Joseph jerked upright. “Make up the fire, Juanito. I’ll put some coffee to cook. It’s cold tonight.”
Juanito broke more twigs and kicked a dry limb to pieces with his boot heel. “I wanted to come back, señor. I was lonely. Is the old thing gone from you?”
“Yes, gone. It was never in me. There’s nothing here for you. Only I am here.”
Juanito put out a hand as though to touch Joseph’s arm, but then he drew it back. “Why do you stay? They say the cattle are gone, and all your family. Come with me out of this country, señor.” Juanito watched Joseph’s face in the firelight and saw the eyes harden.
“There is only the rock and the stream. I know how it will be. The stream is going down. In a little while it will be gone and the moss will turn yellow, and then it will turn brown, and it will crumble in your hand. Then only I will be left. And I will stay.” His eyes were feverish. “I will stay until I am dead. And when that happens, nothing will be left.”
“I will stay with you,” Juanito said. “The rains will come. I’ll wait here with you for the rains.”
But Joseph’s head sank down. “I don’t want you here,” he said miserably. “That would make too much time to wait. Now there is only night and day and dark and light. If you should stay, there would be a thousand other intervals to stretch out the time, intervals between words, and the long time between striding steps. Is Christmas nearly here?” he demanded suddenly.
“Christmas is past,” Juanito said. “It will be the New Year in two days.”
“Ah.” Joseph sighed and sank back against his saddle. He caressed iris beard jealousy. “A new year,” he said softly. “Did you see any clouds as you rode up, Juanito?”
“No clouds, señor. I thought there was a little mist, but see, the moon has no fringe.”
“There might be clouds in the morning,” Joseph said. “It’s so close to the new year, there might be clouds.” He lifted his bucket again and threw the water over the rock.
They sat silently before the fire, feeding it with twigs now and then, while the moon slipped over the circle of sky. The frost settled down, and Joseph gave Juanito one of his blankets to wrap about his body, and they waited for the bucket to be slowly filled. Juanito asked no questions about the rock, but once Joseph explained, “I can’t let any of the water go to waste. There isn’t enough.”
Juanito roused himself. “You are not well, señor.”
“Of course I’m well. I do not work, and I eat little, but I am well.”
“Have you thought to see Father Angelo,” Juanito asked suddenly.
“The priest? No. Why should I see him?”
Juanito spread his hands, as though to deprecate the idea. “I don’t know why. He is a wise man and a priest. He is close to God.”
“What could he do?” Joseph demanded.
“I don’t know, señor, but he is a wise man and a priest. Before I rode away, after that other thing, I went to him and confessed. He is a wise man He said you were a wise man, too. He said, ‘One time that man will come knocking at my door.’ That is what Father Angelo said. ‘One time he will come,’ he said. ‘It may be in the night. In his wisdom he will need strength.’ He is a strange man, señor. He hears confession and puts the penance and then sometimes he talks, and the people do not understand. He looks over their heads and doesn’t care whether they understand or not. Some of the people do not like it. They are afraid.”
Joseph was leaning forward with interest. “What could I want from him?” he demanded. “What could he give me that I need now?”
“I don’t know,” Juanito said. “He might pray for you.”
“And would that be good, Juanito? Can he get what he prays for?”
“Yes,” Juanito said “His prayer is through the Virgin. He can get what he prays for.”
Joseph leaned back against his saddle again, and suddenly he chuckled. “I will go,” he said. “I will take every means. Look, Juanito. You know this place, and your ancestors knew this place. Why did none of your people come here when the drought started? This was the place to come.”
“The old ones are dead,” Juanito said soberly. “The young ones may have forgotten. I only remember because I came here with my mother. The moon is going down.
Won’t you sleep, señor?”
“Sleep? No, I won’t sleep. I can’t waste the water.”
“I will watch it for you while you sleep. Not a drop will get away.”
“No, I won’t sleep,” Joseph said. “Sometimes I sleep a little in the daytime when the bucket is filling. That’s enough. I’m not working.” He stood up to get the bucket, and suddenly he bent over exclaiming, “Look, Juanito!”
He lighted a match and held it close to the stream. “It is so. The water is increasing. Your coming brought it. Look, it flows around the pegs. It’s up half an inch.” He moved excitedly to the rock and leaned into the cave, and lighted another match to look at the spring. “It’s coming faster,” he cried. “Build up a fire, Juanito.”
“The moon is down,” Juanito said. “Go to sleep, señor. I will watch the water. You will be needing sleep.”
“No, build up the fire for light. I want to watch the water.” And he said, “Maybe something good has happened where the water comes from. Maybe the stream will grow, and we shall move outward from here and take back the land. A ring of green grass, and then a bigger ring.” His eyes glittered. “Down the hillsides and into the flat from this center—Look, Juanito, it is more than half an inch above the peg! It is an inch!”
“You must sleep,” Juanito insisted. “You need the sleep. I see how the water is coming up. It will be safe with me.” He patted Joseph’s arm and soothed him. “Come, you must sleep.”
And Joseph let himself be covered with the blankets, and in relief at the rising stream, he fell into a heavy sleep.
Juanito sat in the dark and faithfully emptied the water on the rock when the bucket was filled. This was the first unbroken rest that Joseph had taken for a long time. Juanito conserved his little flame of twigs and warmed his hands, while the frost that had been in the air all night settled a white gauze on the ground. Juanito gazed at Joseph sleeping. He saw how lean and dry he had grown and how his hair was turning grey. The terse Indian stories his mother had told him came into his mind, stories of the great misty Spirit, and the jokes he played on man and on other gods. And then, while he looked at Joseph’s face, Juanito thought of the old church in Nuestra Señora, with its thick adobe walls and mud floors. There was an open space at the eaves, and the birds flew in sometimes, during the mass. Often there were bird droppings on Saint Joseph’s head, and on the blue mantle of Our Lady. The reason for his thought came slowly out of the picture. He saw the crucified Christ hanging on His cross, dead and stained with blood. There was no pain in His face, now He was dead, but only disappointment and perplexity, and over these, an infinite weariness. Jesus was dead and the Life was finished. Juanito built a tall blaze to see Joseph’s face clearly, and the same things were there, the disappointment and the weariness. But Joseph was not dead. Even in his sleep his jaw was resistingly set. Juanita crossed himself and walked to the bed and pulled up the covers around the sleeping man. And he stroked the hard shoulder. Juanito loved Joseph achingly. He watched on while the dawn came, and he tossed the water on the rock again and again.
The water had increased a little during the night. It washed around the peg Joseph had set and made a little swirl. The cold sun came up at last and shone through the forest. Joseph awakened and sat up. “How is the water?” be demanded.
Juanito laughed with pleasure at his message. “The stream is bigger,” he said. “It grew while you slept.”
Joseph kicked off the blankets and went to look. “It is,” he said. “There’s a change somewhere.” He felt the mossy rock with his hand. “You’ve kept it well wet, Juanito. Thank you. Does it seem greener to you this morning?”
“I could not see the color in the night,” Juanito said. They cooked their breakfast then, and sat beside the fire drinking their coffee. Juanito said, “We will go to Father Angelo today.”