Captain from Castile (3 page)

Disgusted, he now entered the place to take a look from the vantage point at the other end.

And in the same moment two arms of steel closed around him from behind; he was lifted clear off his feet and brought down with a thud, while a heavy body pinned him to the earth. Quick as a cat, he arched himself, but felt the prick of a knife through his doublet.

"Spanish dog!" hissed a guttural voice at his ear. "I kill."

The knife prodded deeper, then withdrew; Pedro could sense that it was poised. Convulsively wrenching his neck around, he saw the granite face of Coatl six inches above, and the white of his bared teeth. He caught his breath against the blow.

But all at once everything seemed to relax. He heard a surprised grunt; the weight on his shoulders lightened.

"Senor Pedro?"

Still half-dazed, he was aware that the Indian had got up. Raising himself on his arms, he returned Goatl's stare.

"I not know," muttered the latter. "I think someone different; I jump and not look."

Suddenly a wave of feeling transformed the man. He flung his knife down and lifted both arms. "Coatl kill Sefior Pedro, his one friend. Seiior come to help. Coatl kill 'im. Sefior, forgive!"

Gradually Pedro's brain cleared. It was evident that he owed his life to a misconception. He had been outwitted and downed, and his pride felt the shock more than his body.

Getting up, he brushed himself off, finding it hard meanwhile to face the quandary into which Goatl's forbearance had put him. A mere step, and he could plant his foot on the other's knife, draw his own, and carry out the purpose for which he had come. But he could not take

that step. Shame forbade it; though, on the other hand, conscience assailed him for shrinking from his duty as a citizen and Christian. There could be nothing but scorn for such ill-timed scruples in the case of an escaped slave.

He temporized by saying, "Why did you want to kill anybody, Coatl?"

"People follow me," returned the Indian. "I kill. But not Senor Pedro. You-me eat together on hunt. I tell you of my country. Senor pity Coatl." He drew closer; his hands affectionately clasped each of Pedro's arms and lingered a moment. "Friend," he repeated.

Now was the time to take the fellow by surprise. A sudden blow to the jaw and a leap would do the trick; but the word "friend" cast a spell.

"I thought you would be here," Pedro said helplessly. "You came across from the Guardia, didn't you?"

The Indian nodded.

"Why did you run off?"

In answer the man's face became stone again. With a sudden movement, he was out of his ragged shirt and, turning, showed his back. The flesh gaped open in several long ridges with the blood clotted between them.

To Pedro, the sight of a flogged back was familiar enough in view of the public whippings imposed by the Inquisition. He had seen dozens of such backs pass through the streets of Jaen. But he winced a trifle because de Silva had apparently used a mule whip.

"Coatl no slave," said a choked voice. "Coatl, cacique, lord, in his own country. People, towns. De Silva a beggar beside him. He beat me; I kill if I could. Run away, yes."

"Do you think you can get back to the Indies?"

"My gods will help."

Pedro's scandalized conscience burned hotter than ever. His gods! The man was not only a fugitive, but a heretic, an apostata. He had been baptized and had lapsed. After de Silva had finished with him, he belonged to the Inquisitor. And here was Pedro de Vargas, a good Catholic, fresh from mass, fresh from making vows to the saints that he would perform deeds in his lady's honor—here he stood, hesitating to seize an infidel and hand him over to punishment! A moral weakling because the dog had spared his life! He felt bewildered, bewitched.

Resuming his shirt and knife, Coatl now walked the short length of the ravine, and stood gazing toward the southwest. Pedro followed him, grudgingly conscious of his statuesque body and stately bearing.

"Look, senor." The Indian pointed beyond the mountains. "Over there, Great Water take Coatl home. Where the sun set. Senor Pedro help?"

Standing behind him, Pedro could easily bring the heavy butt of liis poniard down on the man's head. A moment later, he would be securely tied. Young de Vargas's hand stole to the hilt of his dagger.

"Help how?"

"Money. I reach Sanlucar."

"It's a long road to Sanlucar."

