Chapter VII: Part 7

Ah, there’s much of comfort in the thought that one has learned a way, and that my work in science has not all come to naught. How I admire that man of whom my friend Dr. X. told me this morning, who laughed at the doctors who worked a whole night over him, trying to save him from self poisoning. He would revive for a moment under their efforts and mutter, “No you don’t, d--n you,--you can’t do it!” and then lapse into coma again. He knew a way, did that man. The stupid doctors did not know. He, like myself, was a chemist. Was he merely defiant, or was it professional pride that animated him when he challenged those fool doctors, who came to interfere with his plans, but knew nothing of the symptoms produced by a clever admixture of laudanum and potassium cyanide? I glory in that noble man’s artistic achievement--I glory in his vindication of individual rights.

* * * * *

Existence is growing absolutely insupportable to me. My synthetic experiments with organic elements which seemed so promising have come to naught. Another of my failures! I haven’t the energy to begin all over again, neither am I disposed to devise experiments in other fields. My brain is pumped out, like a dry well. My heart is dead. I suppose one might live with a dead heart, but what’s the use? I begin to believe that it is time to--well, to follow the _way_. There, in that bottle upon the shelf, are four grains of--I wonder if my figuring was correct? There’s surely enough. But suppose there should be too much? Pshaw! Why do I doubt? My experimental provings have been too carefully made to admit of suspicion of inaccuracy. That huge dog which--

Why not to-night? “If ’twere done, when ’tis done, ’twere well it were done quickly.” There is no reason why I should not. My affairs--What affairs? I have no affairs. My family? There is none. My friends? Possibly there are some who will read the obituary in to-morrow’s paper, and sorrow over the necessity of going to the “crank professor’s” funeral. They will have no keener regret, for, thank the fates, there will be no funeral expenses, and no contributions will be levied; I have attended to all that. My friend, Dr. X., is a prosector at the university, and to him my body is willed. He has promised to wire the skeleton for the museum. Good fellow, X. No sentimental gush about him. I wonder how the skeleton will look. I hope X. knows the French method of cleaning bones. It would be some satisfaction to know that mine will be white and glistening, and nice to handle. I wonder what those French fellows use that gives that faint sweet smell to newly bleached human bones. I suppose I might have written and found out, but I never thought of that.

As usual at this hour I am alone in the laboratory. It is barely possible that Professor A. may return to-night. I fancy he did not quite finish that experiment to-day. It would be embarrassing if he should come in before I had passed clear through the door. With that narcotic there would be great danger of such a mishap. I want to acquit myself at least as creditably as did that man of whom my friend Dr. X.--Great Charon! the very thing. There should be a bottle of cyanide somewhere upon the shelves--

How very awkward! Who could have misplaced that bottle? I thought I knew just where to put my hand upon it. Well, there’s no use fretting about it, to-morrow I will--Ah, now I think of it, there’s a vial of anhydrous prussic acid in that little drawer in A.’s desk, and I have a key!

* * * * *

I fancy I can do the work much more artistically than did X.’s patient. I will take the narcotic in its most elegant and concentrated form, instead of that beastly tincture. I hate nauseous medicines. As for the prussic acid, I will use a hypodermic. Fortunately there is one yonder, in the room for animal experimentation. I will take the morphia first, and when it begins to act, I will get the syringe. There will be plenty of time.

How simple; just a tongue coating of powder--a mere fleeting dash of bitter--a draught of water and--so far the narcotic. Now, to await results.

* * * * *

How exhilarating the primary effects of opium. How easy to chronicle one’s impressions. How I can write! No wonder that De Quincey--; I seem to be in a brighter sphere. It is as though the air of the laboratory had turned to pure oxygen. What strength I feel! What mighty deeds could I not accomplish now? How large and vivid the gas lights are. There is an aureola of secondary glow about each of them. I would experiment with them to-morrow if-- What music is that? Is it not beautiful? Why, I know that air--it is one my mother used to sing when I was a little lad--I remember how my dear little sister used to--But how faint the strains are now. And the lights are growing dim. It will soon be dark. My chair is rocking, too. How soothing and sensuous the motion seems. How drowsy I am getting--I must take that hypodermic before I get too sleepy.

