Days of '49/Chapter 16

Hales and Burton passed from Diamond Gulch; Hales on horseback, Burton walking beside him with long stride, glowering fixedly. It was the end of the afternoon when they started, but they pushed on for a time in the darkness, then turned off the trail and made camp, building a fire for coffee and a slice of ham. They had spoken hardly a dozen words from the time they left the Gulch.

It was dark and still.

As Hales was pouring a cup of coffee he stopped, turned his head, listening; then dropping cup and coffee pail he moved out of the glow of the fire, saying quietly to Burton:

"Get back, well back. I heard something."

Burton, with no haste, moved aside and sat down beside a tree, waiting, listening, with sullen indifference.

Hales spoke sharply:

"Who's there?"

"Only me," said a thin, childishly soft voice. "Only me, señor!"

"Who are you?" Hales asked in Spanish.

In Spanish, but with just a suggestion of surprise:

"Ah, caballero friend. A lone traveler, with the stomach big from emptiness."

"Come out of the shadows. Let us take a look at you."

They heard steps, and presently a slight man emerged with sly movement. The fellow looked round inquiringly. He was a vaquero, dressed as a vaquero, but on foot.

"Why were you sneaking up?"

"Ah, señor," said the fellow, with amiable reproach, "to call it sneak when the world it is so full of thieves that a poor lost traveler must have a care at what camp-fire he stops."

"Where's your horse?"

Hales knew that a vaquero would not go twenty yards on foot if he could help it.

"My horse and blankets, señor, are back there where I would have slept, but I saw your fire and I came carefully."

He was watching Hales, looking at him with a sort of mild anxiousness and intent curiosity. Hales, in turn, regarded the fellow searchingly, sure that he lied. A vaquero rarely traveled alone.

"You, señor," said the little man, "look like a Spaniard and talk like a Spaniard, but you are not a Spaniard. Is it that you are Señor Hales?"

"Yes."

"Ah"—the little fellow smiled quickly—"God gives luck! Señor"—he peered across the coals toward Burton and spoke English—"do not have fear"

"Fear of what?" Burton growled.

"Of friends, señor!" Then he whistled, shrilly.

Hales put his hand to his gun, "Here, what's up!"

"Señor, no! There are twenty men—and friends!"

From all sides there was the sound of feet, low-voiced calls, then the rapid trample of horses. Figures on foot began to emerge into vague sombreroed shapes. The camp-fire's glow struck off the glint of steel in their hands. Then horsemen picked their way between trees and under boughs, and a short thick man rode right up to the edge of the camp-fire, drew rein and stared savagely at Hales.

"You are Señor Hales?"

"Yes."

"In the world," said this man angrily, "there is but one gringo that could meet me tonight and live. To you, señor, is that honor! Damn all Americanos!"

Low voices sharply muttered satisfaction.

He stared at the towering form of Burton who had stood up as men gathered near.

"This man, Señor Hales, he is your friend?"

"Yes."

"Then," cried the fellow angrily to the sombreroed shadows about him, "touch nothing! Set the outposts and be ready with warning. I'll roast alive the man that fails!"

A hurried murmuring started up; the men were choosing from among themselves who was to stand guard. Then the guards vanished.

The thickset man swung wearily from his horse, a beautiful animal, looked angrily at Hales, peered under scowling brows at Burton, tossed the reins at a man nearby, and said:

"I, señor, am Don Gil Diego, for twenty years raiser and trainer of horses on the de Sola rancho. I hate all gringos!"

The savage Don Gil glared challengingly. Voices behind him were talking. He turned and cursed, and the voices were hushed.

Don Gil looked at the pan of coffee and politely said:

"Señor, with your permission?"

"Help yourself, señor."

"Many thanks, señor."

Don Gil poured a cup of black coffee and glanced searchingly all about the edge of the camp-fire.

"No, there is no sugar," said Hales.

"Many thanks, señor." Don Gil stopped looking for it and sipped the black coffee. Then, petulantly, "You do not ask why, señor, why if you were another man I would have you killed?"

"I have done you no harm that I know of," said Hales.

"Ha! As if that would make one damn to me! Don José is brave, but a fool, yet I love him. They have made of Don Esteban's head a pickle that is on show in a tent at Sacramento, and Don José he says yet—'No, Don Gil, we must not kill all Americanos for that!' Bah! Bah-h-h-h!" he bellowed, and flung cup and coffee ragefully at the ground. "I will kill them! By the five wounds of Jesus, as long as there is a hand to hold knife, I will rob them and kill them." He glared furiously. Then— "Ha, pardon, señor"—gesturing at the cup—"but I have much anger." He spoke to a man near by: "Pour me more coffee. Move quickly. I will cut me a stick and call it your name. It will serve as well!"

