom A PILGRIMAGE 91 to place himself at the mercy of the person who (crouched above him. He felt two hands on his body now. Two powerful hands lifted him slowly and carefully to his knees. One hand held him in position while an unexplained move- ment went on about him. Then he was swung free of the ground. He was swung up so that his body described an arc, and then he came to rest upon a broad, bent back. With his free hand — the other had been held captive while he was being swung aloft — he felt about him. He could trace an immense shoul- der, a bull-like throat and head. He gave over this examination, which might easily have been misread, and simply clung to the man who had lifted him. He was conscious of being carried along the dark wall of the house. The man who bore him was not qnly an obviously gigantic and powerful man, but he exhib- ited that sure-footedness which meant familiarity with the way he had taken. He felt himself borne around the angle of the house and along a narrow passage-wky ; then through a gate into an alley. He taught sight of a line of alley lamps. There had been no hint of pursuit as yet. The man who carried him continued on his way silently, not without speed, until he had come out upon a street and turned. A moment later he entered another alley. The rain continued to fall in torrents. They encountered no one. At length the silent Atlas in the role of rescuer stopped. Victoriano felt himself shifted and swung through space and lowered. He was carefully depos- ited on a door-sill. Now — ^at last — he was addressed. "Where do you want to go ?" he was asked. "I want to find a boarding-house," he replied. "You've got none : is that what you mean ?" 92 ' TAWI TAWr "That's what I mean. I only gpt here to-day." "Got a job?" That irritating word again— a job. "No," said Victoriano. The man seemed to reflect. At length he said, "Jhen you better go with me." CHAPTER VIII HOW VICTORIANO FINDS HIMSELF ON BOARD A SHIP AND HOW A STRANGE TALE IS RELATED TO HIM Again he was swung aloft ; again he was clinging to a broad back. He was borne down alleys, past rain- shrouded street-lamps. He tried after a time to shift his position slightly — ^and a pain like fire almost took his breath away. He had never been so near to faint- ing. He closed his eyes the better to control himself. There was, indeed, an interval during which he was scarcely more than half conscious, though he clung instinctively to the broad shoulders from which his hands had almost slipped. He aroused himself when he realized that he was no longer moving, that he had been deposited on a, bed, in a sheltered place. He heard, almost as if he were dreaming, the voice of his rescuer utter one word : "Wait." He became conscious then of mingled odors to which many things may have contributed: tar, oil, oakum, canvas, steam, crude soap. He felt about him in the darkness. His fingers found out a pillow, a blanket, a wall. Nothing more. He mused : "We came down a stairway, but where ?" He sensed an unfamiliar in- stability — ^as if he were being stealthily, gently rocked. Gradually he perceived that a dim light entered the place where he was by means of a circular opening above his head. 93 94 TAWI TAWI He gave over his speculations with a sense of guilt. He was a sort of guest, after all. Besides, some one was approaching. There was a swinging light near at hand, growing brighter. The giant of the broad back stood before him in a moment, holding a lantern forward and aloft. "Where am I?" asked Victoriano. The man put the lantern down on a table and re- garded him deliberately. He seemed a strangely tran- quil man, all save his eyes, which held a storm in leash under their bunched brows. He took Victoriano in detail by detail. At length he replied: "In my stateroom. On my ship, the Gray Wing." Victoriano tried another question : "Who are yo«^" "Captain Hogg," was the reply ; and then in a curi- ously restrained, almost menacing tone: "Did you happen to know Jim Billings ?" The expression on Victoriano's face replied for him. Captain Hogg inquired further : "How did you happen to be in that room — ^back yonder?" Victoriano was now lying almost motionless. He could endure the misery of a shattered bone now that he had escaped what seemed an ugly predicament, if only temporarily; and moreover, the mystery of his surroundings, of his situation, helped to banish the thought of pain. "I heard a man scream,^' he replied. "I was standing down in the doorway, out of the rain. I ran up the stairs." "He screamed all right — didn't he?" said Captain Hogg. His eyes were now gleaming terribly. He added, "We must see how bad you're hurt." He undressed Victoriano with skill and care. He held the lantern close. "A bad break," he said, frown- ing. He glanced over his shoulder and listened. His glance brightened with relief : some one whom he had ON BOARD A SHIP 95 evidently summoned during his absence a moment earlier was now approaching. This was a man whose strangeness caused Victoriano to stare a little: a black man of a breed unknown to him. The man's skin was of a velvety fineness; his features were delicate ; his blacky stiff hair, close shorn, straight. He was obviously a man of a far-off nativity ; he proved to be a surgeon. He in turn made an examination of Victoriano's injury — a more minute one. He was not at all sur- prised or curious. He leisurely adjusted the lantern, and then he glanced at the ceiling. Captain Hogg evidently understood that glance ; for while the newcomer, who had not ceased to arrange certain materials and implements on the table, continued with his preparations, the Captain lighted a chandelier which was fixed rigidly to the ceiling. A stronger light filled the stateroom. Victoriano had now directed his attention again to Captain Hogg, who was standing with a kind of force- ful inactivity, as if he meant to lend a hand if he were given a chance. He was, Victoriano concluded, the most extraordinary figure of a man he had ever seen. He was not tall, not even of average height ; but he was of gigantic proportions otherwise. He was incredibly huge of chest and shoulders and back and throat ; of un- gainly width of loins, of barrel-like legs. His hands seemed too large and heavy to be of use in ordinary tasks. His face was rough-hewn, with powerful jaws and chin, yet the features had been assembled according to a symmetrical plan. It was not at all a bad face. The eyes, now that certain strange fires of a moment before had burned themselves out, were warmed by the quiet light of equity and patience, even of benevolence. They were very blue. His hair was unruly, thick, like 96 TAWI TAWI a boy's — yet grizzled by years and rough weather. Victoriano felt that on the whole this might be a very good sort of man to be associated with when things were going wrong. He looked a more likable man than the surgeon, for example, whose rather furtive eyes seemed incapable of expressing passion and whose manner indicated a C3mical aloofness, even indifference. Yet this other man, the surgeon, with his strangely impersonal demeanor, was a remarkable man, too. He lost not so much as a single movement in setting the broken leg, in adjusting the weights which were meant to insure a proper recovery. And at the very last he smiled fleetingly. He had perhaps found something to admire in his patient's seeming stoicism. Then 'fee went away, followed by the Captain. Left alone, Victoriano sighed and relaxed. It oc- curred to him that he might count himself fortunate, after all. Better to think how much worse matters might have been. He had found shelter and quiet — and he had found Captain Hogg. He lay for a long time wondering if the Captain would return. He rather hoped so. He tried to draw a picture of his general surroundings, but this he could not do. A sweet, strange odor of something the doctor had left filled his nostrils. He became drowsy; soon he fell asleep. He awoke once during the night — it might have been several hours later, he thought — ^to find himself in the dark. Some one had extinguished the light in the chandelier overhead. The seductive odor he had previously noted was gone. The air about him was alive and bracing. Tangents of wind played about him. Most striking of all, he had the sensation of being on horseback. There was the same indirect, somewhat oscillating movement. The horse he be- ON BOARD A SHIP 9;; strode — ^as it were — ^was moving as if on a long jour- ney : tranquilly, patiently, without fuss or worry. He could feel the slight depression of forequarters and hind quarters as the feet moved forward into new positions, and the muscles of the body relaxed and contracted. Extraordinary! — for here he was on a bed, with a dead leg attached to him, slung up with weights. He closed his eyes a long time and pondered. His thoughts refused to be directed ; again he slept. When he awoke other changes had taken place. A dim light, now the light of day, filled the space about him. The light entered through that circular opening above his head. He was no longer riding a horse ; he was being tossed gently on a blanket. Yet there he was on a bed. He took in the room slowly, detail by detail. He perceived that there was a second bed on the opposite side of the room. It had been slept in, but now it was empty. The bedding had been disturbed and was now thrust aside. Other furniture in the room, which was a small one, included the table which he had noted the night before, a number of chairs, a closed book case. The walls presented a simple and severe scheme of dec- oration. There were faded maps and charts, seem- ingly of all the globe. A large, stout cabinet contained specimens of coral, sponges, turtle shells polished like mirrors, sea urchins, star-fish-^all held securely in place on a wooden background. Another cabinet held out- landish relics: strange swords, a cutlass, a cuirass, a kris, a casque, a shield. Victoriano could have named but few of these things, but he felt their outlandishness, and he guessed that they all spelt wanderlust. His eyes were roving from one strange object to 98 TAWI TAWI another when he abruptly withdrew them with a feeling of guilt. In a sense he was prying — ^and sortre one was approaching. A youth entered with his breakfast The youth was barefooted; but this fact did not suggest primitiveness, but rather a degeneration of some sort: as if, in this instance, shoes had been worn for generations and then cast aside. The youth's skin wa^ yellow, his eyes significantly inexpressive. "Where is the Captain?" asked Victoriano. The youth stared musingly. He put down the tray he bore and there was an indolent elevation of his out- spread hands, his eyebrows, his shoulders. He turned away without speaking. Victoriano lay staring at the ceiling. It was difficult to think in any definite direction. There were too many things to think about. Then a whiff of steam, an odor of coffee, was borne his way. He lifted him- self slightly with his hands. Supporting himself with one hand he reached for the cup of coffee on the tray. He drank with a relish. He relaxed again. The barefooted boy returned in half an hour and glanced at the tray unmoved. He took it away with an air which seemed to imply that of course no one ever ate his breakfast. Captain Hogg made his appearance an hour later. He stood looking inquiringly down at Victoriano, who gazed back shrinkingly, because he had a difficult ■question to ask. "Feeling all right?" asked the Captain. "My leg? Yes. Where are we?" "If you'd been on deck an hour ago you could still have seen the Golden Gate. We've run into a fog JIOW." Victoriano closed his eyes. He had known it, really. ON BOARD A SHIP 99 He was on a ship and the ship had put out to sea. Various impressions of the night before came back to him. That motion like being on horseback was ex- plained. He lifted his glance to Captain Hogg's eyes and read in them a slumbering consciousness of having done a good deed, of being a Good Samaritan. "Where are we going?" he asked. "Oh, we'll just pick up a few things here and there." The Captain seemed to be renewing and completing his examination of the night before — of the patient. He seemed to conclude more assuredly that Victoriano was worth saving. Victoriano, on his part, perceived that he might get along very well with Captain Hogg, if circumstances required him to do so. He noted now that the Captain wore an oil-smeared cap and a duck suit which was quite wastefully roomy. Moreover, Victoriano per- ceived that the Captain was not an excitable man, not a great talker. A substantial person — a man of sense. He lay pondering. It seemed to him that he ought to ask a few questions, now that he had the chance. He might be left alone again presently. Yet it was contrary to his habit to ask many questions. If e had always found it more satisfactory to look about hira and find out things for himself. It took longer, but it usually meant a saving of time in the end. Besides, there was a good deal of satisfaction in lying still, unresisting, without worrying. He had not fully real- ized how disturbing certain of his recent experiences had been — ^his wanderings about San Francisco in quest of a place to call his own, at least temporarily. Captain Hogg was smoking a pipe, a wonderful black, ancient pipe with a short stem. The smoke and fragrance from it permeated the room rather delight- fully. There were also certain noises not far away. loo TAWI TAWI and these, too, were reposeful in a strange way. They were the sort of noises which suggest leisure, tran- quillity, patience. They were unlike the nervous, hate- ful scrambling and waste of the city, as the noises of his own Hfe away on the plains were different from them. There was something like the unflurried beating of a great heart somewhere. That would be the move- ment of the engines. It seemed a very substantial, dependable sound. And there were distant voices with the quality of a drawl in them. These were indistinct, impersonal. They descended through a door which the Captain had left open. Suddenly Victoriano sensed a startling change in the atmosphere about him. The feeling of tranquillity seemed to have been mysteriously routed. What had happened ? There had been no movement, no sound in the room in which he was confined. He sought an explanation from Captain Hogg. An amazing transformation had taken place in the Captain's countenance. His blue eyes had become bale- ful, malignant. He was holding his pipe in his hand, clutching it fiercely. It was precisely as if a deadly enemy had appeared before him. Victoriano stirred uneasily. His thoughts reverted to a tragic picture and to an unexplained situation which for the moment he had forgotten. He decided to ask Captain Hogg for certain explanations. "How did you happen to find me?" he asked. The Captain dismissed his own ugly thoughts, if one might have judged by the manner in which the stormy expression in his eyes faded. He went directly to the heart of Victoriano's problem without dissembling. "I was below when you jumped from the window," he said. Why was he there ? Victoriano would have put that ON BOARD A SHIP loi question; but perhaps it might be an unwelcome one. Instead he asked, "Why did you bring me here?" "You hadn't any place— you said." "That was true. But you might have put me down and gone away. I'm a burden here." "I couldn't very well have put you down and gone away." "I mean, after you had got me free of the place — where the police might look for me." "I owed it to you to do more than that," said the Captain, beginning to draw on his pipe again. He drew ^energetically. He got no result at all for a time; then smoke began to appear. He was soon enveloped in a cloud. "Why?" persisted Victoriano. The Captain continued to smoke — ^more complacently now. "In a manner," he said, "I was responsible for your mishap. I wanted to pay my debt." Victoriano pondered. Presently he asked, "How could you be responsible ?" Captain Hogg took his pipe into his hand and looked into its bowl. He thrust his thumb into the bowl. He replaced the stem in his mouth and puffed a time or two before he asked: "What made you jump out of the window ?" "Some officers had come in. There had been a killing. It might have looked as if I'd had a hand in it." The Captain nodded. "I figured it out that way," he said. Then he seemed suddenly to listen rather anxiously. He arose and went away with a mumbled word which Victoriano did not catch. It seemed, after all, that Captain Hogg would keep his secret — ^whatever it was. The first long day at sea ended, and a succession of long days followed^ I02 TAWI TAWI Much of the time Victoriano lay alone. The surgeon came, and the boy with his meals. He was not neg- lected. But of companionship, for the sake of com-- panionship, he had none. Captain Hogg appeared and disappeared more or less regularly, wearing a self- conscious, almost a stubborn air — ^but he held his peace. Victoriano tried to feel unconcerned. He coveted no man's secrets, he assured himself. As for lying on his back day after day, this quiet, dimly-lighted cal»n was perhaps as suitable a place as any other. He would have been a prisoner in any other place — ^until his broken leg mended. Why not put in the two or three months of his enforced idleness uncomplainingly? As a matter of fact, he had a year to put in somehow. Time meant nothing to him until there was a reason for him to go home. And he could have no reason to go home again xmtil Fidesia and her father were home again. He settled it all neatly in his mind — and yet his thoughts reverted persistently to the untold story in which he was at least a minor character. He thought more and more of that night when Captain Hogg had found him, of the scene in that house which had sheltered him from rain. It was not possible, certainly, to disconnect Captain Hogg from the crime which had been committed ; and if his presence in the bricked court beneath the window might have been accounted for on grounds having' nothing to