Chapter V: The Greater Discipline (4)

“You thought about that when you kissed him,” he sneered; “the blood goes straight, and the wind is right. He will have a run for it--your lover.”

Then the roar of padding feet was louder, and the herd was coming. They were fifty yards away--and a great, white steer, horned in splendor, lowered his muzzle, and bellowed, and tore the earth, and shot out in advance. Another followed, and still another, each breaking into that rocking run, each one stretching out his nostrils to taste the polluted air. They plunged together over the little pool of blood; they rolled over and over, horns tossing, feet stamping, throats acclaim. The leaders crowded against the corral until its foot-wide posts bent and cracked. A deafening roar, the bellow of a thousand mad cattle, and then nothing but a tangled riot, speeding on down the scent, a thousand great, horned hounds after their quarry.

It was the blood stampede that makes half-wild cattle wholly demons. A clap of lightning, a sudden shot, even the appearance of a dismounted man, will send the mercurial herd rushing in panic fear; but let them once scent blood, and all hell is loosed in them. No pack of wolves follows with the relentless fury of range cattle on the trail of blood. Huddled by the barn, still showing his teeth, but half in fright, at the box of demons that he had opened, the man who laid the trail knew all this. And the girl knew it best of all.

She was between him and his horse as she turned on him.

“You did this--you murderer!”

“I will go,” he said; “I will cut it loose--it will stop the cattle.”

“Yes--_you_! I will go myself.” He jumped at her as she sprang into his saddle. She saw the movement. His lariat hung at the saddle-horn. She brought it down on his wrist. The same movement started the high-strung little roan, already a-quiver with fear. His heels clattered against the bars; Belle, astride like a man, her calico skirts tucked about her hips, was riding after the red cloud, swinging wide into the sage-brush to pass them.

The roan had a dash of the thoroughbred. He was the swiftest thing coursing that day in the four-cornered race between cattle, cowboys, hunted team, and woman, yet he had two hundred yards the worst of his start. But, like a thoroughbred, he caught the bit and shook out his dapple mane, and laid his belly to the earth as he skimmed. Over sage-brush, over treacherous ant-hills, tangling gopher-holes he sped, the reins loose, for he knew his work. Two cowboys, caught in the press, fighting, swearing, striking brutally at heads and horns as they were borne on, called to her in warning; but the roan rounded the pack, shook himself free, and galloped on.

And then Belle saw what she had feared. Knowing their peril, but ignorant of the cause, the two Englishmen were hurrying on ahead, with the carcass still bumping from the tail-board. The cattle in the road, where the running was freer, had gained upon those on the flanks. They were going in a wedge, with the speed of an express train. The cows, fleeter and fiercer than the males, were leading on. Half a dozen cowboys skirmished before, shooting and lashing out desperately, trying to back-fire by a counter-panic, taking chances of life with every gopher-hole. But there was no checking that mass; when a steer flinched before the heavy whip, he was pushed on from behind. And ever they bellowed, with a note of tigers in their voices.

A moment Belle ran before the herd; then calling to the roan, who understood as only a cow-horse can understand, she cut an oblique course across the herd’s face. She gained the road; the herd was behind her, and the roan, gathering his nerve for a final spurt, made for the wagon. She shouted, but the roar behind drowned her voice, and so she reached for the holster, where Emilio kept his knife. As she whipped it out and drew even, reaching for the carcass, the wagon slackened and stopped. Her own horse swerved in his course, and shot past before she could check him.

The off-horse, what with fear and exhaustion, had stumbled and fallen dead. And the wedge was coming on, now but a quarter of a mile away.

Deadly as was their fear, the two Englishmen, who had jumped to the ground, stood and stared to see her turn in beside the standing horse and, without any ceremony, cut his traces and reins. He reared and plunged; Justin caught his bridle.

“Mount quick!” she shouted. And before he could grasp the situation she had pushed Dudley to her roan, almost thrown him into the saddle, and mounted behind.

As the snorting horses bounded away, the roar was almost on their flanks. It rose to its climax in a great, dull crash. Looking back, the girl saw that they were no longer followed. The dust-cloud was a whirlpool that rolled and tumbled over the spot where the wagon had been. For only a minute; the cowboys closed in, and the panic was over. Slowly the men beat back the sullen, sated demons. And when the press split there was no wagon at all--only broken wheels and scattered bits of woodwork, and flattened belongings and blood--blood and gleaming gray hairs trampled into everything.

The two men dismounted and turned to the girl. Then was she first aware of her skirts tucked about her hips, and of the manner in which she had ridden. Her color rose, and she jumped down. She turned redder a moment later when Dudley Latimer took her in his arms and, for the second time that morning, kissed her.

And that time he kissed her in deadly earnest.

THE WHITE GRAVE

By C. Alfred

Harrison and his wife were evidently tenderfeet. Worse than that, they had never been outside the City of New York before; and why an inexperienced, city-bred young man like Harrison should have attempted to move a year’s outfit, which weighs a ton, over the Chilkoot Pass, and tempt Fate in the bleakness of the Yukon country, no one knew.

The reason really was Harrison’s wife. Tired of a living salary in the city, she was ready, when news of the Klondike gold-fields reached the world in 1897, to catch the gold fever; caught it, and argued Harrison into resigning his clerkship in an insurance company, and into taking her with him to Alaska. They were very much in love, and could not be separated. So they invested their savings in sacks of flour, and blankets, and tins of coffee, and in tickets to Dyea.

