“Sir, you are a fool. You are also a coward and a disgrace to the name of grandfather. You are proud of a name which you disgrace with every day you live. “Your story is well known. You drove your daughter from the country, you had her husband murdered, and you have attempted to murder your grandson. Do you think it is not known, senor? Do not be such a fool. Behind your back they shrug, they sneer, and sometimes they shudder.
“The son-in-law whom you had killed was a dozen times the man you think you are.
You are nothing, sir! Nothing!”
Don Isidro’s face was a haggard mask, gray and ugly. “If you were a man, I would kill you!” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “I would-“ “No you would not, Don Isidro. You would not face a gun in the hands of any man, or a blade. You would have me killed by one of those!” She pointed at the men at his back. “When did you ever kill a man? Or defend yourself? When did you ever do anything but live on what your ancestors created for you, shielding yourself behind an honorable name?
“Your ancestors, senor, and your countrymen were proud men, they were explorers, fighting men, but what are you? What have you ever been but an empty shell?” The young man who had searched the house had turned and slipped quietly away.
The others, shamed, were backing toward the door. Don Isidro struggled to speak, but before he could find words, she said, “Get out! Get out and stay out and don’t ever come to my door again or I shall shoot you myself. Better still, I shall simply set the dogs on you. It is what you deserve!”
He turned; his men were gone. Blindly he went to the door and stepped out into the night.
Kelso lowered the shotgun. “Lord a’mighty! Ma’am, I never saw the like! You whipped him like a mangy dog!”
“I am sorry, Mr. Kelso. I did not mean to lose my temper, but that fine boy, and his mother and father … It was evil, Mr. Kelso! Evil!” “Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated. “Ma’am? D’you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve whipped him, ma’am, you’ve done what no dozen guns could have done. You’ve destroyed him.
“Those men with him? They’re gone, ma’am. They won’t serve a man like you showed him to be. When you foller a man, you take on his color. Well, you showed him up, made him to be a coward and a weakling. When he gets back to that ranch, he will be alone. And you know something? I’d lay a bet he’s never been alone in his life! He had only to lift a hand to get whatever he wanted. Now he will lift a hand and nobody will come.”
“Will it be that bad?”
“Yes, ma’am. Those men who work for him. They may not have much, but they have their pride, too. Much of their pride is often in the man they follow, the brand they ride for. Take that away from them and they have mighty little, so they will just fade away, they will go elsewhere.”
For a moment, when he reached his horse, Don Isidro leaned against the stallion. His mind was numbed with shock. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that. No one had dared.
How dare she say such things? Hiding behind the fact that she was a woman and could not be challenged.
He reached for the pommel and pulled himself into the saddle, then looked around for his men.
They were gone. He was alone.
Why, the fools! Did they think he would allow such conduct? He called out.
“Andres! Pedro! Come, we are going!”
There was no reply.
He looked around again, puzzled. They were gone. Gone into town for a drink, perhaps. Yet there was a sinking within him, a heavy lump in his stomach as of something dead. He started the horse toward home. “That woman!” he said aloud. How dare she! Remembering her, he shuddered. A witch, that was what she was, a witch! How terrible she had been! He looked around. He was alone on a dark road. Nobody followed, no sound of hoofbeats from his riders.
The patio was dark and still when he reached it. He dismounted, looking around for a man to take his horse. There was no one. He turned, staring all around. The only light showed from the house itself; all else was dark and still.
“Joaquin!” he shouted.
He tied the stallion to an iron ring. Somebody would come soon. He crossed the patio, his steps echoing in the stillness. It was very late. No wonder there was no one around. He had not realized. It had been late when he left for that woman’s house.
He felt an emptiness within him. What had he been thinking of? She was a respected and respectable woman, well known and liked not only by the Anglos but also by his own people. His people? Since when had he thought of them in that way? They were Californios or Mexicans. He was from Castile! He was …
He now felt sick inside. What was all that nonsense, anyway? He had left Castile
to escape the sneers, the things they would say about what had happened. He had
run away from a disgrace he could not bear. He had come here, and then Consuelo
…
That American fellow. That common sailor! He had dared to approach her! Dared to speak to her! His daughter!
Leaving the stallion, he went into the house. A light burned from the table. He crossed to the sideboard and poured a drink of aguardiente, then another. Taking a third glass, he went to the big horsehide chair and dropped into it. He was tired. Exhausted. It was very late and he was not as young as he had been. He tried to turn his mind away from that woman, but her flashing eyes, her voice, so scathing …
There was a soft movement behind him, a hand on his shoulder. “Isidro? It is very late. You had better go to bed.”
“My horse—“
“I will care for him. Go to bed now.”
“You know? You heard?”
“I heard. When they came back for their things-“ “Their what?”
“They are gone, Isidro. They have left us.” She paused. “Their pride was in us.
We have failed them.”
His mouth tasted bitter. He glared to right and left; he started to rise, then sat back.
The fools! The contemptible fools! Let them go! He would find better! He had the money. He could pay.
Bed … yes, he should get some sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough. He never had been able to think well when he was tired. He should leave here, anyway. He should go back to Spain.
His men were gone. All of them.
Twenty-nine
When we rode out of El Campo and headed for Agua Caliente, Monte McCalla rode with us. Jacob seemed to accept him easily enough, but I was suspicious. I didn’t know who he was or what he wanted.
When we started drawing close to the Springs, I kept standing in the stirrups, looking. “There it is,” I said suddenly, pointing. “The Calling Rock.” McCalla made it out. He studied it. “What about it?”
“They say if you turn to look back when you’re leaving, you will always return.
Some just call it the Leaning Rock.”
“I like the first name better. Say, that’s a good story. How about it? Did you look back?”
“I looked back a-purpose. I wanted to come back.” When we came closer, I pointed up Chino Canyon. “There’s a cave up there with a pool in it. The Cahuillas used to go there to drink the water before they went hunting. Said it gave them greater endurance.”
McCalla looked up the canyon. “Have to try it sometime.” He noticed me looking down my back trail, and that Jacob turned in the saddle from time to time. “You boys are riding kind of edgy,” McCalla said at last. “You expectin’ trouble?”
“You can cut out and ride alone if you’re worried,” Jacob said. “As a matter of fact, we think we left trouble behind, but we don’t depend on it.” “We’re ridin’ together,” McCalla said, “so your trouble is my trouble. You see them coming, and I’ll ride back and see if they can chew it.” “This isn’t your fight,” Jacob said.
“I’m ridin’ with you. You don’t size up like thieves, and in a fight three is better than two. When I rode up to your camp I taken a hand in your game.” He was a strange man. Half the time, he was singing. His was not much of a voice, but not bad, either. Yet he liked to sing, and he seemed to know more songs than anybody I’d ever met. When he discovered our plan to catch wild horses, he wanted to come along. “I’m handy with a rope,” he said, “and I can ride ‘em as good as any man.”