There, that shows what will power can do. Some men would have gone to sleep and forgotten the rest of their plans. How orderly and systematic A. is, to be sure. No rummaging around in the drawer amid a confusion of things to find the prussic. How tight the stopper is. There, now I have it. Pshaw! I’ve spilled half of it on the floor and cut my fingers. How clumsy and numb my fingers are, and how hot and fiery this blood is. How delightful the prussic smells.

Just a drop--the morphia will combine with it and neutralize it. The drugs will neutralize each other just sufficiently to give me plenty of time, and I shall still be able to write. Here, in my thigh--just here-- Ah! My God! too m--.

CHIQUITA

I had been rambling about through Calaveras, investigating mining properties, and incidentally enjoying to the full the glorious weather of the early California spring. My search for the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow had led me far up among the majestic Sierras--those wondrous mountains at the foot of which was verdure more beautiful than any artist could portray, while their snow-covered tops reared themselves proudly through the clouds and, peering beyond, seemed to challenge the very sky to descend and meet them. The ravines and gulches were tortured and torn by rushing torrents from the melting snows above. Every rivulet had become a brook, every brook a river, and every river a veritable Niagara.

So replete with the swift rushing yellow waters were the courses of the mountains and valleys, that the venerable wise-acre, yclept “the oldest inhabitant,” was permitted by his neighbors to croak to his heart’s content, and actually held his audiences while he regaled them with the horrors of “the freshet of the spring of ’61 and ’62,” and chilled the very marrow of their bones with the ominous prophecy that the present gorging of the streams was but the forerunner of a rising of the waters which should make the famous old-time flood of the Sacramento Valley fade into nothingness.

I had been leisurely retracing my steps from the mountains, and returning by the “Big Tree” road through the historic town of Murphy’s Camp--made famous by Bret Harte, and interesting to me because I had there spent several of the years of my childhood--arrived at the little town of Vallecito, where I intended to inspect some placer property.

The ardent, coppery-red ball of the California sun was just descending behind the foothills to westward when I arrived at my destination, hence there was nothing to do save to make myself as comfortable as possible at the little ramshackle inn, “The Miner’s Rest,” and defer all thought of business until the morrow.

Life in the foothills of the Sierras may be monotonous, but it has its pleasant features, not the least of which was the fare of the humble Miner’s Rest. I found that Mr. Jim Truesdell, the landlord, had not boasted when he said genially, “We ain’t much on style hereabouts, Mister, but you kin bet your bottom dollar our feed is just as good, an’ just as plenty as it is at the Frisco Palace; tho’ we ain’t braggin’ none about variety on our meenu kyards.”

Having finished my supper, I lighted a cigar and strolled out upon the rude, tumble-down veranda of the little inn. Seating myself with my feet planted upon the railing and a book upon my lap, I proceeded to enjoy my smoke. Then--my book forgotten--I fell into the revery which the fragrant smoke wreaths of a good cigar and the glorious flame of a dying sun bring to him who is at peace with himself and his surroundings.

More beautiful sunsets there may be than those of my native heath, but I have never seen but one that could in any way compare with them, and even there, in a harbor of far-off Guatemala, the conditions, save for the brilliant ocean rim below which the sun sank to sleep, were much the same. The mountains to the eastward of Vallecito recalled the Sierra Madre, of that distant alien land. There were the same fleecy clouds, illumined by the waning fire of the God of Day, reflecting colors that surely would have been the despair of the most ambitious brush, and floating with soft caress over the snow-capped peaks which, like grim and watchful sentinels, walled in the valley where nestled the little town. There was just breeze enough blowing to give a keen zest to the balm-laden air of the mountains--a feature which that ever to be remembered scene in the Bay of Ocos distinctly lacked, for ’twas a miniature hell down there, night or day.

Save for the weird cry of some mysterious night bird, who ever and anon called his mate, and the infrequent whir of a diminutive species of bat, everything was as quiet as a blue Sunday in staid old New England. The “chug” of the pick, the clamorous ring of the shovel and the rattling of the miner’s cradle were conspicuously absent in the valley and the hills and ravines round about. So still was the little mining town, that a giant elk who was sniffing the air in a spirit of curious and careful investigation far up the mountain side, came nearer and yet nearer, tossing his head with its burden of enormous horns in defiance at first, and then standing stock-still as if amazed. When he had finished his tour of investigation, he turned and stalked majestically away down the side of a rocky gorge that would scarcely have afforded safe footing for a cat. He glanced back several times as though he did not quite understand his undisputed kingship, and then, with a farewell belligerent toss of his mighty antlers, plunged into the obscurity of the beautiful manzanita, and scraggly _mésquite_ and chapparal that fringed the steep canyon sides of the awesome Sierras.