They landed there in December. This, of course, was an idiotic time to arrive, but they didn’t know, and there were lots of other idiots just then. When Harrison grasped the fact that he must, himself, pull all his pile of provisions over the desolate mountain range that ran upward in front of him, his heart failed him; as the Yukoners say, he got cold feet. But his wife cheered him. Mrs. Harrison was young, and, therefore, hopeful. Moreover, she was a pretty little woman, with a great mass of flaxen hair, and on her account many a rough packer on the trail gave Harrison a lift with his load in the steeper places.

They struggled on together through storms and snowdrifts. Little by little the outfit neared the summit that had lain eighteen miles from them when first they landed. Every morning Harrison would load some two hundred and fifty pounds on the sled, pull it up the trail seven miles or so, and come back in the afternoon. And the girl, for she was nothing more, would cook their little meals on the sheet-iron stove, and dry Harrison’s moccasins and coddle him, and tell him how like it all was to a picnic, and how she enjoyed the life. Which was not true.

And so they passed through Canyon City, beyond which there is no God, the packers say, and up to Sheep Camp, which is far up in the mountains on the timber line, and beyond which there lies a frozen desolation that supports no living thing--not even the scrubby spruce that can exist on the bare rock in lower altitudes. Here they disappeared from view, because the horses do not go past Sheep Camp, the trail being too rough; and the packers, not seeing them, could bring no word.

Now, there were hotels of a fashion in Dyea at this time, but the entire downstairs part was usually made into one room, and used as a bar, dance-hall, and gambling house. So when Harrison came back down the trail two weeks later at three o’clock in the morning, he had to elbow his way up to the bar in the Comique to ask for a room. The first bartender looked at him inquiringly, for he had seen the Harrisons on the trail, and the teamsters had said they must be over the summit by now. His curiosity got the better of him.

“Are you the party that went up with a little blonde lady three weeks ago?” he asked.

“I may be,” said Harrison.

“She seemed kind of light for this country,” pursued the bartender. “Hope she’s standing it all right. Did she come down with you?”

“I brought her with me,” said Harrison.

“Isn’t she coming in? She doesn’t have to pass through the saloon here if she don’t like. She can----”

Harrison’s hand went to his forehead. “She’s dead,” he said.

A teamster came in the side door and spoke to him, and he followed the man out. So did two of the dance-hall girls and the first bartender. Outside in one of the big freighting sleds lay Mrs. Harrison. Her flaxen hair waved as in life over the girlish face, hard now as marble and colder. The moon shone full upon her, and a snow crystal hung here and there on the little fur parkee that she wore. She might have been a marble Madonna there in the moonlight. Through the open door came the noise of the next waltz. One of the girls slipped in, and the orchestra stopped. Quickly a little group began to gather, but Harrison did not move. He seemed as in a trance, staring open-eyed, mistily, at the frozen woman in the sled.

Presently, Blanche, the girl who had stopped the music, touched him on the arm.

“I know there is nothing much I can do for you,” she said. “I know how it feels; but I thought perhaps you’d like to bring her inside, and you can have my room till you--till the funeral.”

And Harrison thanked her. But next day he moved the body to an empty cabin that stood on the river bank in the pine grove back of the Comique. He could not bury her, he could not give her up, he said. True, she could not speak to him, nor move, but even to have her body with him was something, a kind of comfort. The bitter cold of the Northland, the icy winds that roared in untrammeled fury down the cañon--these had killed her; now they would preserve the beauty they had stilled; keep her forever young, as he had known and loved her. Why should he bury her? And when they spoke to him of burial, he bade them leave him alone.

Only in the afternoons, when there was no dancing in the Comique, Blanche used still to go daily to the cabin in the pines, and brought him a padlock for the door, and a lantern, and other things.

It all might have drifted on in such wise indefinitely, had it not been that in a month Harrison had no money to buy his meals with, and that Blanche asked him point blank about it.

“Why don’t you come over and ask Coughlin for something to do?” she said, when Harrison admitted that he had eaten no dinner that day. Coughlin was the man who ran the Comique.

“What could I do?” inquired Harrison. “I’m only a bookkeeper.”

But that night he asked Coughlin about it. Now twice a day Coughlin put all the gold and bank-notes that were in the cash drawer into his pocket, leaving the silver for change; and he kept his accounts, which were few, in his head; and he didn’t need a bookkeeper. But he was sorry for Harrison; and, besides, Blanche had spoken to him of it, and he wanted to oblige her. For Blanche was popular among the men, and was asked to drink oftener than any girl in the house, and was valuable on that account in a country where one gets a dollar for two drinks. So he told Harrison he could go to work.

“In the morning?” said Harrison.

“Any time,” said Coughlin.

Harrison looked around a moment. “If you’ll show me the books, I think I might look them over now.”

“Books?” said Coughlin, hesitatingly. “There aint any, but I guess you can figure all right in this, perhaps.” He produced a small paper-covered blank book from under the bottle rack. “You’ll find a lead pencil in the drawer any time”; and he bustled over to the faro-bank, satisfied that he had demonstrated his familiarity with the bookkeeping craft. He came back to ask Harrison what wages he was going to work for.