do with the crime, his own occasional be- havior was sufficient to silence those arguments. Victoriano could not quite analyze the Captain's man- ner and moods, but he could not fail to note intervals of black introspection, of fierce unrest — ^the more re- markable because of the seaman's placid ways on ordinary occasions. ON BOARD A SHIP 103 He began to ponder more curiously upon all this; and soon it began to seem that the Captain was striving to unbosom himself — ^that he wished to speak of the secret between them. His manner was occasionally fitful, abrupt; his very silence sometimes was like the introduction to a harrowing tale. "I'll wait," thought Victoriano, "and when he gets ready he'll tell me." Yet there were other periods dur- ing which, true to deeply established habit, he put the matter from him entirely, feeling almost indifferent to it. It did not concern him so very nearly, after all. Just the same, when the night of the revelation actually came, he welcomed it eagerly. There had been a storm which had stirred Victoriano's curiosity to the limit. He had wondered if the vessel would not turn completely over the next time it began to turn. He was astounded that nothing in the nature of a climax, a disaster, occurred. Perhaps it would yet. He heard whistling and snapping sounds, and men's agitated voices which were blown away and lost. Then there had been a closing up, or a closing down, and he had heard nothing more save the disturbance of articles in the room where he was. Later — ^hours later — he knew that the ship was not going to turn over. It was now rising and falling almost without a jar, as if it were on a bosom that sighed deeply. It was now late at night. Captain Hogg came into the stateroom and patiently opened the dead-eye over yictoriano's bed. Some one had come and closed it during the storm. When it was opened the sound of the dying wind on the night sea came wailingly into the room, ebbing and flowing. The Captain stood in indecision a moment as if h^ were listening to the wind and couldn't quite make I04 TAWI TAWI it out; and then, seating himself abruptly, he said to yictoriano — "I once asked you if you happened to know Jim Billings." Victoriano said to himself: "Now, he's going to tell"; but he did not speak aloud. The Captain waited an instant and then said: "It was Jim Billings that was in that room in 'Frisco — the night it rained." Victoriano looked at him curiously. The Captain continued: "I want to tell you why " He looked indifferently at 'his pipe, which had gone out. He knocked the ashes out against his heel and put the pipe in his pocket. He remained silent for a considerable time; and then — "You've got no wife, I take it?" he, said. "No." "I had one once. I lost her. I lost her through that fellow you found in the room on the Barbary Coast — r Billings." He paused so long that Victoriano concluded there was to be no more — ^that he must draw his own con- clusions. But at last the narrative was really launched : "Of course," said the Captain, "no one ever sees a woman through her husband's eyes. She may seem ordinary enough to everybody but her husband. But you may be sure her husband sees her better than others do. He sees more. He may be a bit foolish about her ; but at the same time he sees her right. He's not blind to her faults. Nothing like that. But he gets to know what's behind and beyond her faults. He knows what they mean. He may even get to love her for them. Not to admire her for them — I don't mean to say that. But it may be that his compassion, his whole character, is built up on them, so that he's a ON' BOARD A SHIP 105 bigger man for having a faulty wife. Understand? Her fascination for him may spring in a way from her faults. That sounds absurd, of course; but what I'm getting at is this : in their virtues women are pretty much alike, but they're likely to be peculiar in their faults. It's their faults that make them what they are more than their good points. However . . . "She was born in a little town in Massachusetts, the same as me. We were neighbor boy and girl together. She had to pass our front gate when she went afiy- -where. And I can see her yet when she flung her hair, in a dark braid, over her shoulder, as if she scarcely iknew where she was — that was when she'd be passing our gate — ^and then looked slyly over into our yard and at the porch and windows. Looking for me. And she'd go on with another fling of her braid if she saw me, as if I was no better than dirt. She used to go by in the dusk. There was something lonely and secret about her — ^that sort of little girl. A little dark and strange. She was a little pitiful. She was wilful, and yet there wasn't any fight in her. She'd cry and hide her face in the crook of her arm if she was put upon. I used to jump over three fences and run through as many gardens if I saw a boy tantalize her. And she'd thrust her fists into her eyes and try to get her lips straightened out — ^and go on without seeming to know I'd come to protect her. An odd, lonely kind of a child, with no fight in her. . . . "When I was fourteen years old I ran away from home. It wasn't much of a home. My father's sister, a. natural-born old maid, had kept house for my father after my mother died. She had died when I was seven. The aunt was a bilious creature with drooping lips and dark blotches under her eyes. She was forever drinking tea and never eating anything. That kind of lo6 .TAWI TAWI a woman. Mostly dressed in shiny black that looked respectable and nothing else. "I was twerity-seven when I came back home. It seemed to me I'd been away a lifetime. You know that's a great span in your life — between fourteen and twenty-seven. I'd worked at half a dozen things, in twice that many places, and then I'd taken to the sea. I'd been in neariy every port in Christendom — ^and iii some that would come under a different head. "She was still there — ^the little girl. Mary Prescott, her name was. She'd been away, too: in Boston sev- eral years, stud}ring music. She had got to be a music teacher. Little boys and girls came to her in her house with a sagging veranda and some sort of sweet-smelling vine growing around the window. She had an old square piano with yellow keys. Of a summer evening when the window was open and the vine was in bloom you'd hear her with her children : turn, turn, turn — turn, turn, turn. Little hollows were coming into her cheeks and she had a far-away look in her eyes^-though there was a smolder in them, too, sometimes. She was the kind of girl that ought to marry. That was my idea, and it didn't take me long to get her to thinking along that line herself. And she married me. "We didn't get along the best in the world. We both had strong natures : hidden spots, set ways, ideas out of the common. It wasn't long before we'd be part- ing of a morning in a passion, and then burning up with the wish to meet again and begin all over again, to try a little harder to yield to each other, to under- stand better. She learned to curse me — and then to cry with her head on my shotdder and her arm around my neck. She loved me: never any doubt about that. Stormy, she was : a creature of thunder and lightning, but alway? giving way in just a little time, and willing ON BOARD A SHIP 107 to meet me more than half-way. If she could be fiercer than another woman she could be tenderer too; and we used to have days of fair weather when we'd walk in step, almost trembling with the preciousness of it. If you don't understand what that sort of thing is it wouldn't be worth while for me to try to explain. Per- versities and pity and darkness working together — ^too much human nature and not enough paying attention to rules. "We lived our happiest years in San Francisco. I'd got a berth on a ship trading between the States and China. We had a little house on Telegraph Hill, snug and bright, with lots of warm sunshine when the fogs didn't come up the bay and blot out everything. I was away from home a good part of the time, of course, but that only made our days together richer. We got to thinking we'd outlived our dark days. Her cheeks filled out and her eyes began to sparkle. She got color in her face. There were times when she'd seem a bit absentminded — ^when she'd start if I spoke to her. I don't mean she wasn't something of a mystery to me to the end. But we got a lot of joy out of life. , I did. Yes, I'm certain she did too. Maybe we'd both come to expect less. That's a dark thought, you may say; but it's what we all come to. "Then I got into partnership with a man who owned a tramp steamer. I had got to know a lot about a ship, and I had a reputation for being lucky. Lucky! And after that I was kept away from home more than ever. But they were happy years just the same. And that brings me to a sort of strangeness in myself. It seemed I was born to be a wanderer; and there was only one moment when I was happier than when I was sailing away from my wife. That was when I was sailing back. But I couldn't have stayed quiet in one io8 TAWI TAWI place. And maybe a man who loves a woman has no right to roam. But you're not to suppose I loved my wife less for wanting to wander. A man may be cursed with a love for two things that don't mix. I didn't love my wife less, but more — a. thousand times more. •But the craving to be up and away never weakened. Maybe I loved in a different way from other men. It got so it seemed good to have her — a great comfort — even when she was far away. I got to carrying her around in my heart, you might say — and her back in that little house overlooking the Golden Gate. That's deep waters, you'll maybe say — Gloving, yet eager to be away. Maybe I'm a little mad. I'd not be the first man that was mad and passed for right. But I got so I could sit on a deck, or lie in a hammock, and be perfectly happy with my wife — ^and her and me the width of the Pacific apart. The ocean seemed no more than a step — ^just as three feet or so sometimes seems as wide as the universe. Where a man and woman are concerned, I mean. "There are women like that, too; I mean, women who can be happy alone, who can put up with bits of trinkets for reminders, and fill a room and their bed too with the man they love, though he may be at the other side of the world. But I've come to think that maybe my wife wasn't one of that kind. You see, a pan's brain keeps on developing after all his other fac- ulties are on the wane. And it's only lately I've come to understand a lot of things. I've come to understand that my wife might have pined for me — for the trouble I made, and the noises, and even the faults I had — during the long months she was alone. But I got that bit of knowledge, as a man gets most of his knowledge, after it was too late to be of much use. "I want to make it plain, however, that I never did ON BOARD A SHIP 109 know — never have known — just what happened. It may be that to the end she was happier than I think she was, and faithful too. It was necessity that destroyed her at last— necessity and the man named Billings. "Billings wasn't a very unusual sort of chap. A fine looker. When you saw him lying on the floor in that house in 'Frisco he had had time to age and go stale a good bit. He was one of those laughing chaps. You know them. He could laugh all over at the drop of a hat." For a moment the Captain yielded to a quaking rage, and he mumbled — "Damn his soul, if he's laughing now he's laughing in hell." But he took himself in hand as a man steps back out of a fight he would gladly, force, and continued in an even tone : "That trick of laughing — it made him seem jolly, good-natured. It's more properly a sign of cunning and evil, but most men and women fall for the old tricks. They like a man who laughs. His eyes would beam, his teeth would show under his red mustache — it was red at one time, though it wasn't toward the last. He stood straight as an arrow, like a gladiator in a circus, making a show of himself all the time. He wore good clothes. He could always make a man like me look like an out- sider, especially to a woman. He used to hold a job down like any other man, though he wasn't interested in any kind of work. He wasn't interested in anything but cards — ^and women. He was a gambler : one of the kind that always wins in the end. By that I mean a crook. He must have been pretty smooth, though his jolly ways probably helped him a lot to fleece simple- tons. I think maybe the gay way he had was his best asset. Rightly, no straight man can be jolly much of the time ; but being jolly was Billing's business and he no TAWI TAWI got away with it And he had sense of a kind. His working steady — ^that was the proof. It give him a sort of standing. But it was only a part of his crookedness. "I never could learn how Billings got acquainted with my wife. I was gone for more than a year, once, and when I got back a neighbor told me, in a casual sort of way, that my wife had been out a time or two with Billings. It was a woman told me : a man never tells such things. I didn't pay much attention. I couldn't say there was any harm in it. I didn't know Billlings then except by sight. He was a clerk in one of the dock offices. I got his pedigree afterward. I figured that my wife was still a youngish woman and that she'd have to have friends the same as anybody else. She told me herself, without any prompting, that she had taken to going otit a little: to the theater, to spend an hour in the park. She named a number of men and women. She kind of slipped Billing's name in, in between. That came to me afterward, I said, 'AH right.' I had to fight myself a little to get rid of a dissatisfied feeling. I didn't want to be unreasonable. "I suppose three years passed, with everything going along so-so, and then I went on a cruise that was to include the Straits Settlements and around into the Indian Ocean. That was when the end came. There was trouble of one sort or another almost from the beginning: storms that took us out of our course, a minor accident or two, trouble with the crew, and a row with the port officials in one place. Manila, it was. A Spanish official is a pretty bad proposition, as a rule. He's seldom a ruffian, but always a thief. Before we got away from Manila a piece of machinery broke and we had to lie idle until we could send to Hong Kong to replace the broken part. From one unexpected cause ON BOARD A SHIP in or another I was gone nearly two years on that cruise. And when I got home my wife was gone. "You're to bear in mind that she'd been gone only two months when I pushed the gate shut and went on up to the porch — ^to find the door locked. You see, if I'd got home within six months of the time I expected to be back, she'd have been there. It would make it appear that she'd not planned to leave. See? "I took two steps from the door to Ihe window and shaded my eyes with my hands, lookii^ through the window-pane. I recollect yet that my hands trembled a little. I don't take much stock in presentiments; but in the ordinary way of life mishaps are pretty apt to happen in two years. I looked all about the room. She wasn't there. The house wasn't merely empty of her, it was abandoned. I can't tell how I knew. "I said 'I'll go to one of the neighbors.' I didn't want to go. I had a fear of being told things I couldn't bear to hear. But I went. You can explain for your- self why I went to the house of that woman who had spoken to me casually about my wife having been out with Billings. She seemed excited when she opened her door and faced me: I'd say elated if she hadn't seemed a bit terrified too. Her glance shifted. 'Mi;s. Hogg has gone away,' she said, when I stood facing her. I couldn't think how to put my question, but you see she didn't wait. What surprised me was that I could be as cool as anjrthing, facing that woman who had harbored evil thoughts about my wife. 'So I find,' I said. I don't believe she knew I was excited at all. 'Gone where?' I added. 'I can't say for certain,' said she, lowering her eyes, 'but it's reported ' She broke oflF and I took pains not to excite her. 'Go on,' says I. 'It's reported,' says she, 'that she has gone abroad.' 