Part 14 (1/2)
”Who did that will pay the price! I swear it!” he cried.
”It surely was meant for a Sobrante man, for they're few besides who ride this way,” answered ”Forty-niner,” thoughtfully. ”And, Atlantic!
Here's the mail pouch! Maybe 'twas robbery, pure and simple. Was it a money day, for supplies or such?”
”Reckon it was. The mistress herself locked and gave the bag to me, bidding me be careful. As if I was ever careless; but there was one letter in it I heard about, that the little captain wrote to Ninian Sharp. Wrote herself, an invite to the Christmas doings. Try it.”
Examination proved that the bag had been tampered with, though the lock was a spring and now securely fastened; but a small leather flap, intended to cover the keyhole, had been torn from its fastenings and lay on the ground. The pouch itself had been flung slightly out of the way, under the bushes, as if the trespa.s.ser had satisfied himself with and concerning it and had no further use for it.
”Well, there used to be three keys to this concern. One the mistress has; one the postmaster keeps at the office; and the other was Antonio's, since he always was wanting to open and put something extra in the bag after Mrs. Trent had done with it. I never liked the look of that, and it's my opinion that it's the very key has unlocked this bag, if unlocked it's been. Which is more'n likely.”
Cromarty's head was again beginning to grow dizzy, and he sat again upon the rock to recover himself, making no answer to Ephraim's words than the exclamation:
”How am I going to get that bag to post in time?”
CHAPTER XI.
THE Pa.s.sING OF OLD CENTURY
Jessica and her escort, John Benton, rode swiftly up the canyon trail and over the brow of the mesa toward the shepherd's cabin; but they had not proceeded far along the upland before a sense of the strangeness of things oppressed them both.
John's keen eye detected the neglect of the sheep, which were still huddled in the corral, though long past their hour for pasturage; while their bleating expressed hunger as well as dislike of their unusual imprisonment. But Jessica saw first the abject att.i.tude of the collie, Keno, who came reluctantly to greet them with down-hanging head and tail and a reproachful upward glance of his brown eyes.
”Why, you poor doggie! What's happened you? You look as if you'd been beaten. Where's your master, good Keno? Keno, where's Pedro?”
The Indian was nowhere visible, and as if he fully understood the question, the collie answered by a long, lugubrious whine.
”Something's wrong. That's as plain as preachin'!” cried John, and hurried to the little house, whose door stood open, but about which there was no sign of life.
He had tossed his bridle to the captain, meaning that if aught were amiss within she should be detained for the present by holding the horses. However, she saw through this ruse, and, leaping from Buster, swiftly hobbled both animals and ran after the carpenter.
Keno kept close at her heels, the very presentment of canine misery, and uttering at every few steps that doleful whine which was so unusual to him. But, arrived at the cabin, he left her and with one bound had reached the Indian's side, where he still sat beside his window, his head against its casing and his blanket--Jessica's gift--closely wrapped about him. He did not move when they entered, nor respond even by objection to the collie's frantic blandishments, but John raised his hand for silence, as she stood sorrowfully gazing downward upon the face of death.
Yes, it was that. He had more than rounded his century of years, he had lived uprightly, as the good padres had taught; he had bestowed upon those he loved the secret of great wealth, and he had gone to keep his precious Navidad in the home of eternal youth.
Jessica comprehended the truth at once, and her eyes filled with the tears which, as yet, did not overflow; for as she gazed upon the sleeper's face it filled her with amazement and something akin to delight; and at last she exclaimed:
”Why, how young and glad he looks! He's even n.o.bler than he was when he rode away from me last night, and I'd never seen him so dignified and grand as he was then. It's--it's as if he had done with everything is hard, like worries, and evil, and loneliness, and--all.”
”Ay, la.s.sie; he has done with all--that you or I know aught about; and every inch a man he seems as he sits there in the majesty of death.”
By then the child's tears had begun to flow, and she caught up Pedro's hand with an outburst of grief and love.
”Poor, poor Pedro! To have been here all alone when it came! What shall I do without him who was always so good, so good to me? Oh, I can't have it so, John! I can't, I can't!”
He was wise enough to attempt no consolation, knowing well how small a part of her life the venerable Indian had been and how easily youth accustoms itself to such a loss. But, after he had allowed her to sob for a time, he gently touched her shoulder, and said:
”Come. Pedro has finished his work and has pa.s.sed it on to us. Those poor sheep must be cared for, and somebody must ride home at once; or, rather, should ride at once to Marion to make the necessary arrangements. I wish----” And he paused in perplexity, regarding her as if in doubt what was best to be done.
They left the cottage with that quiet tread which seems natural in the presence of those whom no sound can trouble, and, hand in hand, walked sadly to the fold, where the penned sheep greeted them with eager cries and restless movements.