Part 47 (2/2)

”Yer air right, Jos!” said Aunt Ri. ”I allow yer air right. Thar couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby 'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's some comfort.”

Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he said, ”How far is it?”

”Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,” said Jos; ”'n'

the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro.”

How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus familiarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, and who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death!

Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, ”We must go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?”

”Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--” began Jos, energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he completed in Spanish his cordial a.s.surances that the horses were at Felipe's command.

”Jos! He's got ter take me!” cried Aunt Ri. ”I allow I ain't never gwine ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be ez she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by hisself.”

Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companions.h.i.+p, and expressed himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarra.s.sed.

”Yeow tell him, Jos,” she said, ”I can't never git used ter bein' called Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust.

I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't stand bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest.”

Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San Jacinto. She laughed.

”Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,” she said. ”I bet yeow I'd go clean back ter the States ther way we c.u.m. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd.”

Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at first appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.

It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out, Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, ”Thet's lucky.”

”Yes,” replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had spoken, ”it is good. It shows to us the way.”

”Thar, naow, say he can't understand Englis.h.!.+” thought Aunt Ri.

Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one they had seen for many miles, said: ”We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind o' people they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but thar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed theirselves tew. They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys, terrible pious. I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin'

in G.o.d; I don't allow but what they dew believe in G.o.d, tew, but they don't wors.h.i.+p Him so much's they wors.h.i.+p work; not nigh so much.

Believin' 'n' wors.h.i.+ppin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n'

I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!--Lawd! I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!” thought Aunt Ri to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face.

”'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between folks thet doos!”

When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois.

Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.

”I'm gwine whar he goes,” she said grimly to herself. ”I ain't a gwine ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.”

Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill.

Pa.s.sing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and gra.s.sy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern slopes. From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the last part of the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By the help of these the terrible ascent was made without difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail.

Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines were grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper curve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so ma.s.sive was their size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away an acorn,--the woodp.e.c.k.e.rs' granaries.

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