As the elk disappeared, a long, sobbing, terrifying wail was wafted from amid the scrub firs and tall bread pines still higher up on a distant mountain side. It was the cougar’s warning to his tawny mate. The elk was not king, nor yet was the hungry panther, for somewhere amid those far-off mountain ravines was the lair of the grizzly, fiercest of his kind.

The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the western sky and the chill of night was fast gathering, yet I still sat there upon the veranda, half asleep, but breathing in deeply the invigorating fragrant balm that was borne to me by the cool evening breeze from the spicy mountain firs and pines and giant redwoods. As I dozed my cigar fell from my lips and bounded off the veranda to the ground, where it lay glowering reproachfully at me for a few moments before it finally went out altogether, smothering in its own ashes and spitefully emitting, as a farewell indignant protest, the acrid odor of dead tobacco.

“_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero._”

I came to myself with a start, and turned in the direction of the voice.

At the foot of the two or three steps that led to the veranda where I was sitting, stood a man and a woman--evidently Mexicans--as queer a couple as it had ever been my fortune to meet. The man was apparently about sixty years of age, taller than most of his race, still stalwart and erect and, despite his years, a handsome fellow of his type. He carried his head as haughtily as might an hidalgo of Old Spain. His picturesque costume was bedecked with finery which, faded though it was, indicated the garb of a Mexican of the higher caste. His swarthy face was shaded by an ornate sombrero, from beneath which flashed piercing, fiery eyes that would have compelled attention anywhere. A broad silk sash encircled his waist, and artistically draped over his shoulder were the graceful folds of a bright, many-colored _serape_. Through the sash was thrust the inevitable murderous-looking _cuchillo_--the symbol of his individuality and a declaration of that belief in personal responsibility which is as inseparable from the hot Latin blood as though it were dependent upon a special corpuscle.

Unlike her companion, the woman presented a figure that was pathetic, rather than picturesque, although she too showed in her apparel something of the fondness for color and tinsel that characterizes her race. She appeared to be old--much older than her companion, although appearances are very deceptive in judging the age of women of the Latin races. They mature young, and their youth and beauty begin to fade very early, so early that at a period when the woman of fair Anglo-Saxon blood is yet in her prime, her darker-skinned sister is already old and wrinkled.

The old crone--for so she appeared--was bent and withered, with hair as white as human hair ever becomes. Her face was fearfully disfigured by smallpox, that loathsome disease which had become a curse to her people. As she raised her eyes towards me, I noted with something of a shock that she was totally blind--the dull and expressionless eyes showed that only too plainly. Used as I was to the sight of human misery and helplessness, there was something in the poor old woman’s face that impressed me.

“_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero_,” again said the man, with a polite bow. “_Comprende V. Espanol?_”

“_Muy poco_--very little--_Señor_,” I replied.

“Then will I speak the tongue of the _Americanos_, though I speak it not well,” he continued. “I hope _el Señor_ he is not disturb in his smoke of the evening by the speaking to him.”

“Not at all, Sir,” I answered politely.

“Then, maybe, it is not too free to ask _el Señor_ if he will have the fortune told.”

“Oh, you are a fortune teller, eh?”

The Mexican raised his head proudly.

“_Non, Señor_, it is not I that have fortunes to tell. Ramon Pasquale never has told yet the fortune. He does not know. It is my Chiquita here, she the great fortunes can tell. She can see, oh, so far! She sees not as _el Señor_ sees, with the eyes of the head;--it is with the eyes of the mind, with the eyes of the soul that Chiquita sees. She knows how the past to tell. Aye, and the future too, she knows. She the stars can read--she reads them true. The grave to her is not closed. Fate is to the eyes of her mind as is to _el Señor’s_ eyes the open book upon his knee. She is wonderful, my Chiquita! Is it not so, _cara mia_?” There was a tender note in his voice as he addressed his aged companion.