112 TAWI TAWI "It was true. She had gone abroad. She had gone with Billings. I picked up the facts little by little from men who'd rather not have told me. I went to the offices where Billings had worked. He had gone away, they said ; quit without a minute's notice. They hadn't seen him for over a month. And with that as a begin- ^ ning I got one fact after another until there wasn't any room left for speculation. "My first thought was that I must take my medicine without making a wry face. At least, without making a fuss. There are things a man says to himself in a case like that : the woman who would do such a thing isn't worth regretting — ^things like that. But that don't help much. I did regret her. I wanted her back. I could have forgiven her. That's the truth. I began to see where she might have been influenced in ways she couldn't well resist. It dawned upon me that I hadn't been what is called a good husband — going away contentedly on long voyages, pottering about among relics, neglecting my dress. It came to me that the time must have seemed long to a woman sta3ring at home. When you can honestly blame yourself a bit you can forgive others easier. "I was terribly upset. My first idea was not to do an)rthing at all. The case seemed hopeless. But it began to seem that maybe there was something I might do. Little by little it occurred to me that she might have been almost wholly innocent, no matter how the thing looked. I argued: 'Billings might have lied to her. He's a smooth chap. He might have convinced her that I was ill somewhere — in some sort of trouble — ^and that he meant to take her to me.' All sorts of fancies came to me. He might have made her believe I had died. It seemed fantastic, that sort of reasoning did. But it kept running in my mind stronger and ON BOARD A SHIP 113 stronger. You'll find it hard to understand when I say I had never thought I ought to write her a letter: I mean, during all the years I was away from her. You see, I couldn't write a letter worth writing. That was my belief. It seemed to me a sort of nonsense: the sort of thing you'd leave to men and women who didn't know each other, or trust each other. I was wrong about that, as I was about other things. I know that now. "Well, it came to me in a week or two that I ought to try to locate her. For one thing, I couldn't stand it, just mooning about. I saw I'd have to do something. It seemed pretty clear that I'd have to see her once more, to give her a chance. She might have something to explain. I wasn't very clear about this. I guess the real fact is that I couldn't bear the thought of let- ting her drift out of my life forever. I could see how after years had passed, and it would be too late to change anything, I might blame myself for letting go without a struggle. And so I cut loose from all my connections and began a search. "Did I say I had heard they had taken passage for Hong Kong? I went to Hong Kong. I went to vari- ous hotels where an American couple might be ex- pected to stop. No information at all. I went about among the sort of people I knew, among the places I thought might be a bit likely. I didn't know Hong Kong except for its harbor and its shipping offices. I wasn't any good at the sort of job I had tackled. Still, I did find their trail after a couple of months — by accident. An American couple answering their descrip- tion had stopped with an English family two or three weeks. Then they had gone to Manila. "It was harder to get my bearings in Manila than in Hong Kong. I had a feeling as soon as I set foot 114 TAWI TAWI on shore that she wasn't there. I spent a hopeless month or so tramping about here and there — ^up and down the Escolta, about the Walled 'City, everywhere. It was like being in a place where there aren't even any echoes. Then one day it occurred to me that the way to find a man like Billings was to find out where the cit3r's gambling places were. He'd have run out of money, I argfued, and would be trying to get more by his wits. I found gambling places, plenty of them ; but I never saw a man that looked like Billings. I didn't hope to find her, you understand, until I had found him. "I went back to Hong Kong — to the States-rback to Hong Kong, on the strength of nrniors. I spent two years idling my time away, poking about in odd comers, standing in front of clubs and gambling joints — such places. I began to feel that people were looking at me oddly, as if they thought me mad. "Then at last I got on the trail of Billings. In San Francisco. He had been seen about his old haunts during my last trip to Hong Kong. But he had dis- appeared again. For another two years I played a kind of game of hide-and-seek with Billings. I just missed him two or three times. We both kept coming and going. I couldn't learn that he was trying to escape from me. It was more by chance that he kept out of my way. You know there is something strange — ^a bit insane, I think — about men of Billings's type. They don't appear to realize they're in any great danger. You'd think a man — ^any man — ^who had done what Billings had done would fear forever after that he'd be hunted : that the husband, the brothers, the relatives, even the friends, of the woman he had wronged would never stop until they had got him. If I were ever to do what he did I'd get so that my own shadow would ON BOARD A SHIP 115 terrify me. But it seemed that Billings came and went pretty much as he pleased. "She wasn't with him any more. I learned that he was traveling alone, happy as a lark, irresponsible. He kept to Sailing vessels and got into games with pas- sengers. I didn't quite grasp all that meant for a time. I supposed he had her hidden away somewhere. I didn't learn for a long time that this wasn't true. "He had abandoned her in Manila. Without a friend, without a cent. He had left her in a cheap Spanish hotel one morning and never went back. That I learned long afterward — that and other things I'm about to tell you — from some people who knew her afterward in Hong Kong. She was as helpless as a child when he abandoned her in Manila. If she'd had a certain sort of cunning, a bit of shrewdness, she might have saved herself maybe. She might have gone to a first-class hotel, if only for a day, and claipied to be a personage of some sort ... I suppose there might have been weapons for her to use. You hear of such things occasionally. But she was always proud and honest in a way, though probably not in the right way. At any rate, she didn't help herself at all. She drifted. She found a few friends of a sort that were worse than no friends at all in the long run. "Then she went back to Hong Kong. She came to the attention of some sort of benevolent institution there. An English woman — I located her afterward — was the last white person to have any real knowledge of her. She slipped through the fingers of that insti- tution. She found aid of a sort from some Chinese. And she never once tried to connect with me, so far as I could learn. She disappeared completely for more than a year — after the English woman saw her last. And then I got on the trail of one who was described ii6 V TAWI TAWI to me only as a white woman, living with a group of Chinese. "I knew I was about to find her at last. How did I know ? I can't explain. A word or two of description, may be; a report of something she had said — ^vague things. But I knew. Yet at the very last it wasn't so easy to reach her. I went to that Chinese house, a sinister place of many stairways and dark passages, above and below ground, I was met by unseeing eyes, unhearing ears, blank faces. I could learn nothing. "One night I went with a small group of white men, sightseers, all idle-minded but myself. We got a guide to show us over the place. You understand it was a sort of show-place — it was so grimy and wretched. We went through many dark areaways, down stairways, and again down stairways, into a region wholly imder- ground. We entered rooms that were evil-smelling and strange. We came upon various small groups of miserable wretches, sitting in imexpected places, in comers, at the bottoms of stairs, on out-of-the-way benches, on moldy shake-downs. They looked at us as from across a great chasm. They were all clinging to the dregs of life, begging a little opium, earning it in hidden ways. It was like a region of ghosts. "Somewhere I lagged behind. The rest of the party, talking lightly, went on. I saw the guide, torch in hand, turn down an alley. I might have overtaken the others, but something drew me in another direction. I went on alone. I saw a wavering light through a door open a few inches. I entered that door. There were berths, and tables alongside of them with evil-smelling lamps and pipes and brass boxes and other outlandish furniture all about. I came upon an immense China- man, a dumb, uncanny brute. He paid no attention to me. There were other Chinamen on the bunks. I ON BOARD A SHIP 117 stopped. There was a sickening vapor in the room. The place smelt like a church in hell. Then a ghostly figure stood before me, at the end of a bunk : a woman, an American. "I had found her. "She didn't know me. She didn't know anything. She stared sleepily. She was all eyes. Her mouth and chin had shrunk away to nothing — or so it seemed. She had on a nightgown — nothing else. She stood before me and drowsily caught hold of a pinch of that nightgown, scratching herself with it. She kept blinking. She looked like some kind of a damned doll . . ." Captain Hogg arose abruptly, thrusting his clenched and trembling fists above his head. He stood an instant as if he were dumfoimded; and then he disappeared. CHAPTER IX HOW VICTOSIANO TAKES UNCEREMONIOUS LEAVE OF CAPTAIN HOGG AND THE "CRAY WING," AND HOW HE FINDS HIMSELF IN THE DARK That was a shocking story Captain Hogg had re- lated, Victoriano thought. Some of its details haunted his mind all night, after the story had been told. He was not unfamiliar with tragic stories in which fierce passions stalked. He had occasionally been thrilled by tragedies which had a fierce leap in them, and then a complete evanishment. But Captain Hogg's story was different. It was mean, rather than tragic ; it was like a sore rather than a wound. It seemed to ding like an odor. However, the horror of the Captain's narrative speedily became as nothing compared with a dreadful transformation in the old seaman's character, after his tale had been told. This began (the next morning) in his refusing to look at Victoriano or to speak to him. He was distressingly agitated, his hands trembled, his glance was wild. Why should this be? Victoriano asked himself. The Captain had been habitually tranquil until he had related his story. Why should the tdling of the tale make so great a difference? He tried to find the answer to this question after he had finished his breakfast and was left alone for the long hours of the forenoon. It was likely, he reflected, that the Captain had be- Ii8 VICTORIANO TAKES LEAVE 119 come an unenviably conspicuous figure in all the places that knew him : the San Francisco waterfront, the ports he visited, even the streets on which he frequently appeared. And from being a figure to inspire pity he might easily have become a figure that provoked con- tempt or even amusement in base and pitiless minds. If this were true he would doubtless have longed for the companionship of a companionable man who knew nothing of his shame and his sorrow. "That," he re- flected, "would explain why he wanted me on his ship with him." But why, then, had he finally related the story of his domestic shipwreck? Well, he had not done this without a struggle. This had been shown by the manner in which, on numerous occasions, he had seemed to be shaping his mind, to be bearing toward a momentous conclusion — only to check himself sharply and to turn to other matters. What, then, had caused him to give way at last? The wish to justify himself — if only to himself? It seemed more than likely that he had come to seem a weak and helpless creature in the eyes of those who knew how he had been wronged. Perhaps in his own eyes too. What more natural, then, than that he should experience the wish to point at last to what seemed to him a vindication? He had related his story perhaps, not because he had been wronged, but because his wrongs had been avenged. He had wished to paint the picture of himself as a man triumphant, rather than as a man destroyed. Victoriano had occasion to go over these matters again and again, for Captain Hogg's manner became more and more in need of explaliation. The first out- break of agitation — ^like that of a man coming out of an unchecked debauch — ^was succeeded by a manner even more inexplicable. The old seaman appeared I20 TAWI TAWI actually to hate his involuntary guest. His manner was ' rude, impatient, distressing: the more so because he seemed permanently to have adopted the plan of saying nothing. And this condition of affairs continued for long days which stretched at length into interminable weeks. Victoriano's injury was slowly mending. At the expiration of eight days he had been freed of the weights which had caused him many a sleepless hour. The time came when he was permitted to sit up. He began to wear his clothes again. There was the promise that if he continued to improve steadily he might soon go on deck. This promise the surgeon made by means of pantomime, but Victoriano understood. This prospect was the more gratifying because Vic- toriano had begun to long impatiently for certain in- formation. Where was he? — in what spot on the earth's surface? Whither was the Gray Wing bound? When might he except to set foot on his native shore again ? These were questions he would not ask Captain Hogg. He did not feel rebellious toward his host; rather, he entertained a feeling of awe toward him, because of his mysterious demeanor. The Captain was struggling in deep waters and. he must be left to find himself. However, a night came when the seaman broke his silence. Victoriano had lain down for the night. The Captain, off duty, was also getting ready for sleep. He had taken off one of his shoes and sat holding it in his hand, regarding it; and suddenly he lifted his eyes to Victoriano. He leaned forward tensely and spoke in a hoarse tone : , "I left her there!" He was still thinking of his wife; of her, clearly, and of nothing else. VICTORIANO TAKES LEAVE 121 Victoriano realized suddenly that he hated that tale and all that it denoted. He lay, mentally flinching, waiting for more. But there was no more to follow just then. Days later the seaman turned upon him almost sav- agely, his hands shaking perceptibly where they hung by his side. It was yet in the stateroom. "And to think," the old man said, striving to be calm, "she was a musician." Victoriano lifted his shrinking gaze to the other's face. '*That's to say, trained in being delicate." He placed his fingers on the table, bending over it, and moved them in grotesque suggestion of niceness. "Harmony," he went on. "Did you ever think about that word? Meaning things that blend. Meaning that you've cut out what don't belong. Harmony. She was supposed to be an expert at harmony, I take it that harmony means, in other words, what's true." He leaned toward Victoriano as if this were to be confidential : "I can see the place at the foot of the last stairway we went down. A Chinaman was holding a torch. His face was yellow, like wax. He was like an image carved out of wood and painted — and pressed a little out of shape. That would be the torch, you know. Just human enough to be ghastly. There wias that smell, sweet and nasty. I thought of going back, and then I heard sounds. Laughing. You couldn't be sure. It might be crying. That was the place where she had come to die. And she was a musician." On a night when Victoriano slept ill, when there was a throbbing pain in the knitting bone, he sat upon the edge of his bed for relief. He thought it must be near morning. But when he stirred he heard, with dismay, the sound of Captain Hogg stirring too. The Cap- 122 TAWI TAWI tain sat np, facing him across the cabin in the dim light He began with an eagerness beyond control : "You ought to have seen his face, even before the knife touched him !" Victoriano could catch the gleam in his eyes. "He was in his own room when he died — a. room he rented from an old couple who never cared what kind of fish they sheltered. He was the only lodger just then. You wouldn't have seen the old couple. I heard their feet pattering down the back way before you came pounding up the front stairs. They would have guessed what was happening. It wouldn't have been for the first time. He had begun to run to seed — Billings. His voice had gone cracked. He had come down in the world. Likely enough he was glad to have even that shabby roof over his head and a blanket to cover himself with at night. Maybe he was thinking about learning to say his prayers. He had run to seed — ^and that angered me, too. I figured I had a right to find him whole. But we have to learn to take things as they come. And I wasn't cheated so much. The look in his eyes — that paid me. He was paralyzed. I didn't have to make even a sign. He knew what was coming. He looked like a boy about to cry. He couldn't move a muscle — either to defend himself or to run. He was amazed — ^as if he couldn't believe it: that he could be punished. You would have thought he was about to fall from a high place. And then he screamed:" Victoriano felt for his pillow and lay down again. He closed his eyes. Dtu-ing the days that followed he dreaded, with an ever increasing dread, those hours diu-ing which Cap- tain Hogg was his companion. The old man yielded more and more to periods of extreme agitation. He VICTORIANO TAKES LEAVE 123 Ijegan his story at the beginning again. He went over it again and again, adding new details, more intimate revelations. Yet the business of the Gray Wing, whatever it was, seemed to go on smoothly. Victoriano could hear a strange variety of noises above. The tranquillity of long days would give place to excitement. There would be the sound of pulleys whining, of windlasses, of men tramping in lines to and fro> There were oc- casional outbursts of pattering, excited voices. A language — or languages — ^unknown to Victoriano was being spoken. Moreover, that himian speech seemed to savor of characteristics and temperaments of which he knew nothing. Strangeness reigned. It seemed to him that he must be very far from home. The vessel made many landings; the periods of tranquil sailing became briefer, more constantly interrupted. Off- shore odors reached the cabin : the odors of harbors, of beaches, of commerce, were distinguishable. A day came when he was assisted to the deck, where an invalid's chair awaited him. He rubbed his eyes with both hands. An infinity of blue waves, white- tipped ; a horizon which stood high up against the sky ; land far away with the purple bloom of distance on it — these he saw. But a new and disquieting development in^jcnded. Speedily he made the discovery that of the seventy men aboard the vessel, not one save himself and Cap- tain Hogg could speak the English language. Even the first mate, who seemed an educated man, knew only his own language, which Victoriano guessed to be Portuguese. An odd assortment of human beings made up the crew — ^men hailing all the way from Scandinavia to India, but with the States left out. There were a score of Chinese, mysterious beings who 124 TAWI TAWI were the more sinister because they seemed — ^but only seemed — a, little comic. They wore silk-and-felt slip- pers without uppers at the heels, which they dragged lightly along the deck with a hissing sound ; they drew apart at their leisure, crowding about a gambling de- vice. The3r squatted and jabbered and hooted. They ignored every one with their unreadable eyes; they created