“Anything,” said Harrison. “In New York I got seventy-five dollars a month.”

“That aint much,” said Coughlin. “I never asked any man to take less than three dollars a day and board. You can eat in the restaurant there.” Then he introduced Harrison to Big Joe, the day bartender, telling Joe this was the bookkeeper.

An hour later Joe called Harrison to announce that Red Sheehan had got a drink without paying therefor.

“He never will pay for it, either,” continued the experienced Joe, “but I suppose you’ll put it down in the bookkeeping.”

Harrison seemed a little undecided as to the value of this entry, and his uncertainty settled it, for thereafter Joe never mentioned such items, and as for Coughlin, he continued to dump the uncounted contents of the cash drawer at various times into his pocket, and to pay his debts out of the same receptacle with a total disregard to cash balances, daily receipts, or outstanding accounts, which made Harrison’s methodical hair stand on end.

Occasionally, however, he would ask Harrison how he was getting along, and Harrison, who had debited Red Sheehan’s account with one drink, and who had never had occasion to make a second entry of any kind, generally replied that the work was pretty light.

“That’s all right,” Coughlin would say. “Bookkeepers are mighty handy to have around in case you want to figure some time.”

And so Harrison drew his three dollars a day, and ate in the restaurant, where Blanche usually managed to sit opposite. Then in the evening he sat idle in the Comique, and watched the roulette wheels spin and the cards drop monotonously from the faro-box, heard the metallic call of the dealers and the buzz of the ball in the runaway of the wheel; saw the dancing-girls, in all the glories of scarlet satin, promiscuous affection, and peroxide hair, waltz past; listened to the wandering musicians of the orchestra play some good music and much bad; sat in a chair near the end of the bar, and watched the carnival of sin and revelry around him, and then, about midnight, when he felt entitled to leave, he went back to the lonely cabin, where his wife lay in her changeless sleep, to sit and keep his vigil with her he had loved in life and still adored in death.

In the restaurant he had many conversations with Blanche. “How long will you stay here?” she asked him once.

“Always, I suppose,” he said.

“But this is only a boom town,” she answered. “Next year there will be no one here but the Siwashes, and they will be quarreling among themselves for these buildings.”

“I’ll stay,” persisted Harrison.

“But how can you live? Coughlin is going down the river this summer, and a man must eat. Why don’t you come along with the rest of us? He’ll take everybody that is working here, for he means to open up again in the Yukon country.” Harrison shook his head.

To Blanche he was interesting. Even in the depths to which she had fallen, or rather deliberately descended, there exists an unconfessed desire for the better things of the past, for the moral levels which have been derided and deserted, for the things which are bitter with the sourness of the grapes the fox could not attain to; and to talk with Harrison was a breath from the old world, monotonous, perhaps, but lovable, where she, too ... but she never thought of those things. What was the use? It made her sad, and she would undoubtedly drink more than usual, and get reckless, and buy wine with her salary and percentage money, and be in debt to the house for a month afterward. So she didn’t think much. It didn’t ever occur to her that her interest in Harrison was passing the danger line. It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.

* * * * *

A month later, Coughlin announced that the Comique would have a grand closing one week from that night. “The money is about through in this town,” he said, in explanation. “We’ll move on to the gold mines.”

Blanche discussed it that evening with Harrison in the restaurant The news disturbed him.

“You’ll come, too?” she said. He didn’t know. “There’ll be nothing here,” she went on, “and it will be so lonely.”

“I don’t mind the loneliness,” said Harrison.

“But I’ll be lonely.”

“Perhaps Coughlin wouldn’t want me, anyway. I haven’t done a stroke of work while I’ve been here.”

“But he’ll want you if I say so. I’m the best girl he’s got,” said Blanche, modestly, “and if I say so it goes. And I do say so.”

Harrison was silent. He had often thought of this. He had known, of course, that he could not live forever at the Comique. Many times he had decided that death were easier than a final parting from the dead. He had thought that he could never leave her, but now---- Well, the lust of life is strong. We do not know how far the fall is until we stand at the brink and look over. Besides there is no coming back. If we could only try it for a while and return again!

“Harrison,” said Blanche, suddenly, “listen. I think I know what you are thinking, and I know I can not argue such a thing with you. No one could. You know best, and no one else can know anything about it. But I want to tell you one fact that perhaps you haven’t thought of. You want to stay here with her--always. But you can’t. I know it is horrible to talk of, but it is not always winter even in Alaska, and the summer is almost here.” The man winced. “Go to bed, Harrison,” she said; “I can not talk of such things. You know best.”

He went away to the cabin. He knew that Blanche was right. It must be--but the anguish of it. How should he say the last farewell?

At the foot of the mountains that stretch upward from the Dyea sands, he dug a grave, four feet. And that night he would bury her. But his resolution failed him. All night he sat beside the unreplying dead and stroked her icy hands. “To-morrow I will do it,” he said. But the next day he dug again in the grave. It should be six feet. And neither could he say farewell that night.

Then Blanche came over to him. “We leave on Saturday. You know to-day is Wednesday,” she said, and went away quickly, for she saw the sheeted form, and understood something of his pain. On Thursday she came again. Harrison had not been at the restaurant all day, and she carried a tray with her. The cabin was empty, but a note on the table said: “I can not give her up. I could not hide her in a grave of earth. I will lay her on the mountain top above the glacier. Thank you. Good-by.”