“It is so, my Ramon,” replied the woman, in a voice that fairly startled me, so clear and youthful did it seem. “It is so, and if the great _Señor_ will allow me it to tell, I will to him read the story of the past of his life, and for him open the book of the future, that he may know what shall come to him.”

My expression must have betrayed the interest I felt, for the Mexican said eagerly: “To-night must _el Señor_ listen to Chiquita. To-morrow she will be gone, and it too late will be. It is not dear, _Señor_, it is _muy barato_--very cheap; only one _peso_; that is all. And so wonderful, so wonderful, _Señor_! There is none so wonderful as Chiquita. _El Señor_ he will never forget the fortune she for him will tell--and only one _peso_.”

And Chiquita told my fortune, and evidently tried to give me good measure, for the stars were out and the moon was silvering the eastern sky ere she had finished.

Granting that Ramon was sincere, and not merely attending to business in his enthusiastic praises of Chiquita’s professional skill, he and I differed somewhat in our estimate of it. There was nothing very new about the fortune the old woman mapped out for me. It had the same rose color as many others I had heard. There were the usual platitudes about the honors I was to win, and the riches I was to gain. I would become famous, also, and was destined to marry a woman for whom my own country surely could hold no place, for, according to the fortune teller’s description, she was to be a duchess, no less. Of course, as I did not tell Chiquita that I was already married, I could find no fault with the bride to be, especially as she was of the blood royal.

But Chiquita was eloquent, in her broken way, and both she and her picturesque companion were so interesting that I did not begrudge the dollar which, after all, she had fairly earned. To hear pleasant things about one’s self is always worth the price--and there always is a price, although we are not often wise enough to know it.

There was that in the poise of Chiquita’s white head and the sweetly modulated tones of her voice which, with her small, slender, beautifully formed brown hands suggested that her birth and breeding were more aristocratic than is usual with itinerant vendors of fortunes.

I was curious to know more of the interesting couple, but had been riding hard that day, and the prospect of a good bed was just then more attractive than character study with a pair of strolling Mexicans for subjects. The séance of fortune telling ended, I was glad to pay for my entertainment and say good-night to them.

“_Gracias, Señor--buenos noches._ We are much thankful, my Chiquita and I. Is it not so, my Chiquita?”

The old woman bowed gracefully, and echoed her companion’s expression of appreciation and farewell greeting. As I turned to enter the inn the landlord met me at the door, saying:

“Your room’s all ready, Mister. It’s been ready for more’n an hour. I seen you was havin’ your fortune told, an’ as the old gal allus dishes up as good ones for the money as can be had in these diggin’s, I thought I wouldn’t disturb ye. I hope ye got all the trimmin’s that was comin’ to ye,” and he grinned expansively.

“I have no fault to find with the fortune the old woman told me,” I replied smilingly; “it was doubtless better than I deserve, and I suspect much better than I will ever experience. I was far more interested in Chiquita and Ramon, her companion, than in her skill as a fortune teller. I am curious to learn something of them. Do you know anything about them?”

“Why, no, leastwise not enough to hurt. The old gal is some sort of a gypsy, I reckon. She sure is, if there’s any Mexican gypsies. The feller with her is a Greaser all right, though I’ll allow I don’t know nothin’ else agin him. They blew in on this town about ten years ago, an’ have been comin’ here off an’ on, workin’ the fortune tellin’ racket ever since.”

“Well, they are not likely to get rich at it,” I said. “Vallecito does not seem to be a very profitable field for their particular specialty.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied the genial Jim. “Of course, this town ain’t what she was in the early days,” and the old “forty-niner” sighed retrospectively. “But it ain’t so bad, after all. It’s a little out o’ season now, but when strangers come through here on the way to Mariposa and Calaveras, I reckon it’s pretty good pickin’ for the old woman and her pal. The Big Trees and the Calaveras caves draw pretty good crowds, and they’re the kind of people that’s got mighty tender feet, too--an’ some money. I sort o’ like them kind, myself.”

“Is anything known of the history of those Mexicans before they came to this part of the country?” I asked.

“No; we folks don’t ask questions much, an’ Ramon, the Greaser, aint one of the talkative kind. Anyhow, he don’t talk much to us. I reckon though, that some o’ them tourists knows how to make him loosen up. There was a feller here once that writ stories for magazines an’ such, who told me that Ramon had spun him some pretty wild yarns, an’ I believe he writ some of ’em down in a book.”