their own atmosphere, drawing the circle of the East about them. Victoriano was recovering — ^indeed, he had practi- cally recovered — ^when he made a final startling dis- covery touching his situation. One day Captain Hogg turned where he stood on the distant deck and regarded his guest Standing alone, he seemed suddenly shaken in a strange way. He approached Victoriano. He began rapidly, eagerly, to repeat some stark climax in the story of Billings and the woman who had been betrayed. He talked volubly, his body quivering, his eyes gleaming. The ship's surgeon, sitting under a canopy of striped can- vas not far away, lifted his glance from the book he had been reading. His expression was at first one of boredom; but it quickly altered. His eyelids lifted, his brows lowered, so that his glance seemed to become very intent. He became peculiarly interested. Vic- toriano felt that an American physician would have manifested alarm. The truth was evident. Captain Hogg was, for the moment, a madman. He was the sort of madman who is sane enough in all directions but one, but be- yond the reach of reason in that one direction. He could deal rationally with the seventy men who were of his crew, but he became hopelessly mad when he faced the one man who knew of his shame and suffering. VICTORIANO TAKES LEAVE 125 Victoriano understood how that might be. He re- called an old ranchman he had known : a man who had sought to work out a method of reading and deter- mining the prophecies in the Bible. And this man, who could talk with great wisdom about sheep or even cattle, became in the next moment incoherent, a bab- bler, on the subject of prophecies. He caught the surgeon's glance. The surgeon was intimating subtly that Victoriano ought to go below. He did so ; and presently he heard the voice of Gap- tain Hogg speaking calmly and rationally to one of the sailors. That night as he slept h^ was aroused by a hand on his wrist — a hand that gripped him mightily. He opened his eyes to find the Captain bending above him, the gleam of unreason in his eyes. Victoriano could have groaned in despair. He had been dreaming. In his dream he had been riding with a girl along a smooth trail which terminated in a sunset sky. The girl was Fidesia. The old seaman, bending lower, began to unloose his tumbling words : "If you love- a woman," he said, "stick to her. Never let her out of your sight. Not because you don't trust her, but so that she'll understand how you feel toward her. Never let her beyond your reach. Keep her in your mind so close that if she stirs in the night you'll reach out in your sleep and hold to her. That wise old fish who called a man and his wife one — he said it all." / Victoriano, struggling out of the Captain's grip, sat up on the edge of his bed. He was breathing swiftly, deeply. The next afternoon the Gray Wing skirted the shore of an island clothed with green. The vessel cast 126 TAWI TAWI anchor ; one of the ship-boats was lowered and Captain Hogg, with half a dozen sailors, went ashore. Vic- toriano did not know that the vessel was now in a region where the ilang-ilang tree grew to perfection, and that the Captain went in search of little bales which were worth a great price. He knew only that his heart was touched by the sight of the unhappy old man, who moved among his men with a fatherly air, benign and patient. His mind was right enough now. It would be, no doubt, until he was reminded of his private disaster by the sight of the one man on the ship who knew of it. Victoriano arose and looked away toward the land. Gradually his muscles became tense, his glance bright- ened. There was land. And he had not set foot on land for months. To be on land, he reflected, meant to be within hail of a ship that would bear him back to the Golden Gate — ^and home. Moreover, his pres- ence here on the Gray Wing had come to mean disaster to Captain Hogg. He had been aUe to read as much in the surgeon's eyes. He went down into his stateroom so that he might be out of sight when the Captain returned. He stood musing, wondering if all his possessions were in hand. Certain words of Captain Hogg's ran through his mind : Keep her in your mind so close that if she stirs in the night you'll reach out in your sleep and hold to her. The Captain returned just as the night was falling. Victoriano heard the rattle of oars, the murmur of voices. He stole on deck with the wariness of a thief. The land was near — or at least, so he judged. The obscure wall of trees seemed almost at hand. The Gray Wing would be under weigh again soon. And there was the thought of encountering Captain Hogg VICTORIANO TAKES LEAVE 127 again, and witnessing the extinction of his mental light and theletting loose of jevil spirits. There was no one in sight as he stepped to the rail. He placed one foot and then the other, outside the raiL He leaned far out. He thrust out vigorously . with his arms so that his body fell clear of the vessel. He plunged down into the dark waves. CHAPTER X HOW VICTORIANO FINDS A UGHT IN A DARK PLACE AND HOW HE OPENS A DOOR He climbed a broken, natural stairway of stone and set his feet on the earth. His breath was labored, his lungs hurt him. The distance had been greater than he had thought and he was not an expert swimmer. He stood erect when he had found a level footing and tried to look about him. He could see notiiing, so dense was the darkness. It was not only that night had fallen. The clouds had descended, too. A dense fog enveloped the island. He could feel a kind of ghostly moisture brushing his face and neck. Then he began to experience a sensation which he could not at all have analyzed. It was as if he had set foot on a haunted island, a place of furtive and spectral agencies. It seemed to him that he was being rejected by a place, just as a man may be rejected by men. The ground on which he stood would have none of him. The air which stirred was inimical to him. The invisible sky knew him not. He stood in indecision, trying to think. He had been on board the Gray Wing a long time, for months. There had been time to reach earth's remotest point. Where was he ? He felt the alien nature of the place. His heart hungered for home. He moved forward, urged by a troubled spirit of inquiry. His progress immediately thereafter was one of the astounding experiences of his life. He instantly en- »8 IN A DARK PLACE 129 tered a region which was prodigal, disorderly, with forms of vegetable life. He scarcely knew the word, but he was in a jungle. Grasses and vines clogged his feet; dripping fronds with sharp edges smote him in the face. A third stratum of green growth topped huge tree-trunks which his fingers occasionally found. He was in a place of spongy earth, pathless, black, desolate. Strange, subtly disturbing odors were in his nostrils. He was presently Submerged in that jungle as wholly as if waters had arisen all about him. He was hopelessly lost. It began to rain, and his one purpose was to find some kind of natural shelter where he might wait for daylight. He pressed forward, stumbling, repeatedly falling, constantly buffeted by dripping boughs. The blackness became intensified, the rain beat more heavily. The noise of the rain became deafening as it beat upon the green drums all about him. He could see nothing. That was the thing that dismayed his soul : the black- ness of this strange world. There was a path, after all. His feet found it. He moved less deliberately, thrusting one foot forward after another, feeling his way. He lost the path. It must have turned. And now he was afraid to go forward. A path does not turn unless there are im- passable places ahead : pitfalls, perils. His desert lore informed him of this. He sank down where he stood, afraid to advance, deciding to wait where he was for day. He sat, dripping and subdued, his hands clasped about his knees. He began to count the minutes; he counted until they ran into hours : one hour, two hours, three. And then suddenly his unseeing eyes opened wide, staring incredulously; his brain leaped from its lethargy. In that lost region of chaos and blackness he perceived I30 TAWI TAWI a light. Before him, only a few yards away, a beam shone from under a closed door. He arose and plunged forward, skeptical and also a little fearful. Surely he had not really seen a light! Yet it seemed that he had done so. Some sort of struc- ture arose Uke a shapeless smudge before him. He fdt his way, both hands outstretched, his head a little back. His fingers came into contact with some sort of rough thatch dripping with water. He felt about: the rough thatch framed a wooden door. He sought for a latch, a knob; but immediately he thought better •f his intention of entering tuiannounced. He knocked •n the door, holding his ear dose, listening. A voice, seemingly a long way off, responded with an odd effect of tranquillity — in EngUsh: "Come in." He found a latch now. He opened the door. The wind swept furiously into the house, imperiling the flame of a lamp. He slipped quickly into the house and closed the door behind him. He did not at all grasp the strangeness of the miracle which had been wrought for his sake. He was merely puzzled, as children are puzzled by forces outside their grasp. He was looking down upon a little old man in a skull cap, seated at a table which held the lamp. About the room were stuffed birds, gaudy of hue, perched with a kind of frozen vivacity on artificial limbs. Here a crimson wing was poised for flight; there a green tail had been arrested in the act of twitch- ing. He stood dose to a group of tiny feathered crea- tures of an uncanny, still cockiness, of a much too perfect alertness. A red and green cockatoo with shining eyes looked down upon him from a nearby perch. An immense heron, which should have known no kinship with the cockatoo, stood on one leg musing IN A DARK PLACE 131 undisturbed. Three minute specimens, birds of one family, yet each a trifle different from the other — variations on the same omithologic theme — remained with their backs to him, demurely ignoring him, as if his grossness did not matter to them. They were almost incredibly delicate. He perceived at once that these were not living birds. They bore an obvious and fell relationship to the old man at the table, with his pinched face and passionate eyes and that laboratory cap with its indefinite sugges- tion of heartlessness. The old man looked at Victoriano with an effect of habitual amiability, yet with no very genuine goodwill. "Excuse me a moment," he said in a slightly im- patient manner — ^the manner of one who has been in- terrupted in a pressing and wholly congenial task. He had the skin of a bird on the table before him. There was also on the table a quantity of plaster and a sack of salt which had been partly spilled. The plumage on the birdskin was of an Oriental gorgeousness. "I've thought best to saponify this specimen," he said with a kind of nimble utterance, digging his shining glance into the thing he held in his hands. "A true dasy- crotapha speciosa. Its like is scarcely to be found in any collection in America." He seemed to be addressing himself rather than his visitor. Indeed, he seemed not really to have grasped the fact as yet that he had a visitor. He was as one dreaming, or at least as one completely rapt. He spread the birdskin on the table before him, plumage up, and recited a kind of ritual of identification: "Head crested ; forehead with dense plumes covering the base of the maxilla . . . tuft on the side of the base of mandible . , , post occipital plumes yellow; an irregu- lar band across the throat black, dorsal feathers gray 132 TAWI TAWI with light olive-green tips and white shafts ; uropygium yellowish green; upper tail-coverts the same, tinged with rufous . . ." Suddenly he started and fixed his amazed glance on Victoriano. "Bless my soul, where did you come from?" he demanded, "I came on a ship that just passed," said Victoriano. The other man seemed to weigh this, as if it were strange, perhaps a bit incredible. "And why did you come ?" he asked after a pause. "I was just looking around," said Victoriano. He glanced about the room not too inquisitively. i "Quite so !" said the other with an air of complete acceptance. "Sit down." He put aside the task on which he had been engaged. "My name is Burriss," he addeid. "Professor or Doc- tor or Edward Burriss. Either will suffice." He reached for a pot of mutton tallow on a shelf behind him. "I'll call it a day's work." He put a bit of the mutton tdlow on his hands and began rubbing it in gently. The skin of his hands showed numerous slight abrasions. "Sometimes it's rather rough work, get- ting about in the jungles," he explained. "And I have to keep my hands fit." He regarded his hands thought- fully. "I have to keep them quite free from oils when I'm at work, you see. Oils of all sorts are the arch- enemy to my craft. But I like to soften them up at night." Victoriano had located a chair, but some sort of monster-barreled rifle lay across it, and a heap of large bullet-like objects made of skins. "Ah, just put those things — ^anywhere !" said Burriss. Victoriano freed the chair of its encumbrances. As he sat down he inquired a little drily, "Where did you come from?" IN A DARK PLACE 133 "From California. From the University — ^though I'm working on my own initiative now. I've been here sijj^months. I've nearly finished. There are a few migrant specimens which appear here in a month or so, I'm told. I've thought of waiting for them. There are other things I can do in the meantime. But I think my collection is comparatively complete^ though I hope to get a better specimen of the zozterornis striatus — a new species. I've secured one, but it was necessary to use an ordinary bullet and it was slightly damaged." Victoriano reflected and said at length : "Birds." Burriss gazed at him blankly. Presently he sighed and said : "Quite so." He waved his hand toward a shelf containing heaps of birdskins which were like incredibly precious fabrics. "I'll mount them when I get them home," he said. "I've mounted the few you see here just for pastime." He now devoted his atten- tion to his hands, which he rubbed softly and rhyth- mically. "You — ^kill them?" asked Victoriano. Burriss started slightly. "How else ?" he demanded. "How?" asked Victoriano. "I prefer to use water globules." He nodded toward the grotesque rifle and the soft missiles of skins which Victoriano had removed from the chair on which he sat, "The risk of damage is less. The birds are only stuimed and may be caught — if you're sufficiently nim- ble." He added the concluding words humorously, with a faintly malicious smile. "Sometimes you have to use ordinary bullets of small caliber. Sometimes you trap them. There are many ways. The natives are very cunning." Victoriano caught at that word natives. He should want to know about that presently. But now he asked : 134 TAWI TAWI "You came all the way from California just to kiH birds?" Burriss considered. "To contribute to a fascir science," he said. "Consider: when the twenty-ei| volume of the Catalogue of Birds in the British Mu- seum is published — ^there are only twenty-seven vol- umes now — ^it will contain my name and a descriJ>tion of a new specimen of the subfamily micropodinae, genus tachornis. Think of it! — a monument to me that will endure when the Tower of London and the Statue of Liberty are dust on every wind that blows. Yes, I've come all the way from California. I'd walk the distance, twenty times over, if there were no other way." The two men regarded each other almost inimically : at least from across barriers of incentive and purpose which created an essential estrangement between them. They could never have become acquainted, really. Then Victoriano's glance moved on to the adjoining room, where he noted a litter of things, an incredible jumble. There was an odor which began to be dis- tasteful to him. He could not imagine himself as rest- ing, as relaxing, in such a place. It occurred to him that his coming in had been an intrusion. He arose uncomfortably. "Well, I'll be getting along," he said. For the moment he had forgotten the desolation with- out. "Good-night," he added. ! "Good-night," said Burriss absently. But suddenly he started up and hurried to his door, upsetting things on the way. He called out imperatively — "Wait! Come back ! God bless my soul, where are you going?" Victoriano turned back. He did not reply. He was too much amazed by the other's awakening, by his newly revealed normal emotions. "You know you can't wander away like that," con- IN A DARK PLACE 135 tinued Burriss. "Upon my word — ^how did you say y^ got here? A ship? Most extraordinary, I assure yok At any rate you'll not find another to take you ^wly — not to-night. Not this month, nor this year, more than likely. And there's nowhere else for you to go to-night." "How far am I from the nearest town?" asked Victoriano. "The nearest town? The man is mad! There aren't any towns. There's nothing. You're on the island of Bongao. It has a population of- — ^well, it's impossible to say. They're like lizards, or fishes. There are perhaps a few hundreds of them. No more. They're a more or less amphibious nomad, clad chiefly in a yard of flaming calico and a knife and a lust for murder. Come back inside immediately." It was a new tone, a new language — or a new jargon. Victoriano partly comprehended. He reentered the hut. "No towns?" he asked. "Not a bit of it!" Victoriano reflected. He recalled that word, natives. "And the people : would you say they are mischievous ?" "Quite. Quite." "How do you get along, then?" "Well— they think I'm mad." Victoriano thought that might be a point in the natives' favor. He sat down in indecision. "You must spend the night with me," continued Burriss. "To-morrow I may be able to take you before the Datto and suggest to him delicately that you too are mad. You may share my hut with me until there's a chance for you to get away. Sometimes there's a vessel from Sandakan. By the way, where do you wish to go ?" "To San Francisco," said Victoriano. 