Now the glacier lies in a greater crater of the mountains there, above the snow line, five thousand feet above Dyea; and behind it there towers a solitary peak that juts needle-like, head and shoulders over the lesser crags of the crater. Up above the world, far from the sound of man, into the great silence it reaches, where only the northern lights keep the long vigils with its wind-tormented top.

That night when Blanche asked Billy Matthews, who ought to know, being a squaw-man and an old-timer there, how long it would take to go to the glacier, he said the Siwashes called it two days. “And how long would it take to go to the top of the big peak?” Matthews smiled. “Why, no one’s ever gone, sis, and I don’t scarcely think they will.”

But the next day Blanche borrowed the glasses from the trading-post and watched the snow line. About four o’clock a black speck gradually emerged at the timber limit, and showed sharply against the snow-fields that lay beyond. The glasses showed a man with a long bundle upon his back. Blanche closed them, and watched the speck with her naked eye. Slowly it crept to the foot of the great ice rampart, and as it mounted the green precipices, a bank of cloud engulfed it.

Early next morning Blanche searched the mountain with the glasses. The speck had crossed the miles of glacier in the night, and was half way up the mighty pinnacle that lay behind. There it clung to a precarious hold on the storm-swept crag, its ghastly burden still upon its shoulders. Five hundred feet below it lay a great snow-field, hundreds of feet deep. Five hundred feet above it hung the mountain crest. Blanche could see the wind sweep great banks of snow around the speck. The footing must have been slippery, for the speck climbed less than a hundred feet in an hour, and then, as a wind-gust swept a swirling eddy of sleet across the precipice, it fell--fell straight to the eternal snows five hundred feet beneath it, and disappeared. Even with the glasses Blanche could see no hole in the drift, and besides the wind would fill it full again almost at once.

Gray-lipped, she sought out Matthews. “Billy,” she asked him, “how far would a man sink in that snow up there if he fell off the top of the peak?”

“My God, what questions,” said Billy. “How do I know? He’d stay a thousand years, anyway.”

THE JEWELS OF BENDITA

By Gibert Cunyngham Terry

Old Bendito was digging when he found them--“the jewels of Bendita.” He had been ordered by Don Francisco to make a new border around the “Little Lake of the Emperor” (as it is called even to these days), and, grumbling mightily, the old man set lazily to work. Stopping only occasionally to refresh himself with a corn-husk cigarette, Bendito dug away for as much as two hours, when he was joined by his comrade, Andrés, who proceeded to pass the time of day.

“What makest thou, friend? Wherefore dost toil so strenuously with no friend to assist thee, and in the heat of the day?”

“Oh, lazybones! According to that fool, Don Francisco--may the devil fly away with him--I am making a new bordering for the little lake. For why? Only God knows. But these strangers--_la Virgen_ bear witness that--lacking other work, they make a hole in the ground, in order that a poor devil may have to straightway fill it up again!”

Overwhelmed by his own eloquence, old Bendito groaned, emitted a fiery Indian oath, and set to spading. “To that mango tree, and no further, I will dig to-day!” he muttered. “To the devil with Don Francisco.”

Andrés, sprawling in the sunshine, offered sarcastic comments and encouragements. “Have a care, comrade. Knowest thou not that there is wealth concealed in this same garden of the emperor? Oh, yes! I overheard Padre Diego say so to the Obispo. Be careful lest thou dig it up, little brother.”

In cynical disbelief, Bendito dug away. “Thinkest thou that if riches were here, Padre Diego and the Obispo would leave them untouched? Nonsense. They-of-the-church never allow the paring of a nail to remain, much less treasure. Compose thyself, little Andrés. _Once_ there may have been buried treasure of the emperor. But the nose of the church is sharp, and it smells gold while yet far off.”

At this juncture, Bendito’s spade interrupted conversation with a loud and startling “clink, clank,” and crossing themselves, their faces gray with superstitious terror, both _peons_ fled with all haste from the spot. Their first thought was that a coffin had been uncovered, and only witches and unblessed heretics would be buried here in this unhallowed ground. But, as they ran, another idea occurred to them. They stopped abruptly, and low talk ensued. Then they stole cautiously back to the mango tree, where the spade still stood upright. And while old Bendito dug away, in fear and trembling, but with more energy than he had displayed since the big earthquake (wherein part of his roof came down upon his head), Andrés watched to see that no one caught them. Who knew what might be uncovered? It was well to be cautious.

Firmly embedded in the earth, the men found a large wooden box. Rotting from damp, with its copper bands oxidized, there still showed intact an insignia that caused the Indians to tremble with excitement. And no wonder. They had stumbled upon the buried treasure of an emperor.

They hurried with the wonderful box to a small ruined pavilion at one end of the great melancholy garden. No one ever visited this little rustic building, which the superstitious vowed was haunted by the unhappy emperor. But, forgetful of spirits or other evils, Bendito and Andrés pushed back the door, and, in the half gloom, wrenched open the rotting box.