Pedro intended to couple the words with a blow, but his arm failed him. At that moment Satan—because no saint would have intervened for a heretic—distracted him with a mental picture. It was the picture of Coatl captured and strung up in front of de Silva. Two hundred lashes! The flesh in strips, the bones showing. And what was it Hernan Gomez had said? Cut the tendons behind the Indian's knees? After that he would be a cripple; his legs would wither; he would creep in and out of de Silva's door, fair game for the street boys to trip up. It was queer to think how his fine body would look by evening.

Pedro's hand dropped from the dagger hilt. He had lost his chance, for Coatl now turned with a look of entreaty.

"If I have money, I reach Sanlucar."

Aware of his madness, but unable to resist, Pedro opened the purse at his belt and fingered its contents. He had two gold pesos, which his father had given him for his name-day. It was a dazzling present; he had never had so much money before.

With an aching heart, he drew out one of the precious coins and handed it to the Indian. "Here, Coatl." But his madness was unap-peased; he could not rid himself of the picture in his mind or of Gomez's words. His fingers crept back to the purse, lingered wretchedly, then brought out the other peso. It seemed heavier than the first and more freshly minted. As if no longer in control of his muscles, he pressed it into Coatl's palm.

And now, having made the plunge, he went on recklessly: "I wish I had more. You've got to hurry, Coatl. You mustn't wait here. Put country between you and them. They may cut over from the Guardia. Good luck! I hope you get to Sanlucar."

The Indian stood silent a moment. Then he caught Pedro's hand, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Coatl never forget," he said hoarsely. Struggling to express himself, he added at last one word that had the effect of an accolade. ''Caha-llero!" he said.

And as if anything more would have lessened this title of honor, he turned and disappeared through the mouth of the ravine.

iv

The ravine seemed very empty and silent. It was so quiet that Pedro could hear the minute trickle of the spring. Little by little, the realization of what he had done expanded in his mind.

Whether discovered or not, he felt disgraced. He had cheated a gentleman out of his property, and had aided a heretic, whom he ought to have denounced. Still worse, by failing to perform his vow when the chance offered, he had been false to heaven itself. Yet meanwhile in the unacknowledged part of his mind, the murmur persisted that if he had given Coatl up to torture and perhaps to death, the memory of it would have haunted him always. It was his first experience with moral issues too complicated for the familiar rule-of-thumb, and he felt utterly at a loss.

In this unhappy frame of mind, he rambled absently downhill to where Campeador waited. How would he ever be able to confess these sins to Father Juan? How could he ever expiate them? The horse whinnied and rubbed a velvet nose against his shoulder. Here was a friend who would think none the worse of him. With the resiliency of youth, Pedro decided not to think too badly of himself. He might have done wrong, but Father Juan himself admitted that the flesh was weak.

The idea of breakfast suddenly occurred. He had eaten nothing since last night's supper and had taken no provisions for the ride. But it was impossible to return home for a while, because he must give the impression of having searched far and long for the Indian. The nearest place to get a meal was the ill-famed and forbidden Rosario tavern over toward the Guardia Valley. It struck him too, as an excuse, that he might turn up in de Silva's crowd and thus, so to speak, cover his own tracks.

Cheered by thoughts of bread and cheese, he resumed his cloak, un-tethered Campeador, and set out at as brisk a pace as the heat and the hills permitted. It would be less than an hour's ride to the doors of the venta.

The landscape of Jaen is varied by bleak mountains and fertile valleys. The roads aecend toward heaven and plunge down to the lushness

of earth. Perhaps on that account its natives are apt to be sometimes among the stars, and at times in the mud, though, to be entirely fair, one doesn't have to be born in Jaen for that. By the time Pedro had crossed the first sierra and reached the trees and thickets of the valley beyond, the moral anxieties of the last hour were beginning to pale. The thought of a cup of wine dispensed by Catana Perez inspired him to sing, and he started to hupi catches of a popular romance.

The road spiraled up to the rocks again, then down in loops that permitted glimpses of the next valley, in which the tavern was located. From this point, he heard dogs and horses in the far distance, and gathered that de Silva's party had broken up into groups, following not only the course of the Guardia, but combing the entire neighborhood. The air was so clear that at one point, looking down, he could see a narrow strip of high meadow flanked by thickets not far from the inn. Then a curve of the road gave him a view in the opposite direction.