“Ah, then a story has been published about them.”

“Well, I don’t reckon it was published none,” replied mine host, facetiously. “That writer feller tumbled off the foot-bridge into the Tuolumne Canyon about a week after that, an’ I’m afraid he didn’t go to press.

“But I’m runnin’ a hotel, such as it is, an’ hain’t got much time for fairy tales, an’ still less time for Greasers, which the same I don’t like nohow.”

Needless to say, my conversation with the landlord had only served to increase my curiosity. As I bade him good-night I resolved to seek for Chiquita and Ramon in the morning. I had scented a romance; which meant with me that I must take the trail and run the story to earth.

* * * * *

I found the fortune teller and her companion in the cabin of a Mexican sheep herder, among the hills a little way out of town. This is the story that Ramon told me:

“Our story, _Señor_? It is not much, our story. What you have seen, that is all it is to tell. It is the story of Chiquita, my Chiquita, there, that you should hear. I, Ramon, know the story. Alas! too well do I know it. Listen, _Señor_:

“Many, many years ago, in the days when _los Americanos_--the _mineros_--were by hundreds here in Calaveras and in the valley of Tuolumne, a great _hacienda_ there was, and a great mansion, near Sonora, just by the road that now runs to Vallecito. When the _Señor_ rides to Sonora, at the right hand of the road will he yet see the stones of the crumbling walls of the house. He cannot mistake, for all along the road is there none other like it.

“Don Pedro Salvia, the name was, of the owner of the _hacienda_. Many broad acres of the hills and valleys were his, and over those acres by the thousands grazed his cattle. All the land it was black with his droves of the long-horned breed of _la España_. Horses too, there were in vast herds. Never were seen mustangs so many and so fine and swift as those of Don Pedro. Many cattle and many mustangs mean always much money, and Don Pedro was _muy rico_--of great riches.

“The old Don was proud, oh, so proud, but not his great wealth was it that made him so. Of a famous and haughty race he was. None older was there in all Castile. His blood was what the _Americano_ would call--what is it that they call the blood of the grandee? Ah, I remember--he was of the blue blood. None was there in all Spain so blue.

“In Sonora for many years had the Salvias been--so long that no _Americano_ could remember when the family was not there. Before Don Pedro came, many, many generations of the Salvias had lived and died on the _rancheria_.

“Fate had laid its hand heavy on the blood of the Salvias, for the Don was of his race the last man. He had one child only--a daughter. La Doña Teresa, her poor mother, had died when she came--the little one.

“Chiquita was of Don Pedro’s life the sun. He worshipped her even as worships the good Catholic the Madonna. Never was maiden so beautiful or so graceful. Ah! like the deer was she graceful. And she was no plant of the hot house. There was none among all the herders who could throw the _riata_ as could Chiquita. Of all the _caballeros_ of Sonora there was not one who in riding could match her. There was no mustang so wild that she could not tame him. And shoot! Not in all California was there a better shot with rifle or pistol than Chiquita.

“And, _Señor_, she was not afraid--as any _caballero_ she was brave. As free and fearless as the young eagle she came and went among the rough hill people. Once only, was any man so bold as to give to Chiquita the insult. Ah! _Señor_, beautiful to see it must have been! Almost dead they found Léon Bodigo, the half breed. All of his blood it had run out. The maiden’s little _cuchillo_, it was sharp, _Señor_.

“No companions had Chiquita, save the birds and flowers, and the trees and brooks of the mountains,--and Juan, her cousin. But she was happy and had never the--what you call it, eh? Ah, I have it, care. She had not the care. She had never sorrow, and never had tears wet her beautiful eyes since she was small--so very small.

“Juan it was, who was of Chiquita the slave. He was not so old as Chiquita. He was a lad only--fourteen years of the age he was--but there was no _caballero_ more strong of heart than he. Happy also, was Juan, for loved he not Chiquita? Yes, with all his soul he loved her. A thing wonderful to see was the love of Juan for the beautiful Chiquita!

“When the _vaqueros_ made of the cattle the round up, with them rode Chiquita, and beside her was Juan--always Juan. You should have seen the riding, and of the herds the gathering, _Señor_. Nothing so grand is there now anywhere to see.