Out upon Bendito’s faded _tilma_, spread beneath the box, dropped things that made even those ignorant Indians gasp in greedy terror. How they sparkled and shone--these ornaments that great queens and empresses had worn--the chains of brilliant white stones, necklaces of rubies and emeralds, exquisite ear ornaments, the diamond-studded portraits of royalties, and other fabulously valuable things. There were not more than a dozen articles in all, and yet worth much money, as these men knew. For they had both traveled to the great, rich capital city, on the Paseo, where the wealthy dames wore these same sparkling stones. The two replaced the jewels, their fingers trembling and eyes burning with greed, and begun to discuss the division. And the sun sank low while they argued and disagreed.

Andrés, having no home or family wherewith to bless himself, was not missed that night. But old Juana, the wife of Bendito, being of a suspicious and jealous temperament, at last pricked forth in search of her missing lord. As it was late, there went with her their daughter, Bendita, a flat, squat maiden of sixteen. A good girl she was, but as homely as could well be.

Bendito was not to be found in his usual haunts. Neither the “Caballitos” nor the “Haven of Peaceful Men” _cantine_ knew him, and he was not listening to the music in the plaza. These things being so, the baleful eye of his spouse lit up fiercely.

“The disgraceful old devil,” she muttered to Bendita, “is, without doubt, in the great garden, which is sufficiently retired and convenient for flirtations. We will find him there, doubtless, with the wife of Pepe.”

And there they found him, very dead, but not with the wife of Pepe! Instead, his companion was the equally dead Andrés. They had evidently quarreled over the treasure, and then fought with _machetes_. Between the two was the wooden box, with copper bands. It was blood-covered, and the women of old Bendito wailed and crossed themselves as they looked upon it and the two men who had fought over it to the death. They hastily flung Bendito’s blanket over him, and, crossing themselves, started to flee.

Bendita, lingering to caress the old man, again noted the box. “It may be that it contains money,” she whispered, and picked it up, though her mother protested.

With _rebosos_ closely drawn, the women scurried homeward, leaving the dead men alone where they had fallen. Heartless of them? Well, no, for in the tropics law and order sometimes mean little, and these women knew well that, if they gave the alarm, they would probably be suspected and convicted of the murder.

Stealthily opened, at midnight, the box proved to contain what old Juana and her daughter mistook for mere white, red, and green glass--no gold and no silver! The old woman, in a transport of rage, sorrow, and disappointment, spit upon the jewels. “Accursed things of mere glass,” she screamed, “to think that my poor Bendito died for such valueless things as _you_.”

There was great lamentation next morning when old Bendito was found and brought home to his alarmed family. They wept and wailed so that people were very sorry for them, and Padre Diego volunteered, in the goodness of his heart, to say fifty masses, “at a merely nominal price,” for the soul of the departed _peon_. Andrés, no one seemed to regret, and no masses were ever said over him, at bargain prices or otherwise. And so Andrés and Bendito passed away, by no means the first men to die for the sake of greed and riches.

While the widow and daughter of Bendito considered the “glass jewels” of no value, for all the world wore gold and silver trinkets, they were nevertheless afraid to speak or even hint of them, lest they be suspected of complicity in the murder. Therefore, the box was kept hidden in a secret place, and for a while the widow kept her mouth closed, though she dearly loved to gossip. But the custody of the box, and the consequent secrecy entailed upon her, were entirely too much for poor Juana. She sickened and began to pine for her country, as the Indians so quaintly call their birthplaces.

Wherefore, their belongings were disposed of, and the two women proceeded to their old home, many leagues distant. With them was carried the crumbling box of jewels. Not long after reaching her birthplace, Juana proceeded to die. Toward the last, she grew exceedingly nervous over the “glass jewels,” speculating much as to their value, and declaring that at the worst they might be pawned for a _peso_ or two. And, still babbling of them, the old woman died, and was, in Biblical fashion, “buried with her fathers.”

While not of a superstitious disposition, Bendita began to experience some of her mother’s qualms about the box and its contents. Finally, for its safety, she secretly removed several tiles from the floor of her room, and concealed the jewels therein. Then, satisfied that no one would find them there, she gave no more thought to the matter, for of what avail were the baubles? “One can not eat or drink them,” she mused. “But for their sake my poor father died.”

At this time, Ponciana, the pretty daughter of Pancho, the _cargador_, returned from Mission school to her proud family. After her there trailed, later, her sweetheart, Amado. And after Amado, in turn, came the deluge. For untoward things began to occur. First was the falling in love of poor homely Bendita. This, of course, was all right; any woman can fall in love with any man, if she so elects. But ordinary decency demands that she at least restrain her passion when the betrothed of another woman is concerned. And it was Amado, Ponciana’s novio, upon whom Bendita needs must cast eyes. Of course, it was absurd. For Bendita was square, fat, and flat (if you can figure to yourself such a combination), while Ponciana was exceedingly sweet and pretty. Besides, she had been taught in Mission school, knew some English and much quaint slang, and was a fascinating little Indian maiden.

“La Ponciana, she knows _much_,” had been Amado’s glowing description to that potent personage, his mother. “She plays the piano and guitar well, and sings, aye, as do the birds! And she dances in a manner entirely exquisite--and sews and embroiders.”

Despite all this eloquence, however, Amado, after due temptation, heartlessly jilted Ponciana for the unattractive and homely Bendita. It happened thus: Unable to make any impression on the handsome Amado, despite her sighs and eye-rolling, Bendita at length decided to take, as it were, a back seat, and merely view from afar her beloved, who nightly paraded in the plaza with his beloved. And here it was, one evening, that a brilliant thought came to Bendita.