136 TAWI TAWI "Yes, naturally, in the end But I meant, where do you wish to go from here?" "I want to get back to San Francisco as soon as I can." "You mean you've looked around enough?" "That's it." "So. Well, at Sandakan you'd be more in touch with things. You might find your way out within a few months, eyen if you had first to go to Singapbre,. or even to Manila, or Hong Kong. I dare say things, are not as bad as they might be. In the meantime you'd better attach yourself to me. We can make it appear that you're helping." After an interval he added in amazement, "You're all wet !" "It was raining," said Victoriano, preferring not to> explain how he had left the Gray Wing. "Of course. Well, you must look out for jungle fever. You must hang those things up. I'll make a place for you to sleep." He assumed a bustling air now. He went into the adjacent room and Victoriano heard him moving^ things about. Presently he uttered a faint exclama- tion. He reappeared, crestfallen. "What is it?" asked Victoriano. "I forgot my supper." He shook his head whimsi- cally. He went to a cupboard made of an American pine box, taking from it a plate containing baked fish. He found another dish heaped with fruits. From both dishes he flicked a few ants. He ignited a tiny oil stove and placed coffee on to heat. In response to Victoriano's natural glance of inquiry he explained: "I was too busy to think of it." And then, "Oh!— my native servant. A very bright and capable boy. He prepared the fish." Victoriano nodded. , He was pleased to think of the IN A DARK PLACE 137 natives as serving, as being bright and capable. That anight make a difference to him before long. "Will you join me ?" asked Burriss, glad not to have fof'gotten his duty as a host. But Victoriano declined. They lay down side by side in Burriss's bed — an affair of native workmanship — a little later ; and in the darkness Burriss talked of the natives. "They're not as bad as I pictured them, no doubt," he said. "There is a good deal of human nature in them! They have their zealots, unfortunately. One finds them every- where. And their zealotry is likely to take shocking turns. They run amuck, as the saying is, and slay in a manner more effective than ingenious. But the normal members of the tribe are very much like other folk: they love pleasure and leisure and liberty, they know what kindness is, and even deference, in rudimentary forms. And they are very human in their interest in travelers. In your case you will find them ready to ;give of their best, very likely — ^unless you violate some of their prejudices or rules. You'll have to feel your way about a bit. They'll soon discover that your in- tentions are friendly. You'll have to keep your eye open for individuals of peculiar brain formations — of a cerebral restlessness — ^their zealots. You'll be taking your chances, just as we all do at home and elsewhere." He paused a moment and then, in a different tone : "I must show you a perfect specimen of the strix whiteheadi in the morning — of the family aluconidae. It varies slightly from type : middle toe pectinate ; ruff around eyes and across throat fully developed; pri- maries much longer than secondaries; proximal half of tarsus fully feathered; distal half. ..." But the last sound Victoriano had heard was the jungle wind, swirling midway between dark seas, hiss- ing through nodding fronds and roaring in tall ilang- 138 TAWI TAWI ilang trees. He dreamed of the desert and of a hos- pitable ranchhouse thousands of miles away, and a girl named Fidesia. Into his dream came words impera- tively uttered : Keep her in your mind so close that if she stirs in the night yot^ll reach out in your sleep and hold to her. He started up with a cry of dismay. He must go home ! He had no right to wander. The light of dawn filled the room. He heard a furtive tapping at Burriss's outer door. CHAPTER XI HOW VICTORIANO IS WAITED UPON BY A RULER ATTENDED BY WARRIORS AND HOW AMICABLE MATTERS ARE DISCUSSED He dressed quietly, hopeful of not waking Burriss. The tapping at the door was not repeated. He emerged from the hut with all his curiosity alive. What sort of place was this that he had chanced tipon ? He beheld a world of brilliant green, touched by the sun, yet wet with the rain: a gigantic garden waste and wild. He caught glimpses of a blue and silver sea through rifts in the trees. A smart wind was blowing. Near at hand he perceived something else. Three human beings were squatting before the hut, waiting with inscrutable faces for Burriss to appear. The tap- ping on the door was explained. They were boys — or men, perhaps. More likely men, though they were very small. They were naked, save for loin-cloths. Their breasts were muscular and seemingly as tough as whipcord. Their legs and arms were like steel. Their beardless faces were firm, of definite outlines, spare: not at all boyish. Their expressions were stoical, a little stolid. They were of the color of the Indios of the Rio Grande country. They manifested no surprise when Victoriano emerged from the hut, drawing a deep breath and yawning before he espied them squat- ting in a row on the ground, like gods. It would have seemed that the hut was so complete a mystery to them that a little more or less of mystery did not matter. 139 I40 TAWI TAWI Victoriano withdrew his attention from the three natives. After all, thty could scarcely matter to him. The spectacular wilderness did not matter. He must get back home. Nothing mattered to him save a girl whom he must claim. The thought of Ramon crossed his mind and his hands slowly clinched. It was because of him, Ramon, that eversrthing had gone wrong. His glance wandered again to where the three natives squatted. He mused somewhat idly : "I wonder where they live?" Burriss emerged from the hut surprisingly soon. He seemed like a man possessed. He said to Victoriano, in passing, "You'll find things for breakfast : and you'd better keep quiet until I've had a chance to speak to the Datto." Then he was gone, followed by the na- tives, to one of whom he handed over his rifle and water globules. They all were swallowed up in the jungle as if water had submerged them. Victoriano returned to the hut and made a sort of breakfast : he found crackers and canned pineapple and chipped beef in jars, and fruit. The coffee in a small pot was still steaming. But he could not remain in the hut. It was so distinctively the habitation of another. He could not even look about him without feeling that he was prying, even meddling in a way. Moreover, he was not interested in the enterprises which had the hut as their center. He felt that he must know some- thing about the island, the better to be able to quit it as soon as possible. He set forth, warily enough, into the jungle; and immediately he experienced the sensation which had come to him the night before: a sense of something spectral about him. Even the warmth of the tropic morning and the floods of sunlight could not dissipate the feeling. The stillness of a world which seemed ATTENDED BY WARRIORS 141 to have been stricken dumb oppressed him. The riot- ous vegetation bewildered him. He had never con- ceived anything like it. Agitated sounds suddenly intruded upon the silence. He lifted his eyes to the long, clean branches of a towering tree. A flock of parrots, arriving from some distant place, were up above. They were birds of a certain awkwardness, with brilliant green feathers, and a pink deepening to terra cotta. They engaged in what might have been taken for an angry conference, all talking together, each a little pompously, as if it alone had anything important to say. They all flew away heavily, as if flying were difficult. Far less preoccupied and foolish was a tiny, reddish- brown monkey which approached from beyond an im- mense tree: a creature of incredible littleness and physical humility, there in the boundless amphitheater of green. It grimaced with much exaggeration, shift- ing its eyebrows, its lips, at sight of a human being. From beneath its bulging little forehead its eyes mar- veled and inquired. It sprang into the crotch of a bush, grinning viciously and screeching. Then it thought better of this kind of behavior. It made a pitiful little O with its lips, uttering a child-like cry; it elevated its eyebrows as if it were very sad, as if it were about to weep. It sprang to the ground and began searching its body dreamily, as if for fleas. Its glance wandered away pensively, its tiny hand coming grad- ually to rest. It sprang into the air with incredible alacrity. When it touched earth again it was headed in a new direction. It ran nimbly away, its tail curved proudly, into the jungle. Victoriano's mental gesture was one of acquiescence. Under all the circumstances the parrots and the monkey did not seern nearly as strange as Burriss. He looked 142 TAWI TAWI to see if he could discover where the monkey had gone ; then he set forth in a spirit of inquiry toward certain flashes of blue water showing among the trees. He was startled by the sound of human voices as he approached the shore. He came out upon a low head- land. Two Uttle boats were passing. They were of simple construction : hollowed trunks of trees, narrow, yet of great buoyancy. Each was equipped with a sail fixed to a mast which arose from a tripod. Each was also equipped with outriggers: long poles of bamboo flung across bow and stem, with other poles of bamboo connecting their ends on either side of the boat. A youth, an exact duplicate of the youths who had gone away with Burriss, sat in each boat. One of these looked up as Victoriano approached the water's edge. Then both adjusted their sails and swerved away from shore, entering deeper water. Victoriano watched their sails fill and tug. The sails, he thought, were even more remarkable than the boats. They were of bright color's, of striking de- signs. The boats were soon far away, moving toward a projecting point of land where other men were as- sembling in outriggers with brilliant sails. Victoriano reflected : "They are young men like any other young men, liking excitement, maybe getting up games of some kind." He resolved to go among them, later, if he couldn't get away from the island right away. Just now his inclination was to know something about the quieter and more serious ways of life here in this strange place. He thought it would be just the thing if he could come upon some old person, sensible and calm, and have a friendly talk. Not a talk in the usual sense, perhaps, but a parley, conducted principally in pantomime. He could not realize the fact that Burriss knew much about the island, except in a one-sided way. ATTENDED BY WARRIORS i43 He meant to find out things for himself. The natives would be able to tell him what he needed to know: where to go to find a ship, and how to get to that place, in case it proved to be far away. He thought the sailboats might prove to be what he'd need. He wandered away from the shore, into the jungle again. He presently came upon that trail or path which he had struck for a moment the night before. It was quite clearly defined: he could not understand how he had lost it, even in the dark. He now followed it toward the interior of the island. It missed Bur- riss's hut by a dozen yards or so. It wound away into an incredibly wild region, out of sight or sound of the sea. Presently Victoriano paused and removed his hat. He dashed the perspiration from his face. He real- ized that he was very warm and thirsty. Where, he asked himself, did Burriss get water to drink? There had been two vessels of water ready at hand in the hut that morning : one sweet and cool, to drink; the other salt and bitter, to bathe in. Where had the sweet water been obtained? His knowledge of desert-craft informed him that paths lead to all things, provided one has faith and patience. He continued on his way, now with the thought of water in his mind. He discovered a human habitation at last, peeping at him furtively through a rift in dense green foliage : a thatched hut of grasses. He approached watchfully. The hut stood on rather high stilts; a platform of bamboo led to its one door, which was closed. No one was in sight, not a sound was to be heard; yet Vic- toriano was affected by a sense of something furtive and inimical in that lonely dwelling-place. He pro- ceeded on his way, moving more thoughtfully. Surely, 144 TAWI TAWI he argued, he would come presently to a house of less forbidding aspects — ^touched at least by a path, which might be regarded as a voice of welcome. This first habitation he had found stood apart in the trackless wild, beyond hail, hailing no one. After a walk of some two hours he came upon a sort of pivotal spot. If the island were a place of volcanic origin, here was the spot from which the maelstrom of prehistoric forces had radiated. There was a wild gorge toward which mighty trees leaned from every direction save one. There were many birds, as in an amphitheater, calling timidly. In one direction there was a deep gully, densely clothed in grasses; and through this gully a stream trickled and flashed. Victoriano drew close and perceived that from among the rocks a mighty spring bubbled up. He sank to his knees and drank. A brilliant bird, piercing the sun-spotted avenue of the forest, darted down be- side him, and then with a spasmodic movement made its escape, crying out affrightedly. He sat down by the spring and waited, thinking that perhaps some one would come for water ; but the soli- tude remained unbroken. He drank again and at last he retraced the path toward Burriss's hut. From time to time he made little journeys aside, but he encountered no one. When he arrived at the hut he prepared a meal and ate alone ; and later he sat in the doorway, with much to think about and nothing to do. Burriss had said that a ship might not come for a long time : perhaps for months. Very well; he must stop thinking of a ship. Evil results came of thinking about one thing all the time. There had been the case of Captain Hogg. He must resign himself to remaining on the island for ATTENDED BY WARRIORS 145 a time. He might have to remain in the hut with the unpleasant odor : but as to this there was a reservation in his mind. Burriss might rather not have him, and he might rather shift for himself. Possibly he might make friends among the natives. As he sat considering his situation he was startled by the sound of an approach. There were voices not far away, the guttural voices of men speaking a lan- guage which was strange to him. A moment later a file of men appeared on that path which led to the spring and to the interior of the island. It was a most amazing-appearing deputation, includ- ing men who were not to be mistaken for persons of rank and importance. There was a singularly impres- sive old man clad like a crude Harlequin, accompanied by one who walked beside him with ostentatious defer- ence. There were four ancient men with the visages of counselors. There were finally half a score of war- riors, marching smartly. The latter carried shields of dried skin and also formidable swords. Victoriano could not fail to note the extraordinary energy and purposefulness of all these persons. This was an official visit, he felt : an act of the government. He would have smiled, but he checked himself. Better to meet dignity with dignity. He recognized an air of authority in the person of the Hat;lequin-like garb, and upon him he centered his attention. He arose respectfully. The deputation came to a halt. The man who had walked with him of the Harlequin-like garb stepped forward and addressed Victoriano with the utmost niceness of intonation. He began with: "You spik Englais?" Victoriano replied that he did, and added, "And Spanish." 