His ballad burst into full voice: —

''Rio Verde J Rio Verde Tinto vas en sangre viva ..."

Campeador pricked up his ears and put action into his trot. They swept down into the tree line again, wound back and forth, crossed a brook, and at last came out upon the strip of meadow at which Pedro had been looking a few minutes earlier. Here Campeador, with his mind on refreshment at the tavern, broke into a gallop, which his rider did nothing to restrain.

"Rio Verde, Rio Verde [Pedro sang], Dark with crimson blood thou flowest . . ."

But halfway along, the horse, shying to the left, cut the ballad short.

"Devil take you!" cursed Pedro, a little off balance. At the same time, glancing back, he drew up with a jerk. Campeador had shied at a peasant girl's black and red dress lying in the deep grass. A couple of yards farther off appeared the body of a dead hunting dog. It had been newly killed by a gaping knife cut across the throat.

"Cdspita!'' muttered Pedro, staring.

A faint trail of bent grass toward the thicket at one side caught his eye. Then for the first time he heard a confused sound from that direction; and, curious to know what it was, he guided his horse into the underbrush between the pine trees. As he drew closer, the sound became more distinct. All at once, as if it had been pent-up and suddenly re-

leased, came a woman's cry, ''Socorro! Que me matan!" accompanied by an outburst of oaths.

At this call for help, Pedro gave spur to Campeador and, regardless of whipping branches, plunged through the thicket to a small clearing beyond.

''Socorror

A girl, clad in nothing but her shoes, stockings, and shift, stood knife in hand, confronting a couple of burly, hard-looking fellows, who were circling around and trying to close on her. They wore the badge of de Silva's household. One of them, evidently wounded, clutched his shoulder. He was retching out oaths, while the other, grinning but silent, waited for a chance to spring in. The girl's hair was disheveled; even her shift was torn; but she looked intent as a lynx faced by dogs.

Then, as she turned suddenly and drew back, Pedro saw that it was Catana Perez.

His view of the scene had taken no more than a second. With the fierce pleasure of battle, he charged in. His riding whip opened the face of one of the men. Campeador, trained to fight, reared and struck with his forefeet. The man who had been grinning went down with a shriek, but scrambled up and scuttled off into the bushes. His companion, with Pedro at his heels, raced for the opposite thicket, but did not escape a second dose of riding whip on his head.

Pedro turned back into the clearing just in time to catch sight of the girl hurr)'ing for the covert on her side. A glimpse of disturbing contours, and the pine branches closed behind her.

"Hola, Catana!" he called, riding over. "Are you all right?"

An urgent, suppressed voice came out of the bushes. "Go away, senor! Go away!"

"The devil! I call that gratitude!"

"Do you hear? Please go away!"

He backed off. "Don't worry. Stay where you are. I'll get your dress."'

Returning to the meadow, he scooped up the garment and rode back.

"Hang it on that branch in front," came the voice. "Then turn around."

Dismounting, he obeyed instructions. There was a quick snatching movement, followed by rustling sounds. A minute later Catana emerged.

She had put up her thick brown hair after a fashion, and was now at least covered; but she held a long rent in her skirt together with one hand, and a patch was getting dark above her cheekbone.

At her best Catana was not beautiful, and she was certainly not

beautiful now; but since her attraction at no time depended on good looks, it was not affected by the torn dress and the beginnings of a black eye. Indeed, if anything, these features harmonized with her peculiar personality.

Her angular, tanned face still had the undercolor of embarrassment.

"That was a close call, senor. You came in the nick of time."

"Caramha que suerte. Catana! What on earth happened?"

She explained that on her return from church she had been sent by Sancho Lopez, the innkeeper, to look for a strayed goat. While crossing the upper meadow, the two men had accosted her.

"Do you know them?" he asked.

"God forbid! They're strangers. I could tell that by their talk. They said they belonged to the Senor de Silva, and were after some poor sergeant. I hope he gets away."

This was balm for Pedro's guilty conscience. He reckoned that the men had probably followed de Silva from Madrid.

"Go on. What happened then?"

"One of them started to get fresh. I slapped the bastard."