It was an ideal night, “one borrowed from Paradise,” as the poetical Amado had murmured to his Ponciana. Great bright stars blazed in a velvety-blue sky, while silvery moonlight cast a radiance over the beautiful tropical plaza, wherein fountains trickled musically, and glowing flowers of the tropics heavily perfumed the soft, languid air. From the remote band-stand came sweet, faint strains of the exquisite “Angel de Amor,” while the lowered voices of many gay loungers murmured in musical harmony therewith.

Every one seemed so happy that it was no wonder that tears came to Bendita’s eyes, as she sat, alone and neglected, in her solitary corner. “I have so much homeliness,” she thought, drearily; “no one will ever wish me for a _novia_--_ay de mi_!”

Again Amado and Ponciana passed by, Ponciana smiling and dimpling. She wore a white _mantilla_, while on her finger there was a genuine ring of gold, set with a white stone that sparkled in the moonlight. It was the ring of betrothal, that day given. Amado, being poor, had secured it cheaply from a pawnshop. But Ponciana did not know.

As she gayly flitted by, Bendita noted the sparkle of the ring. “It is like the little glass jewels,” she pondered. “How Amado seems to like it! I might--I might wear those at home. They sparkle, too.”

Behold Bendita, therefore, the next night, arrayed even more magnificently than Solomon in all his glory. For Solomon, whatever he may have gotten himself up in, surely never wore such huge diamond ornaments in the ears, such diamonds and rubies in the hair, such magnificent bracelets. All this was topped off by a long string of diamonds and pearls, while outside her _mantilla_, at the neck, Bendita displayed, in all humility, a necklace of pear-shaped black and white pearls.

Amado, who had served for three years as a pawnbroker’s clerk, alone of the crowd in the plaza knew that the girl’s jewels were real--fabulously rich. “_Carrambas_,” he thought, excitedly; “she, in those jewels, is rich as a princess. El Señor Vega, alone, would give fifty thousand _pesos_ for them!”

Others, noting the new finery of the homely girl, said smilingly: “What pretty playthings of glass has our good Bendita found?”

A week’s time saw the feckless Amado off with the old love and on with the new. Quick work, it is true, but--consider the extenuating circumstances. To do him justice, he had a plan for securing the jewels (with Bendita, if it had to be), and later, making matters up with his own pretty first love. Two things prevented this, however: first, Bendita rarely wore, touched, or mentioned the jewels, and he was fearful of exciting her suspicions; second, the jilted Ponciana had vanished from the ken of even her own family. No one seemed to know where she was. Old Madre Piedad, in San Geronimo town near by, knew. The latter dame, thought to be a witch, was the girl’s near relative. To her Ponciana had stated merely that some one had injured her; and asked if Madre Maria would keep her quietly hidden, and teach her how to avenge herself. Madre Piedad promised, and the two, with the aid of an ugly, squat, herb-stuffed doll, a brazero of hot coals, and some long pins, set the ball of vengeance in motion.

Meanwhile, instead of preparing for marriage, Bendita fell grievously ill. She lost flesh rapidly, could not eat, drink, or rest, and complained of agonizing pains that shot through her body. A doctor was consulted, but could not relieve her. Then various old women congregated and muttered together--they could do nothing! Of a truth, it could be nothing less than the _mal del ojo_ (evil eye), and with that only old Madre Piedad, of San Geronimo, could cope. Wherefore Madre Piedad was sent for, and entreated.

At dusk she arrived--a bundled-up old dame, her halting steps aided by crutches, and her face shrouded in many _tapalos_. A large bundle came with her--“medicines,” she gruffly explained. The other women, secretly in deadly terror of her, gladly withdrew at her commands. “If you wish me to make a cure, you must get out and leave me alone with the patient,” she ordered. And not until the premises were clear did she begin operations.

“Arise!” she commanded the suffering Bendita, “arise, and search out the glass trinkets which spirits tell me you have hidden away! Place the trinkets, _all_ of them, in this earthen bowl of water, and let them remain so for eight hours. In the morning drink the water, after removing the glass jewels. You will then be entirely cured, I promise you.”

Dazed and sick, poor Bendita arose from her bed and stumbled about, obeying the old woman’s mandates. All of the jewels were deposited in an earthen bowl, which, half filled with holy water, was placed in the exact centre of the room. Then, swallowing a colorless liquid that Madre Piedad gave her, Bendita was soon fast asleep. The old witch smiled to herself as she listened to the sick girl’s deep, regular breathing. “Well may she sleep,” she muttered, who had shamelessly given a nostrum that would induce eight hours’ sleep.

And now the old body set busily to work. First she deftly manufactured, out of her mysterious bundle, a dummy figure that exactly resembled her own. This she seated prominently before the doorway, so that chance visitors seeing it would, in their fear of her, retire without entering. Quickly she slipped out of her many _tapalos_ and other disguises, and stood forth, straight, young, and lovely--no less a being than the jilted Ponciana! Hastily she removed the jewels from their watery resting-place, transferring them to a stout bag, which she tied about her waist, under a _reboso_. The bowl she left in its original position, save that into it she cast a small, ragged, rudely made doll, into which had been plunged many pins. This done, she was ready for flight. “_Adios_, Bendita,” she chuckled, with a wicked smile on her pretty face. “You can have my lover--for I have your rich jewels!”