146 TAWI TAWI Those two kst words acted like magic. Immediately Victoriano was placed in possession of all the facts: The deputation consisted of the Datto of the tribe, his interpreter, four counselors and a detail of warriors. They had come in a spirit of goodwill, as a matter of form. Having explained these things somewhat paren- thetically, the interpreter suddenly became very dig- nified. Evidently he meant that the interview should be duly impressive. After a pause he began with the question : "Who are you?" Victoriano was sure no unfriendliness was implied by this blunt question. The interpreter was now mere- ly the interpreter. The Datto's face supplied the key to the spirit of the situation, and the Datto's face was notably reasonable and kind. "An American," he replied ; and added, "A traveler." But it appeared that the Datto wished to dispense with the services of the interpreter, now that it had devel- oped that the stranger could speak Spanish. He waved the interpreter aside. "Let us talk together," he said to Victoriano. And he glanced significantly about, as if he were not accustomed to be kept standing. Victoriano hurried into Burriss's hut, returning quickly with a chair. His distinguished guest glanced at the chair with a certain wondering aloofness. In the background the interpreter, with affected dismay, flashed a message by means of pantomime. Victoriano took the chair away ajnd returned with an American blanket, gray with a pale blue line. With the interpreter's delighted aid this was spread on the ground, under a patriarchal palm. The Datto took his position on the blanket, sitting cross-legged with perfect ease, and even with real dignity. The inter- ATTENDED BY WARRIORS 147 preter remained standing near at hand. The other members of the party withdrew to a short distance. The Datto graciously indicated that Victoriano was also to sit on the blanket. After a suitable pause the Datto inquired, "Why are you here?" Victoriano had no thought but to deal with perfect sincerity with this man. He was unaware that he dealt with a Mohammedan, a Moro. This would have made slight difference to him. He had noted certain amaz- ing externals, including the visitor's dress. This con- sisted of a tiny jacket of filmy fabric, its length falling a little short of the hips; the ample skirt, like a woman's, of gorgeous cotton print; the twisted head- dress in the Turkish style, this too being of the bright- est hues. But the most amazing thing he had observed was that a man so clothed could seem manly and dig- nified — ^and this his strange visitor certainly seemed. Moreover, he recognized the Datto's right to question him. He felt that any attempt at evasion would be detected. He replied: "I was on a ship. Three months, four months, on a ship. I was with a man who was not polite. I wished to leave him and go home. I did not know where I was. I hoped to find another ship that would take me home. I jumped over- board at night. I swam ashore." The Datto nodded. He believed this. He knew he was being told the truth. The picture of a man jump- ing overboard and swimming ashore took form in his brain. His eyes beamed; he nodded. "When do you expect to go home ?" he asked. "When a ship comes," replied Victoriano; and he asked in his turn, "When do you suppose a ship will come in?" The Datto replied : "That cannot be foretold." But 148 TAWI TAWI moved by an expression of disappointment m Vic- toriano's eyes he added tentatively, "Maybe six months — a year ?" Perhaps he thought that even a year ought not to seem a very long time. He adjusted himself in a more settled position. "I am the Datto of my tribe," he said. "What are you, in your own country?" "I herd cattle," replied Victoriano. The Datto nodded. "My father was a Datto," he continued. "What was your father?" "My father is also a herder of cattle." "I live in a plain house where virtue is highly es- teemed," said the Datto. "I too live in a plain house, in which strangers are made welcome," said Victoriano. There were other personal matters to be discussed, and then the Datto asked, "From what country are you?" "From America." The Datto had heard of America, he said. It was a land of great cities, too magnificent to be described, in which many persons became fabulously wealthy by defrauding the poor, and in which dwelt large numbers of persons who were too degraded to wash their bodies properly, and too hard-pressed to enjoy an3rthing at alk Victoriano thought this was an exaggerated state- ment of the case. There were also plains and moun- tains where free people dwelt, he said. For his part, he added, he had never dwelt in a city. There was an interval of silence during which Vic- toriano wondered how the Datto and his party had known of his presence at Burriss's. He concluded that the men in the boats must have carried information. Then his attention was attracted to tiie Datto's hands. He was surprised to note that they were covered with abrasions not at all in keeping with his high estate. ATTENDED BY WARRIORS 149 He excused himself a moment. Going into the hut, he returned presently with Burriss's pot of mutton tallow. He said quite simply, "Put some of this on your hands. It will do them good." He set his visitor an example by removing a bit of tallow from the pot and applying it to his own hands. He then held forth a quantity of the taUow for his guest's use. The Datto seemed politely amazed. He seemed to be in doubt as to whether this might not be a social act implying a bond between them. He hesitated almost imperceptibly and then accepted the tallow. He began massaging his hands as Victoriano was doing. He appeared to grasp the real significance of this act pres- ently. Perhaps the tallow had a soothing effect. He betrayed a slight degree of eagerness. When Vic- toriano arose to take the pot away he looked after it longingly. And when they were both on the gray blanket again the Datto's manner had become somber and silent, as if he had been reminded of a cross. Victoriano, glancing at him furtively, perceived that his face had become almost haggard ; that the childish simplicity of a moment before had given place to a universal expression of dark sorrow. The distinguished guest did not remain long. He wished to know, presently, when Victoriano would return his visit. "Would to-morrow be a good day?" asked Vic- toriano. "To-morrow is always the best day of all," replied the Datto, beaming graciously. He arose then and prepared to depart. There was a brief murmur of pleasure among his followers at the happy conclusion of the visit. They all went away into the deep forest, the energetic warriors disappearing last of all. They did not seem absurd to Victoriano. Different ISO TAWI TAWI \ persons had different ways, he reflected. They had wished to be friendly — ^that was all. And he under- stood that. He shook Btirriss's Blanket out and took it back into the hut. And when Burriss came back to the hut, not long afterward, he informed him of the Datto's visit. "Quite so," replied Burriss, without having quite heard. He was thinking of something else. "The poor old man seemed to want your pot of tal- low," remarked Victoriano. Burriss aroused himself. "What?" he asked; "the Datto was here? My pot of tallow? There's a full pot he may have. I brought two." "I'm to visit him to-morrow," said Victoriano, ob- serving Burriss closely. Would he approve of the step? But Burriss began to speak in praise of the Datto. "He is a very sensible man," he said. He added, as he made a heap of the water globules he had brought back with him, "You'll be perfectly safe, I assure you. Go- ing and returning, you needn't experience any uneasi- ness. He has his people thoroughly under control. H anything should go amiss later it will be because of some future development." Victoriano added finally: "He thinks a ship may not show up for six months or a year." "Quite likely," returned Burriss, wholly unmoved. He was removing a tiny dead bird from a pouch he carried. He removed the pouch, disarranging his hair as he did so. Victoriano stood regarding him almost angrily. He thought him a proper-appearing person to remain alone in a jungle six months or a year without caring. As for himself, he was cut from a different piece of goods. He sat down on the front step so that he could not ATTENDED BY WARRIORS 151 see Burriss. With an unwonted weariness of heart he closed his eyes. Familiar trails came before him, and a friendly ranchhouse. But he could not bear to look upon that picture. He arose brusquely and followed Burriss into the hut. OiAPTER XII HOW VICTORIANO GOES IN TURN TO VISIT A RULER AND HOW HE IS GIVEN THE FREEDOM OF AN ISLAND Emissaries of the Datto came for Victoriano the next day while it was yet early. They came with pomp : two elderly men attended by four warriors with their shields of hide and each bearing his deadly kris. Noting the presence of the warriors Victoriano asked the elders if it was thought dangerous to go abroad without armed attendants. The question was an embarrassing one. The pres- ence of warriors, he was informed after a pause, was a mark of respect to a guest. Were warriors unknown in Victoriano's country? — and did they not bear arms even on occasions of peace and festivity? "It is true," replied Victoriano. Before they set out on their journey one of the elders made known that he wished to ask a question. When Victoriano waited with a courteous air the old man said : "To ask a favor of one with a generous heart is half a robbery. To ask of one with a mean heart is to invite abuse. Yet the Datto Bagyan be- seeches that his guest will bring a gift." "If I had anyfliin^ to give!" replied Victoriano with a smile. "He had something out of a little jar yesterday. He placed a high value upon that which he had out of the little jar. He beseeches that you bring more of that which you gave him." 152 HE VISITS A RULER 153 Victoriano was deligtited. "Did it make his hands well?" he asked; and then, "There is a whole jar full he shall have." "It worked a miracle on his hands," declared the native. "This morning when he awoke his hands were like an infant's, without a blemish." Victoriano nodded. "I knew it !" he said. He went into the hut and returned with a pot of tallow, which he profifered to the native. It was waved aside, how- ever. The Datto Bagyan would prize it the more if it came directly from the stranger's hands. They set off then along the path leading inland. They walked for a time in silence, as if the natives held it to be a proper thing for the first feast of inter- course to be consumed by their chief, leaving the broken fragments of speech to be divided among themselves afterward. They came, after half an hour's walk, to the spring which Victoriano had visited the day before. They then entered what was to Victoriano an unex- plored territory. Grass huts were presently not infrequent; and for some reason which Victoriano did not immediately grasp, these primitive places of abode did not present the inhospitable aspect of that hut which he had pre- viously seen. Individuals made their appearance in the doorways : women and children and occasionally a man. All these were childishly excited. Plainly, white men did not pass their way often. Presently they came into a region where a part of the ground was under cultivation. There were occa- sional patches of tobacco. One field of considerable dimensions was covered with a luxuriant growth of vines. These proved to be yams. The field was sur- rounded by a crude wall of stone ; "to keep wild beasts from devouring the yams," Victoriano was informed. 154 TAWI TAWI Further information was ' forthcoming : The yams were wild. Any one might come to the field and dig a supply in the proper season. It was a rule observed by all not to rob the earth of all its crop, but to leave enough to insure the next crop. Victoriano asked : "But aren't there a few persons who take all they can get?" Yes, there were, he was informed with a mild gleam of admiration for his shrewdness. Perhaps there were such individuals ever)Tvhere, the old man suggested. He added that it was the fate of all men to have to sufifer more or less at the hands of greedy persons. But fortunately, he added, there were enough yams for all. They came at length within sight of the sea at the other end of the island. Victoriano's eyes beamed. There was a sprinkling of huts along the shore, and many boats hauled up on the beaches, and other evi- dences of a community life. The brilliant surdight fell on a group of little naked children playing in the sand. They had made a collection of what proved to be mar- velous seashells. They were very like the children of any other land or shore in their love of beauty: and this was a discovery which comforted Victoriano strangely. They descended toward a hut which seemed not spe- cially unlike all the other huts ; but now Victoriano was detained a moment. One of those who accompanied him said to him with a certain backwardness : "It is a very good thing that you should bring a gift to the Datto Bagyan, since he has a cross to bear." Victoriano looked down toward the sunny coast and the hut they were approaching. "A cross to bear ?" he asked. He thought he might catch sight of the Datto presently, coming forward to welcome him. The two elders exchanged significant glances, and HE VISITS A RULER 155^^ then one of them said, "It has been the Datto's lot to lose a son." "Ah," said Victoriano. The revelation presented the Datto in a new light : with a wife and family. "I am sorry," he said; and then, "Did the son die only recently?" There was a moment's silence before the spokesman resumed : "I cannot say that the son is dead. But he had a son, and now he has none. Manu, the son's name was. He was as playful as a mouse, and as skilful. But an evil spirit placed a blemish on him — in what way I never learned. He was seen no more. It was said that he remained in his father's house a long time, , though no one saw him. The Sultan sent a physician at last who came and went ; and the Datto's house was for a time a house of mourning. It is true that no one saw the son die, nor was there a burial; but one may enter the Datto's house now and perceive that Manu is not there." Victoriano could think of no reply to make; and they all set forth then, and soon the guest was ushered with much formality into the Datto's house. He scarcely had an opportunity to note what sort of place he was in. The Datto claimed his entire atten- tion immediately. The Datto had remained inside his house, seated, until his guest appeared in the doorway ; then he had arisen ceremoniously to utter words of welcome. He was scarcely the same man Victoriano had met yesterday. Goodwill flowed from his eyes, radiated from his personality. He had been courteous the day before; now he was striving to keep an over- powering sense of gratitude within bounds. He held forth his hands. "They are well," he said. Victoriano took one of the hands into his own. He shook the hand politely ; and before releasing it he held 156 TAWI TAWI it up for inspection. It was greatly improved. Count- less little fissures were yet to be traced, but the raw sur- faces had been healed. "That's good," he said, releas- ing the hand. Then he made a formal presentation of the pot of tallow he had brought. It seemed an inelegant gift. There was the name of a famous potted bacon on a label it yet bore. In color the medicament was a dingy yellow. But the Datto's eyes shone as he took the proffered gift. He said simply, in a voice which scarcely indicated the emotion which had shown in his eyes, "I shall repay your gift with such care as your own father would give you if he were here in my place." Victoriano considered the words. He looked into the Datto's eyes. "Then I shall give you the further gift of loyalty," he said. He was surprised to find that he could say such a thing. It was unlike him to do so. He reflected: "When one is among strangers he must speak. How otherwise should they understand?" They sat down together on a grass mat which was of a fineness surpassing anything Victoriano had ever seen before : of an almost incredible delicacy, with an intricate pattern in the weaving of which different colored grasses had been used. The Datto regarded his guest appraisingly. He said at length : "There are men who utter vain words when they offer a gift of medicine, and put on the ways of magicians." Victoriano understood that. He smiled slowly, re- calling the ways of certain healers he had seen in his own land. "A good medicine may be given plainly," he said. "As for magic, that belongs to nature." The Datto nodded. "There are men who magnify their gifts," he added. HE VISITS A RULER 157 Victoriano reflected and then replied, "A' gift that is acceptable always looks large enough." Again the Datto nodded. He remained silent for a time: it was his belief that silence may be a sign of pleasure and satisfaction, while words, especially in one who is no longer young, may be a token of embar- rassment or of a guilty design. But at length he asked : "Did you know that the man who slays birds was here when you leaped from the ship to swim ashore ?" "No," replied Victoriano. "He was a stranger to me. I found him by chance." The Datto weighed his next question deliberately before he expressed it: "Do the men of your land delight in taking away the song and the graCe of birds, so that they may worship the dead bodies, which are nothing?" \ "Where there are many men there are many kinds of men," replied Victoriano. "He utters heresies," continued the Datto, obviously speaking again of Burriss. "He said to me on one occasion, *A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush' — saying this as if it were the word of Allah : yet how clear it is that a bird in the bush belongs to heaven, while one in the hand is of the earth." "Did you tell him that?" asked Victoriano, a beam in his downcast eye. "I did not. One sets the feet of children in straight paths, but who shall turn the feet of age out of the wilderness? There was an old man of our tribe wha used to say — ^when he felt the earth quake — 'It is Allah slamming the door of Paradise.' And when I ex- plained that this could not be, since Allah's door is never closed to the faithful, he readily agreed that he had uttered a heresy. Yet the very next time he felt the earth quake he would nod with assurance and say. 158 TAWI TAWI 'It is Allah slamming the door of Paradise.