“Many times when the throw was made for the branding, and the fierce long-horn to the ground was brought, it was with the _riata_ of Chiquita. And, Juan, too, made his throw for the iron. The count of Chiquita and Juan in the throwing of the cattle the best _vaquero_ could not beat.

“But Paradise it is never to last. Dark days there came to the _rancheria_ of the Salvias. It was over again the story of--Eden, yes? In the beautiful garden the serpent?

“One day to the _rancheria_ came _un Inglés_, an English Milord. A letter he bring from a friend of Don Pedro’s, asking that he be made welcome. That Englishman he was sick, very sick, _Señor_. Like a man who is starved he looked. _Dios!_ he was white. He was so thin that when the wind blew he trembled like a leaf that on the tree is dead, and poof! poof!--how he had the cough! He could not sit the mustang, and the _vaqueros_ they smile at him when he ride. So weak he was that on the ground he fall off--bang!

“But _el Medico_ he have said that the Englishman he must ride, ride, ride--or with the lungs he will surely die. And so he try and try, for he had the pluck, that Englishman. By and by, he grow strong--strong like the bull. The air of the hills is like the old wine of Oporto and makes the great miracles. _Carramba!_--the air it did not know.

“When that Englishman he was strong to ride steady, Juan was happy no more. Wherever Chiquita was, there was Milord. He learned to throw the _riata_ and with the _vaqueros_ to ride the herd. They ride not badly, these cursed _Inglés_. This fellow he ride bob! bob! bob! up and down, always up and down--but he ride straight like the soldier.

“How Juan hated that English Milord! Little fool, that Juan! He did not know that it was Juan that was too many in the riding of pleasure. Ah! he was the great fool--he thought it was the Englishman! For many days he thought this foolish thought. So it was, until one day Chiquita sent him away on a mission that was useless. When he came back, he saw her riding far away from the _hacienda_, far away in the hills. The Englishman he was beside her; so close to her he was that together their knees were touching. And then Juan knew! And then, so quick, like the lightning, grew he from boy to man--and such a man!

“It runs hot, the blood of my people, _Señor_, and in the veins of none of his race had it ever run hotter than it ran that day in the veins of Juan. And bitter it ran, and everything it was red to the eyes of Juan. One thing only was there to do; the Englishman must die, and Juan he must kill him!

“The next day again into the hills rode Chiquita. Milord, the cursed Milord, was as always beside her. Juan saw them at the corral in the starting, and taking his rifle he crawl, like _una serpiente_, on the belly through a gulch between the hills that open on the road at the turning. In the chapparal he crouched and waited, like the panther that is hungry. Nothing could save Milord, for when did Juan ever miss the mark?

“But Chiquita made with the Englishman a race, and so swift was her mustang that far behind she left him. To the turn of the road she came alone. Juan heard the beating of the hoofs and thought it was time. He stood straight up behind the brush of the greasewood and manzanita, with his rifle at his shoulder--so! Chiquita saw, and all at once she knew.

“So sudden it all was, and she ride so quick, that Juan was close--oh, so close--to killing Chiquita before he saw who was the rider.

“Straight at him the mustang she rode, and then she stopped and looked into his eyes; oh, so sad she looked. For a long time she looked at him. He saw that she knew, and it was not the eyes of Chiquita that fell--it was Juan’s. And then she spoke:

“‘It is not for me, that my cousin he waits. In his eyes is there murder, but it is not for his Chiquita that he sees red. Is my cousin Juan a coward, that he lies in ambush? Does he love me no longer? Is it that he would kill one whom I love? Go, and go quickly, that he may not see you--that he may not know that my little Juan has put upon Chiquita and the house of Salvia the great shame.’

“The Englishman he was not come to the bend of the road before Juan was gone. And Juan came not back to the _hacienda_ for the many, many days. No one knew where he had gone, but he was not far. He was near in the mountains; like the cougar and the grizzly he was hiding. Far from Chiquita he could not go. Many the times she have passed him as he crouched in the _mésquite_, but she did not know. Always was her Englishman to ride beside her. Three, four, ten times could Juan have killed him, but would not! Was it not that Chiquita had said she have come to love the Milord? And she have said, too, that it is coward to shoot from the ambush. Juan loved Chiquita; her heart he would not make to ache, and, _Señor_, he was not coward, that little Juan!