Various neighbors came next morning to inquire for the sick girl, but were frightened away by the supposed figure of the witch. Bendita herself, waking up entirely cured after ten hours’ sleep, first discovered the trick, and cast forth the dummy figure, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But all was not lost, even if the jewels were gone for aye. Because, drolly enough, Amado was so sorry for the bereft one that he married her, and they have been happy ever after.

And Ponciana? Did you ever happen to see the exquisite Señora de la Villa y Garcia, “of Mexico and Paris,” with her wrinkled old husband, and her beautiful toilettes and jewels? Well, _that_ is Ponciana.

THE MAN-DOG

By Nathan C. Kouns

My first knowledge of the singular being called “Du Chien, the Man-Dog,” began when we were on duty down in the Peché country, a short time after General Taylor’s celebrated “Run on the Banks,” in the vicinity of Mansfield. The cavalry had really very little to do except “to feed,” and await orders. As a result of this idleness many of the officers and men formed pleasant acquaintances with the hospitable planters in whose neighborhood we were located.

One of the planters whom I found to be most congenial was Captain Martas, a French creole, whose father had come from Languedoc. He was himself native-born. He was a man of forty-eight or fifty years of age, and had two sons by his first marriage, who were in the army of Virginia, and a boy two years of age, by his second wife, who was a young and beautiful lady. The housekeeper was a mulatto girl, who was in every physical development almost a perfect being--even her small hands looking like consummate wax-work. She had been taught, petted, and indulged as much, perhaps, or more than any slave should have been, especially by Captain Martas, who uniformly spoke to her more in the tone of a father addressing his daughter, than in that of a master commanding a slave. She was always gentle and obedient. The family seemed to prize her very greatly, and the little boy especially preferred her to his own beautiful mother. I suppose it would be hard for the later generation, who remember little or nothing of the “domestic institution,” to understand how such a pleasant and beautiful confidence and friendship could exist between a slave and her owners, but it was no uncommon thing in the South before the war.

The family was so attractive that I visited it often; but one evening, on my arrival at the house, I found that its peace and quiet had been disturbed by one of those painful occurrences which so often marred the happiness of Southern families, and which really constituted the curse of “the peculiar institution.”

The day before, the beautiful and accomplished wife of Captain Martas had, for some unexplained reason, got into a frenzy of rage with Celia, the mulattress, and had ordered the overseer to give her a severe whipping. The girl had run off into the Black Swamp during the night, and Captain Martas, who imparted this information to me, was in a state of terrible distress by reason of her absence. He did not seem to understand the cause of the trouble, but he could not justify his slave without condemning his wife, whom he seemed to regard with a most tender and dutiful devotion. The only emotion which seemed to master him was a heart-breaking and hopeless grief. I volunteered to hunt for the runaway, and while asking for such information as I thought to be necessary about the neighboring plantations, and of the almost boundless and impracticable wilderness known as the Black Swamp, I saw Celia slowly and quietly coming up the broad walk which led from the portico to the big gate.

She carried in her hand a branch of the magnolia tree, from which depended a splendid blossom of that most glorious of all flowers. She bowed slightly as she came near the portico, and, passing around the corner of the house, entered it by a side door. Mrs. Martas was most passionately devoted to the magnolia, and, from her exclamations of delight, which were soon heard in the hall, we knew that Celia had brought the beautiful flower as a peace-offering to her mistress, and that it had been accepted as such. Very soon the two women came nearer, and from our seats on the veranda we could hear their conversation. A terrible weight seemed to have been lifted from the heart of Captain Martas by the girl’s return, and by the apparent renewal of friendly relations between his beautiful wife and his even more beautiful slave--a relief which showed itself in his face and form, but not in his speech.

“Yes,” said Celia to Mrs. Martas, “it is an old, wide-spreading tree on the very edge of the water, and is glorious with just such splendid blossoms as these. There must be more than three hundred clusters, some that I could not reach being much larger and finer than this one.”

“And you say,” answered Mrs. Martas, “that the air is still, and that the perfume broods all around the tree? Oh, how sweet!”

“Yes,” said Celia, “it is so strong that you can taste as well as smell the wonderful perfume. Few people could bear to stand immediately beneath the shade; it is so sweet as to be almost overpowering.”

“Oh, how I wish I could see it! How far is it, Celia?”

“Only four miles. You can go. It is deep in the swamp: but the pony can follow the ridge all the way. You can go, and get home before dusk. I would like you to see it before a rain makes the road too bad, or the winds come and scatter the delicious perfume that now hangs as heavy as dew all around the glorious tree for yards and yards away.”

“I will go,” she cried. “Tell Toby to bring out Selim, and you can take a horse. Let us go at once. It is getting late.”

“I would rather walk,” said Celia, “so as to be sure that I will not miss the route in going back, although I watched so carefully that I know I can find it on foot.”

Very soon a boy led up Mrs. Martas’s pony, and she went out to the steps and mounted, followed by Celia on foot. The girl held the stirrup for her mistress, and as she did so looked back at Captain Martas with eyes in which shone strange love, pity, and tenderness; but the voice of her mistress called her away, and, even in turning her black and lustrous eyes toward Captain Martas, their expression totally changed, and showed for a fleeting instant the murderous glitter that gleamed from the eyes of a panther when ready for a fatal spring.