* Old Somkad^ — ^that was his name — ^never gave over making that foolish remark : though he knows now better than I what Allah's ways are, since he is dead." There was another silence; and then the Datto in- quired, "While you remain among us shall you wish to be the guest of the man who slays birds, who is of your own land?" Victoriano replied, after a moment's thought, "Pro- fessor Burriss might prefer to work alone. He has treated me honorably ; but as for our being of one land, that does not matter much. Ties between men are fashioned by God, to whom the earth is all one un- divided land." The Datto arose. "If you will," he said, "you shall he at home wherever night overtakes you." "I have always inclined to that manner of life," said Victoriano. The Datto went to his door and summoned his inter- preter, who was squatting in the shade before his own house near by, waiting to be of service. "Lomofo," said the Datto to the interpreter, "summon the mem- bers of the tribe." Victoriano was amazed by the expedition with which the men of the tribe were brought together. It seemed plain that they had been no further away than the nearest invisible point, waiting for a possible summons. Close to a hundred appeared. They came silently and out of the confusion of the mass they speedily grouped themselves in orderly fashion, always with reference to age and condition. The old men occupied the first line of the group ; those of middle age came next, while the young men stood in the rear. There were warriors among them, but these were now without their weapons. HE VISITS A RULER 159 The Datto addressed them briefly, though with im- pressiveness. "This," he said, beckoning Victorianc to stand beside him, "is our guest, who is to be 'treated as a brother. Let any one who offers him evil know that he must answer to me." The words were uninteUigible to Victoriano; bul Lomofo, the interpreter, rendered them for him, add- ing, "Now you are at liberty to come and go at will to ask aid of any man, to look to all alike for guidance." He felt that the audience was at an end. He stepped out toward the shore, where the children were playing : they had interrupted their play but a moment to stare dubiously at the Datto's house while sometliing was going on there. It was rieassuring to note how like they were to other children. He would not approach too close, lest he disturb them. A profound restless- ness was upon him — a subconscious inclination to be moving. His interests were not here, really. Somer thing a great way off called to him insistently. Pres- ently he was thinking: "Poor old Captain Hogg re- gretted, when it was too late, that he hadn't written letters. But that wouldn't help in my case. The ship that would carry a letter will carry me." He realized that a group of young men had drawr close to him. They were pleasantly excited. There was an obvious rivalry among them to be the first tc attract the stranger's attention. He gave way to them, thinking how like those smaller children they were. They escorted him to the long beach where their boats were. When he admired their boats they were de- lighted. He was unaffectedly pleased with the splendid sails shown him. One which he praised warmly be- longed to the boat of Tangka, he was proudly in- formed — by Tangka himself. Another which he was impelled to declare was not less beautiful belonged tc i6o , TAWI TAWI Moleng ; and another, equally marvelous, was the proud possessipn of Kosmi. He had spnle difficulty in communicating with the young men, wlio had only a few words of Spanish, caught from travelers or from older members of the tribe who had journeyed as far away as Manila, or from Lomofo the interpreter, who had actually at- tended the University at Manila and who had traveled all over the world — at least in Spain and Arabia and Egypt, as Victoriano afterward learned. However, they understood one another fairly well. There are bonds among young men which are subtler than lan- guage. They were all in sympathy with one another. Victoriano admired these dusky, eager fellows who were striving to win his goodwill. Their bodies were perfect, their spirits irrepressible. They were extraor- dinarily clever : this fact was revealed whenever they touched anything. They were in no way offensive to the eye of a simple person. Their thick black hair was cut short, without nonsense; their eyes danced, their tread was like that of panthers. On their side, they entertained a lively admiration for Victoriano, who was a more powerful man than any they had ever seen. They openly displayed their curiosity touching his clothing ; but this they did in an appeasing manner, with laughter at their own expense, with apologies. One discovered the immensity of his biceps and forearm, and immediately all wished him to give some proof of his prowess. He smiled at them, a little embarrassed. One, bolder and more curious than the others, he invited to relax completely ; and this one he lifted on his hand, the body lightly balanced. He lifted him to the full reach of his arm. He lowered his arm and cast the light body dextrously from him a good four yards. The youth alighted on his feet. HE VISITS A RULER i6i breathless, agape — ^and then laughed'* with delight. There was a chorus of pleased exclamationgi^' They took him to where their nets were, and other fishing equipment. He was taken to be shown how the tobacco grew ; he was conducted to where the best bananas were : small bananas with thin, spotted skins, and as sweet as honey. After a time a feast was pre- pared. This consisted of marvelous fish, colored like the rainbow, fresh from the sea, and baked in the open, before a nipa hut, and many kinds of fruits. The day wore toward its close. He was invited to ride in one of the boats. He shrank from this: the boats seemed so lacking in stability. But he would not confess his uneasiness. He got into the boat of Tangka, which was the largest of all. Tangka, guess- ing his state of mind, admonished him how to sit : so» Then he hoisted his gaudy sail. The boat went hissing through the little waves, the buoyant outriggers smack- ing the water alternately on either side. The other young men followed in their own boats. A gay ar- mada was putting out to sea. There were cries of rivalry, taunting yet merry. There was a mishap or two to increase the merriment. They sailed into the sunset ; and suddenly the face of the waters was dark. They turned homeward. The land seemed very far away. Moreover, Victoriano could now see that the island they had quitted — ^Bongao — ^was one of a series, spread out over the sea a score of miles. The boats were brought in close to shore, opposite a strange island. This maneuver had been adopted to take ad- vantage of a favoring current. The strange island slipped past; another strange island was gliding by. The island of their home lay ahead, low, obscure. Then the last of the daylight faded and the night had come. The sky filled with stars. The gay party had i62 TAWI TAWr ^pent their exuberant spirits. They sat silent at their sails, ^ding homeward. Presently a word of warning passed from boat to boat. Victoriano strained his eyes to determine the ^ause. A lone boat, moving laboriously in the opposite direction, was about to pass them. Tangka whispered cautiously to Victoriano— "It is Datto Bagyan." He spoke in an awed tone, betraying the fact that it was incomprehensible that the Datto should sail at night, alone. The Datto's boat was now only a few lengths from Tangka's boat. It would soon be far away. Vic- toriano caught a glimpse of the Datto's face — or of his •attitude. The old man seemed too absorbed to realize that the young men of the tribe were out for a sail — i or perhaps this was too common an occurrence to attract attention. He was brooding darldy. His bronze features were stone-like. Yet in tihat one glimpse Victoriano had caught an impression of sub- dued rapture. Later he said warily to Tangka, "Why does the Datto sail alone?" Tangka faltered over his reply. The Datto had been .a famous sailor in his youth, he said evasively. Then he added : "Sometimes the Datto makes a voyage alone to Tawi Tawi." CHAPTER XIII HOW VICTORIANO COMES TO DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF OLD FANAKAN THE SILENT He Spent that night in Burriss's hut, but it was to be his last night there. The young men of the tribe had decided, the night before, that they would find him a new home. In the morning they came, accordingly, to take him away. He had not been wrong in concluding that Burriss would part with him gladly. "Of course you'll be in and out," said Burriss. "As for living with the na- tives, that ought to be interesting, since you've nothing more pressing to do. You might be able to contribute to the sum of human knowledge if you keep your eyes open." He spoke with a kind of cold briskness. Victoriano avoided his glance: he felt a little ashamed of his fellow-countryman. To him it was scarcely permissible to "keep his eyes open" in a house where one was a guest. To keep one's eyes open for a chance to serve — that was well. But one should keep his eyes closed to weakness, to poverty of any kind, to peculiarity, to misfortune. That was his creed. The young men had agreed that he should become a son to old Fanakan the widow. That was to say, until a ship came to fetch him. Tangka had suggested this and the others, with significant glances at one another, had concurred. They betrayed much humanity in this matter. They had laughed slyly, because it seemed 163 i64 TAWI TAWI that the widow, old Fanakan the Silent, was an almost grotesque person. But they had put an end to their laughtejf with a feeling of shame, because the old woman was really a good soul, and singularly unfortu- nate. And she was so ill-favored that a young man might live in her house without scandal. Who was Fanakan? Victoriano asked the question. She lived in a hut by herself, weaving mats in order to live. She had had a husband and two sons. She had also possessed two eyes, long ago. Now she pos- sessed neither husband nor sons and only one eye. (But this eye was equal to two, Moleng, a youth with a sense of humor, declared parenthetically.) She had lost an eye when she was young. A bit of shattered bamboo had pierced it. It seemed also that her name had not always been Fanakan. At first it had been Gawani. But she had cried almost constantly when she was a baby, it was related, because it appeared the spirit of the place in which she was bom was displeased with the name her parents had given her. So her name had been changed to Fanakan, said Tangka, who was relating the story. But if she had given over crying it was because in time she had be- come quite hopeless. Her husband had lost his life. He had been a fisherman, and a ca)anan had torn him to pieces. Fanakan had witnessed this. Victoriano's brows contracted. A cayman? What was that? They explained : It was a vicious fish, occasionally found in the waters round about, which would attack a man fearlessly. Victoriano glanced away toward the blue water, showing between the fronds of a coconut g^ove, spread out like fingers. He felt that the sea was an evil thing. OLD FANAKAN THE SILENX 165 Her sons had grown to manhood, Tangka resumed ; but it would have been better if they had not done so. A terrible fate awaited them. Antero, the elder, a youth more beautiful than any other youth of the tribe, had developed a rebellious mind. He had become a juramentado. He had gone away to Jolo where for some reason, or for none at all, he had run amuck, and Spanish soldiers had pursued him into the sea, where they had fired a thousand bullets after him. But Liwonan, the younger, had fared even more ill. He had been a morose fellow who liked to observe others from hidden places. He would make friends with no one. One day he had stolen a boat belonging to Lomofo, whose property should have been held spe- cially sacred, and had sailed away by night to another island. Here Tangka's narrative was suspended inexplica- bly. Victoriano asked, "And what then?" "Justice was done," resumed Tangka with a virtuous air. "He was caught, and two incisions, one crossing the other, were made in his abdomen, and his entrails removed." Victoriano started. He wanted to know about that, but he perceived that a question might lead him upon delicate ground. The faces of all his companions had become stolid. He scarcely knew what comment to make. Still, he felt he ought not to let the matter pass. "Was it the first time hei had stolen?" he ventured to ask. Yes, it was the first time, so far as anybody knew. "Wouldn't it have been permitted to forgive him the first time?" he inquired. • This question created amazement. Certainly not, they informed him. "The first theft is a greater of- fense than the second," Tangka explained. "The first i66 TAWI TAWI theft is a crime against oneself as well as one's neigh- bor, but the second is an offense only against one's neighbor, since one no longer has a good name to lose." "And so," Tangka resumed more lightly, "Old Fanakan was left alone." They all went with an air of festivity to the house of Fanakan, deep in the jungle. Her door was open but she was not visible when the young men approached her house. They gathered about her door ; and seeing her within, Tangka acted as spokesman. "We have brought some one to keep you company," he said, look- ing without disrespect at the old woman. He signaled Victoriano to approach and stand beside him. Fanakan, seated on the floor, was working on a large mat She looked up unmoved; she resumed her weaving. Victoriano regarded her curiously. She seemed sullen. She wore a scant waist and a skirt of cheap pina cloth. Her withered breasts were visible. Her black hair was bound in a small knob on her crown. She was barefooted and her feet were lean and scarred. "Go in," said Tangka to Victoriano. Victoriano remained an instant unmoved. Then he asked, "May I come in?" She did not reply. A pathetic timidity appeared through the veil of suUenness. "Go in," said Tangka. As Victoriano stepped across the threshold, taking care not to tread on the mat she was weaving, the young men withdrew, speaking among themselves a little excitedly, in covered tones. They were soon out of sight and hearing. Victoriano chose a place over against the wall, where he sat down. To cover her embarrassment Fanakan arose and looked about her for something. She found OLD FANAKAN THE SILENT 167 it : an amazing cigar on a ledge. It was as large as five or six cigars, and very black and rough. She had made it herself. She had bound it about the middle with a bit of hemp fiber to hold it together. It had been partly consumed on some previous occasion. She now lighted it with an ember borrowed from a crude earthen stove. She began to smoke furiously. Her teeth had been sharpened to points; they had been stained a pale red. She sat down to her work again, placing her lighted cigar on a flat stone beside her. Occasionally she held the cigar to her lips, creat- ing a cloud of smoke. She worked furiously. At length she shot a furtive glance at Victoriano, who was caught regarding her, he feared, with a curiosity lacking in compassion or respect. She did not look at him again for a long time. At length she arose and went to her door where she took critical note of the position of the sun. She turned and put away the mat on which she had been working, placing the materials for weaving into the finished fabric and making a loose roll. Now that she had made room for completer freedom of movement she set about preparing food. She brought fagots for the fire. She poured coconut oil into an iron vessel; she sliced plantains and placed them in this, and put the vessel on the stove. An appetizing odor filled the room. Presently she placed the fried plantains on a wooden dish and deposited in the iron vessel a number of fish which she produced from somewhere. Victoriano watched her silently. At length she ap- proached without looking at him and placed the food before him. She brought implements of wood for him to eat with. He could not refuse to eat. He scarcely wished to do so. He made a light meal ; and when he had finished i68 TAWI TAWI he said, "It was good." He arose. "I'll go to the spring for a drink," he said. "Shall I fetch water? WiH you find a vessel for me?" She did not reply. She took up a bamboo pole from which the dividing joints had been ingeniously re- moved, all save those at the two ends. Near one end there was a small aperture, suggesting a bird-house. iShe walked past him ungraciously, out of the house, away into the jungle. He gathered that she did not wish him to go away for the present. He sat down again and furtively examined the mat she had been weaving. He was amazed by the fineness of it. It was very flexible and perfectly accurate. He was fingering the mat when she returned. The bamboo pole was now dripping wet. From the hole near the end she poured fresh water into a gourd dipper which she handed to him, still without looking at him, still with seeming suUenness. He drank and said "Thank you," and then he went away. There was something he wjmted to say to the young men of the tribe. They gathered about him eagerly when he appeared among the huts by the shore. It was plain their minds were filled with curiosity, perhaps with doubt. They looked into his eyes searchingly. It was Tangka who ventured to ask at last, "Well, what did she say?" "She didn't say ans^thing," replied Victoriano, in the tone of one who makes a damaging admission. They were overjoyed. They looked at one another significantly. Moleng, who had been bailing out his boat, came running up from the beach to learn the news. "She didn't say a word to him," said Tangka ta Moleng, who smiled cheerfully. OLD FANAKAN THE SILENT 169 Tangka explained why they were pleased. "If she had spoken to you it would doubtless have been to berate you — to drive you away. She has a tongue! She can say more in three words than even Lomofo can say in ten. If she said nothing that meant you were welcome to share her house." Then Victoriano came to the matter of his visit. *'But I cannot share her house with her at night," he said. There were murmurs of disappointment and stnr- prise. Why could he not? "She has only one room," said Victoriano, without ceasing to gaze fixedly at one and then another. "But she is old," protested Tangka. "And has only one eye," added Moleng in his some- what maliciously humorous manner. Victoriano said simply: "One cannot accept food and shelter without giving respect." And because of the suspended decision in the eyes about him he added, "One must consider an old person more than another." Why was that? Tangka wanted to know. "Because," said Victoriano, "an old person is often ill, or unhappy, or unable to sleep soundly. As for an old woman, it is likely that she wears a mask by day, which she puts aside at night in order to rest. No one ought to spy upon her." Moleng's maimer became decisive and vigorous. He was an intelligent youth, despite his gay and nervous manner. "We can build another room to Fanakan's house," he said. They all set out immediately to do this. Of bamboo they made a framework ; they made a thatch of fronds and grass. This they did with no tools but sharp knives. They made an outer door as well as one open- ing into Fanakan's original room. I70 TAWI TAWI It was evening when the work was done. Old Fanakan had paid no attention at all. She had been engaged in cooking rice. However, a cloud passed from her one eye when she understood what was being done, and a gleam succeeded it. She had not a word to say to the young men of the tribe, who finally went away excited and happy, having done a good deed. They walked with energy and a