Don Gil took a second cup of coffee and sipped it, but without pleasure. He wanted the sugar more than the coffee.

"If Don José had not gone—where, señor, where do you think Don José rode when we waited for the coming of that Neveenson? To the rancho of Señor Arnaz! And that Neveenson slipped between our fingers, so!" He held out his hand with fingers spread claw-like. "That fault it is yours, señor! Word came from Señor Arnaz to where he knew Don José could be found. Don José prayed God's blessing upon your head—and, see, señor! You are blessed, for Don Gil Diego"—he struck his own breast—"does not treat you like a gringo! Bah, I hate gringos!"

Don Gil glared his challenge first at Hales, then at Burton who understood nothing of what he was saying and did not care; then, impulsively:

"Pardon, señors! I have much anger. Don Don José he and his men rode toward the rancho, for love it calls a man from what the rancho he should do. And the trail I watched—that Neveenson he went the other. But we will get him, señor. Ha! A woman that knows all he does and where he goes, she tells. And gets gold. Bah, I hate women!"

Don Gil paused, half-cocking his head, listening warily.

Don Gil seldom stayed long in one place; he had been born to the saddle, and only men who could stay in the saddle night and day rode with him. Time and again he rode boldly through mining camps, and disappeared, knowing very well that only a delayed and blundering pursuit would follow.

"You, too, hate the man Neveenson, señor?"

"I certainly wouldn't call him a friend," said Hales.

"Ah, if he would but ride my horse—it was my horse, Don Gil's horse that he stole! If he would ride him then try to run as I rode for him, ah, señor, you would see a beautiful sight! One whistle and he would come to me, for so are my horses trained, always. Women I hate. Gringos I hate. Horses, señor, I love!

"You, señor, are the one to blame because that Neveenson slipped through my fingers. I would have put the brand on him as on a bullock—then hanged him for all men to see! Don José he says brand and turn him loose, but I, señor, kill! Is it not so?"

The men standing about murmured quickly, with eager praise. They feared and were devoted to Don Gil.

He now inquired of Hales as to the trails ahead. Nevinson had got through toward Sacramento; there was no use following. As he put down the coffee cup he said:

"Señor, it is well that you keep sugar in your saddle bags, then, when we meet again, I will like you better. And, señor, my friend, do you think that Americanos will leave California when they have the gold? It will be again a land for cattle and gentlemen?"

"No, Don Gil, they are going to find the land worth more than the gold."

Don Gil cursed stormily; then:

"And once I did not hate Americanos! They married our daughters and were good men. They had stores in Monterey and were honest. Their ships bought our hides and the word of an Americano was good. From where, señor, come so many dogs like that Neveenson?"

"Gold called them, señor."

"Bah! I will take their gold and throw it away. To spend it would mean that I must get drunk and have women. Bah! You, señor, you have gold?"

"Some," said Hales. "I travel and use a little gold."

"And he, the big man, has he gold?" Don Gil looked hard at Burton. "He does not look merry. His luck, señor, it has not been good?"

"No, Don Gil, it has not been good."

"He is your friend, Señor Hales?"

"My friend, Señor Diego."

"Then you shall learn that Don Gil Diego does not rob all Americanos! No! Gold like women makes a weight to carry. So!"

He stepped to his horse, jerked a pouch of gold from each saddle bag, and walking near held out one to Hales, one toward Burton.

Hales said to the big miner:

"He is offering you gold."

"What the hell do I want with gold?" Burton growled.

"He says, no, thank you, Señor Diego."

"You will not take a gift from Don Gil Diego! Bah! You are fools! Don Gil pays for two cups of unsweetened coffee!" With that he threw the pouches upon the ground angrily, then shouted at his men: "To your horses! We ride! Señor, when I see Don José I will hold my hands to his face and say: 'See, they are clean! I found two Americanos by a camp-fire, and they lived when I had gone!' 'Who, Don Gil, were they? ' 'Ho, Señor Hales who made us lose that Neveenson!' Señors, I go. Adios!"

He made a jump and, as if tossed upward by a spring, landed in the saddle. With a flourish he swept off his sombrero, laughing with a sort of half-angered mockery, then went crashing recklessly through the trees toward the trail. In the darkness, and with such bounds, it seemed miraculous that he was not knocked off by a limb; but he, and the men with him, had the instinct of born horsemen which seems to guard a man from harm while in a saddle.

For a time Hales could hear the thump and clatter of horses' feet, then the sound grew dim and only the stillness of the wilderness was upon his ears.