I was startled and troubled, and half moved forward to tell the lady not to go; but a moment’s reflection showed me how foolish such an unnecessary and silly interference would seem. A strange mistrust flitted across my mind, but there was nothing on which to base it. I could not give a reason for it, except to say that I had seen the light of a gladiator’s eye, the twitch and spasm of an assassin’s lip, in the eye and mouth of that now smiling and dutiful young slave girl. The thing was too foolish to think of, and I held my peace.

The women passed out of the gate, and went on quietly in the direction of the Black Swamp. Martas and I resumed our conversation. Hour after hour passed away, and the sun grew large and low in the West; still Mrs. Martas did not return. The sun was setting--set; but she had not come. Then Captain Martas called Toby and had him ride to the edge of the wood and see if he could learn anything of his mistress; but Toby soon came back, saying that he saw nothing except the pony’s tracks leading into the swamp, and the pony himself leisurely coming home without a rider. Then Captain Martas mounted, and I followed him. He took the plantation conch-shell, and we rode on into the dark forest as long as we could trace any footsteps of the pony, or find any open way, and again and again Captain Martas blew resonant blasts upon his shell that rolled far away over the swamp, seeking to apprise his wife that we were there, and waiting for her; but nothing came of it.

“They could hear the shell,” he said, “upon a still night like this three or four miles,” and it seemed to him impossible that they could have gone beyond the reach of the sound. But no answer came, and the moonless night came down over the great Black Swamp, and the darkness grew almost visible, so thoroughly did it shut off all vision like a vast black wall.

Then Martas sent Toby back to the plantation for fire and blankets, and more men, and soon a roaring blaze mounted skyward, and every few minutes the conch-shell was blown. Nothing more could be done. I remained with the now sorely troubled husband through the night. At the first peep of dawn he had breakfast brought from the plantation, and as soon as it became light enough to see in the great forest, we searched for and found the pony’s track, and we carefully followed the traces left in the soft soil. The chase led, with marvelous turns and twists, right along the little ridge of firmer land which led irregularly on between the boundless morasses stretched on either side, trending now this way, now that, but always penetrating deeper and deeper into the almost unknown bosom of the swamp. The pony had followed his own trail in coming out of the swamp, and this made it easier for us to trace his way. At last we came to the dark, sluggish, sullen water. It was a point of solid ground, of less than an acre in extent, a foot or two above the water, almost circular in outline, and nearly surrounded by the lagoon. It was comparatively clear of timber, and near the centre rose a grand magnolia tree, such as Celia had described to Mrs. Martas on the evening before. At the root of this tree, bathed with the rich, overpowering perfume of the wonderful bloom above her, lay the dead body of the beautiful woman, her clothes disordered, her hair disheveled, a coarse, dirty handkerchief stuffed into her mouth, and all the surroundings giving evidence of a despairing struggle and a desperate crime. Captain Martas was overcome with anguish, and after one agonized look around, as if to assure himself that Celia was not also somewhere in sight, he sat down beside the body and gazed upon his murdered wife in silent, helpless agony of spirit.

I desired all the men to remain where they were, except Toby, whom I ordered to follow me; and then, beginning at the little ridge of land between the waters by which we had reached the circular space before described, we followed the edge of the ground completely round to the starting point, seeking in the soft mud along the shore for a footprint, or the mark made by a canoe or skiff, for some evidence of the route by which the murderer had reached the little peninsula, or by which Celia had left it.

We found perfect tracks of all animal life existing in the swamps, even to the minute lines left by the feet of the smallest birds, but no trace of a human foot, although a snail could not have passed into or out of the water without leaving his mark upon the yielding mud, much less a footstep or a canoe.

The thing was inexplicable. Where was Celia? How had she gone without leaving a trace of her departure? Had she been there at all? Who had murdered Mrs. Martas? Surely some man or devil had perpetrated that crime. How had the villain escaped from the scene of his crime, leaving not the slightest clew by which it was possible to tell which way he had gone?

I reported to Captain Martas the exact condition of the affair, and told him I knew not what to do, unless we could get bloodhounds and put them on the trail. He said there were no hounds within sixty miles; that all of the planters he knew preferred to lose a runaway rather than to follow them with the dogs. Rumors of the loss of Mrs. Martas had spread from plantation to camp, and two or three soldiers had immediately ridden out to the plantation, and then had followed us to the scene of the crime. One of them said: “If there are no hounds, send to camp for old Du Chien. He is better than any dog.”

The remark was so singular that I asked: “What do you mean by saying ‘He is better than any dog’?”

“I mean that he can follow the trail by the scent better than any hound I ever saw, and I have seen hundreds of them.”

“Is that a mere camp story,” said I, “or do you know it of your own knowledge?”

“I know it myself, sir,” said the soldier. “I have seen him smell a man or his clothes, and then go blindfold into a whole regiment and pick out that man by his scent. I have seen him pull a lock of wool off a sheep, smell it good, and then go blindfold into the pen and pick out that identical sheep from fifty others. I have known him to smell the blanket a nigger slept in, and follow that darky four or five miles by the scent of him through cotton, corn, and woods. He is better than a dog.”