pattering noise of speech. Their going suggested a flock of birds. When they were gone old Fanakan stole silently and almost timidly into the new room. She stood ponder- ing. She understood without being informed why her guest wished this room built. She was deeply gratified. She brought a new mat and placed it on the floor of the new room. This was to be her guest's bed. She returned almost excitedly to the stove, examining the rice with fastidious care. That night after supper, when it became dark, old Fanakan lighted a wick which drew from a jar of coconut oil. There was now a dim light in the house in the jungle, and heavy shadows without. She sat down and mused. She had not yet uttered a single word. Victoriano glanced at her shrewdly. At length he said: "The mats you weave are very fine. You are perhaps the most clever woman of the tribe." She looked at him now, austerely and reproachfully, as though he had mocked her. "Does a clever woman live alone," she asked, "and have no man's voice in her house?" He was touched by her voice, now that he had heard it at last. It was deep and vibrant, besides being bitter. He searched his mind for images she would compre- hend. "Misfortune is like a bird, mother," he said. OLD FANAKAN THE SILENT 171 "It alights upon a house by chance, without inquiring what merits they have who dwell in the house." Her brows contracted stormily. "Call me not mother," she said, "unless you would come to an evil end. There were two who called me mother, and a day came when they called me in vain." But just the same she looked at him again, less forbiddingly now: indeed, with admiration in her glance for the somber kindness of his face and the power of his body, "You know I have been unfortunate ?" she added sharply. He did not wish her to know that the young men of the tribe had related her story without reticence. "Yes," he said, and he lifted his hand to his eye, mean- ing that he had noted her loss. She stared almost contemptuously. "That was nothing — ^nothing at all," she said. "But I had three other eyes" — ^her voice sank to a chanting sound — "I had three other eyes through which I used to behold Paradise. And where are they now?" She lapsed into a dark silence which he would not disturb. There was no sound save the hissing of the wind in the dry grasses of the hut. Through the open doorway the blackness of the jungle was like a curtain. Victoriano arose silently and went into his own room, dimly illuminated by the light which still burned beside old Fanakan. He looked all about him. The different shades of green of bamboo and frond and grass were cool and restful. Immaculate cleanliness was there. He liked the absence of furniture. The sight of the mat which was to be his bed filled his mind and bones with a pleasant languor. He went to the doorway and looked at old Fanakan. "Good night, mother," he said. She lifted her face, startled, coming back from some 172 TAWI TAWI far-off place, it would have seemed. She reached for her cigar, which she lighted awkwardly. She puffed three times, audibly. "Good night," she said. CHAPTER XIV, HOW VICTORIANO, SLEEPING IN THE HOUSE OF OLD FANAKAN, FINDS EVIL SPIRITS FOR COMPANIONS He had no sooner composed himself for slumber than he realized that the spirit of peace and rest was not as yet upon that house. He heard old Fanakan moving furtively. He tried to believe that this was not at all strange. She was old, and therefore she would be a victim of that restlessness which impels old persons to take a thousand precautions before retiring for the night. That she moved almost noiselessly seemed easily ex- plained. This was out of consideration for him. However, he could not believe that his disturbed state was traceable to any habitual frailty on the part of the old woman in the next room. The jungle silence — so different from the desert silence to which he was accustomed — was singularly disturbing. It wa& charged with strange, nameless odors; it was accom- panied by an impenetrable obscurity which held a thousand strange forms and colors. Yet he concluded at length that the cause of his unrest — whatever it was — ^lay close at hand; that it was related to certain faint vibrations indicating stealthy movement near by. Repeatedly he was at the point of losing conscious- ness — ^and then he became f idly aroused without know- ing what had aroused him. He sat up and listened intently. He was sure he could hear the old woman moving about warily, like a thief. Silence would fall 173 174 TAWI TAWI again; after long effort at concentration he would be dozing — and then the same distressing process would be repeated. There would be the creaking of a timber ; the rustle of a skirt, perhaps. His senses became ab- normally acute. It seemed to him at length that he could hear the old woman breathing uneasily, as if she were excited. Was she afraid of him ? Was she suffering precisely the same vague unrest which kept him awake ? For a moment he was inclined to believe this ; and he marveled at the dark power of the night, which can transform commonplace things into strange things and clothe them in mystery. But, after all, it did not seem credible that she should fear him. Why should she ? On the other hand, she had seemed to derive a secret if sullen pleasure in having him as a guest. He had been able to read that in her behavior. By a strong effort of will he rejected a troubled state of mind; he became tranquil; he was slipping away into a condition of oblivion. Then he returned to a full and agitated consciousness. He was positive he had heard her breathing; and he W£is equally sure that she was not sleeping. Her breathing lacked the rhythm of sleep. It was short, even a little agitated. He sat up in his place and suppressed a yawn. It seemed useless to try to sleep. He arose stealthily and went to his door. He stood for a moment looking out into that dense world which faced him, which was as black now as it had been green a few hours ago. It seemed forbidding, sinister. He stood looking at it, frowning. What had come over him? He had never known the nameless pains of insomnia before. He had always slept like a log, as he would have said. There were few things in the world that he feared. What was wrong with him now ? EVIL SPIRITS 175 . He stepped out into the jungle. He approached one specially obscure region after another, touching the palms, walking among them. It was so that one cor- rected the troubled whims of a horse : one compelled him to perceive that what he feared was really not fearful. He made a considerable circuit, and at length he approached the hut again. He looked just in time to see old Fanakan appear hurriedly in her doorway. He approached closer. She stood in an attitude of defiance, he thought. He got the impression that she was deeply agitated. He stood at a distance confronting her. And then — oddly enough — ^her attitude began to express a different emo- tion. He thought she seemed relieved. She disap- peared. He remained in his place a moment, trying to recap- ture his hold upon realities. He could not wholly escape' the thought that he was dreaming. Old Fana- kan did not reappear ; there was no sound of movement in the hut. He returned to his own door, moving briskly, as if the situation had nothing of unusuainess in it. He was determined to be done with all nonsense now. He would go to sleep. And indeed he did so; but here again he was destined to pass through a new ex- perience. He slept, but he had never known such dis- turbed sleep before. Somewhere between the conditions of waking and sleeping a succession of clear pictures, sad and for- lorn pictures, filled his mind, and even after he was sound asleep these pictures continued to look down upon him. He could not determine afterward which of them belonged to moments of waking and which to the period of sleeping and dreaming. He only knew that late in the night he fell a victim to a kind 176 TAWI TAWI of uneasiness and despair which he had never experi- enced before. He thought of certain familiar and lovely things with the relinquishment of one who,, grown old, recalls his youth. He thought of his father's house and of the deserted ranges surrounding it; of the meek, bewildered cattle that had nearly perished, and which had been sent away to a strange place. He thought of his mother: of her patience, of her submission to hardship, of her silent, unremitting labor. He could see her as she used to regard him a little dreamily, with an un- troubled sense of possession, with a placidity which enabled her to dispense with words. He thought of her loneliness. He could picture her standing in the doorway of his room, noting that he was not there. He realized that she could have no assurance that he would ever be there again. He thought of Fidesia, gone away to strange lands to which he could not follow her even in fancy. Many a day must pass before her return; and her dog, Diana, ■would lie on the veranda, lifting her head at every sound and resuming her troubled slimiber after a mute and questioning gaze toward the empty traiL And then he thought of Ramon. Unconsciously he clenched his hands when he thought of Ramon. It was clear that it was Ramon who had turned the cur- rent of his life out of its pleasant channel. If Ramon had never appeared all would have been well. Fi- desia would have known her own heart well enough but for the fact that this happy youth with unfamiliar wqrds and 'vays had disturbed her. She need never have gone away from her home. And now Ramon vjrould remain in her life even though she had gone far from him. He would know how to write fas- cinating letters, cleverly designed to magnify his ad- EVIL SPIRITS 177 miration of her, to picture and prove his fitness for her. Was it not true that Fidesia had always derived . the most inexplicable delight from the letters she had received? They were magical things, letters. He knew that well. He could have cursed the man who had changed everything, who seemed destined to rob him of the prizes of life. He could have cursed himself be- cause he had not managed better, more as other men would have managed. He should have taken mat- ters into his own hands. He should have prevented Ramon from approaching Fidesia, There would have been ways of doing this. He was aroused by a soft light in his eyes. The dawn had come. He would have stirred, but his movement was checked by a puzzling discovery. The door between his room and old Fanakan's was slightly ajar. Not only was it ajar, but it was held so by a fagot which had evidently been placed with the stud- ied purpose of preventing the door from swinging shut. The old woman was sitting inside her room, close to that partly-open door. She sat so that she commanded a view of her own outer door as well as that door into Victoriano's room. She was sound asleep, but even so there was something sentinel-like and vigilant in her attitude. Victoriano had the odd thought that she had gone to sleep with at least one ear open. It was only her body that was propped against the wall, relaxed and slumbering. It would have seemed that her spirit remained on watch. She seemed extraordinarily forlorn, yet a little comic; old and broken yet unbeaten. Her head nodded slightly with each breath. Then a most extraordinary thing happened. The 178 TAWI TAWI old woman sprang to her feet, terribly awake, staring in terror about her. What had awakened her? The mere fact that Vic- toriano was awake? Was there that in her primitive senses which responded to negative agencies? Had she been aroused only because Victoriano's rhythmic slumberous breathing had changed its rhythm? Or — yet more mysterious thought — ^had she been awakened because one not asleep was near? — one whose thoughts, though not his hands, touched her ques- tioningly? She whipped sleep and perhaps an ugly vision from her one keen eye. With a wasp-like gesture of dis- pleasure she withdrew the fagot and closed the door. It was not in Victoriano's nature to laugh at that which he did not understand. Rather he marveled and frowned. What was the meaning of that vigi- lance and terror? He arose thoughtfully and went to his door. He stood looking out into the jungle, the despotic jungle which knows no restraints, which must be constantly combated if it js not to seize ever)rthing within its reach. Was there a spirit of evil among those en- croaching green forms with their all-enfolding shade, with their everlasting furtive advance, slow and si- lent, yet relentless? Was the old woman afraid of that jungle which she knew so well ? Was nature to her terrible and cruel, rather than beautiful and gen- erous ? He was certain of only one thing: that he had be- come infected with the vague spirit of terror which hovered in and about old Fanakan's house. The law of reaction was not clear to him. He was not sure whether his own disturbed state was the cause or the effect of the old woman's unrest. He would have EVIL SPIRITS 179 been more likely to believe that he and his companion were alike the victims of agencies which were per- fectly natural, if they could be got at: an intoxicate ing odor, it might be, liberated by the dews and night air ; a subtle poison in the withering grasses and fronds of which his room had been constructed ; a pestilential vapor from the sodden earth. At any rate, he had had enough of the hut for the present. He emerged from his door and wandered aimlessly away into the wilderness. His thought was that perhaps he should decide not to return to Fanakan's hut. More than one alterna- tive course was open to him. He might ask the young men of the tribe to find a lodging for him elsewhere. He might even ask them to build him a house of his own. Or he might go back to Burriss. But only a little reflection enabled him to perceive objections to all these courses. He did not wish to ask aid of the young men. He recalled something secret and perhaps maliciously humorous in their man- ner when they had decided to quarter him with old Fanakan. He had been puzzled by this at the time. Now he wondered if the young men had kept some- thing secret from him. Did they know the old woman for a restless or suspicious or perhaps unbalanced creature? Had it been their thought to put their guest's courage to the test by choosing for him an un- canny hostess? He was inclined to believe this ; and his instant reso- lution was to triumph over them. He would not ad- mit to them that he had been uncomfortable, as he should have to do if he asked to be provided with other quarters. As for Burriss, he could not help recalling the mild yet unmistakable joy with which he had welcomed the l8o . TAWI TAWI announcement that Victoriano was to be taken off his hands. The old man preferred to be alone: that seemed clear. Therefore it would be unmannerly to return to him. But there was yet another reason, stronger than all, against the plan of abandoning Fanakan. To Victo- riano's chivalrous mind there came the thought of her age and lonely condition, and the belief that she was in some strange way menaced. He could not believe it was himself she feared. It was something of which he knew nothing. Something imaginary, possibly. But before he had proceeded far in his wanderings he had come to the conclusion that he would stick to the hut to which he had been assigned. If perils hung over the old woman he would be there to take a hand when they developed. He returned for breakfast, assuming a brisk, pur- poseful manner. He would have brought fresh water from the spring, but the old woman had forestalled him: the bamboo pole, leaning in a comer, was cool and dripping with fresh water. She placed breakfast before him, moving stolidly, refusing to meet his glance. The atmosphere of the hut had become normal. Whatever last night's spec- ter had been, it was now gone. Victoriano mused with conviction, and with relief: "Whatever she fears, it is not I." It was, he concluded, something connected with the night. Possibly the night itself. However, if the hut had r^fained its normal tone, Victoriano had not done so. Something of his dreams of the night, something of his recognition of the spirit of fear which compassed him about, remained to vex him. He felt a measure of ill will toward the young men of the tribe, who, he felt, had somehow tricked him. He felt ill disposed toward Burriss, who EVIL SPIRITS i8i had been glad to get rid of him. Perhaps it is more significant and accurate to say that on that morning he felt, for the first time in his career, bitterness toward life itself. He took counsel with himself. What was he to do ? There was nothing but to wait for a ship, and then to escape. In the meantime, he would keep apart as much as possible. His own peace of mind, and per- haps his safety too, depended upon a sort of inde- pendence, upon keeping clear of the childish men of the tribe, between whom and himself there were so many points of variance. He spent that day in exploring the interior of the island. Far in the interior he found a wild expanse where a high hill arose above a small plain covered with grasses which were perpetually green, of an ever- lasting growth. He pushed his way through these grasses, from which a vapor-like dust was released by his touches, filling his lungs and eyes. More than once hjp stopped, his lungs and eyes smarting; but he would not turn back until he had attained the summit of that high hill before him. After waiting for the fine dust to settle and for his lungs to fill with pure air, he pushed on. He ascended the hill, sweat dripping from him, his breath coming in gasps. It was very warm. But suddenly he forgot his physical discomfort. He had come to the summit of the hill and he found himself in strange company. He had come within the silent precincts of the island's dead. Before him were graves, some of which were marked by white pennons affixed to bamboo masts. These were there to keep evil spirits away from the dead, he was afterward informed. There seemed a very large number of the graves. i82 TAWI TAWI He sat down