“Every day, for many, many days, Juan, from his hiding could see of the rides, the starting--Chiquita and the Englishman--always the cursed _Inglés_! Not always would they ride near Juan. One way sometimes, then next day another way, but every day some way they ride--Chiquita and her Englishman. And they ride so close, so very close--so close together they ride that Juan sometimes forgets almost, and then he looks at the rifle. So hungry he looks at it, and how the itching it is in the fingers! Always is it loaded, the rifle, and it carries far and true the bullet when Juan fires it. He is fine shot, that little Juan.

“One day Chiquita and the Englishman they not ride together. The Milord is alone. Next day is he alone once more. He does not ride the way of Juan. That is good, for Chiquita is not there, and to remember is hard when she is not there, and the gun it is loaded.

“Two days, then, the Englishman he ride alone. The second day, in the evening, Juan sees the _vaqueros_ and the women run, and run--they run about like jack-rabbits. And then they gather together and talk, talk, always they talk; like _el loro_, the parrot, they talk. There is no work. For two days, Juan has not seen Don Pedro.

“The third day, in the morning, everything is like dead at the _hacienda_. No one is stir, only sometimes the dogs they bark. By and by comes the Englishman out of the house, springs quick on his mustang and like the wind he is off. He rides close by Juan, so near that the boy he could have plucked him off his horse. And the Englishman’s face it was white--white just like a corpse. He ride like he is scared--like _el diablo_--like the devil he ride!

“Juan, too, was scared. He was sure something go bad, very bad, at the _hacienda_. And so he is go down to the place and look all around, but he is see nobody--they are all gone, the _vaqueros_ and the women.

“And then Juan go into the house. There he find Don Pedro dying with _la viruela_, the smallpox, _Señor_! with nobody to care for him but Chiquita, and one old woman that was call for the joke, La Bonita, the beautiful, because she have the pest long before and was, oh, so ugly! Ah! the face of Don Pedro! It was horrible; it made Juan to grow sick!

“But Juan stay and help the women. At first the boy he was afraid, but he loved Chiquita, and soon the pest he forgot.

“Well, _Señor_, soon and sure the end was. In five days Don Pedro he was dead. And Juan and La Bonita they bury him, with nobody to help. Chiquita her heart is break. She cry and cry and cry, but Juan he knew it was not all for that her father was dead. She would not tell Juan, but he knew. The coward _Inglés_ that have run away--for him also were the tears.

“A few days more and Chiquita too, was take sick with the pest. This time it was not the black smallpox--but it is bad, very bad. _Jesu!_ How the old woman and the boy they make the fight for Chiquita! And Chiquita she is not die--she get well. Her face it is scar--so bad is it scar that La Bonita herself is not less beautiful than the poor Chiquita. And Juan he is afraid--for some day she will know, so he take away from the house all the bright things and the mirrors and tell La Bonita the young _Señorita_ must not know. And the old woman she understand, ah! too well she understand. She remember the sorrow of the day she herself first saw the scar of her face, and she is careful of Chiquita.

“When Chiquita she could once more walk about and breathe the sweet air of the pines, everywhere with her went Juan. Once again it was Juan--always Juan.

“When Chiquita she grew strong again, as before the pest came, the poor boy he might have been happy, but for one thing--tears, tears, always tears in the eyes of Chiquita! And Juan he knew they were not all for Don Pedro. Always in her mind that cursed Milord! Her heart it still ache for the coward Englishman.

“Long walks Chiquita and Juan they take together. She could again ride, but never did she ask for her mustang. She for riding cared no more. Always, you see, she is think of the Englishman. And Juan, he know why she wished not to ride, and his heart it was lead.

“But Juan was kind, so very kind to Chiquita. Always he loved her, and the scar of the face made to him no difference. But every day does he fear the time when she must know. That time, so much does he fear it, that the brooks he would not let her cross; he was afraid that in them her face she might see; yet still did he know sure that sometime she must see it.

“By and by the people is come back to the _rancheria_, and Juan he is do the best he can to take care of the place, and the cattle and the horses. For a little while things they go along like before the pest it have kill Don Pedro.

“One day Juan he go into the hills for the round up, and for two days he come not back. Before he go he tell La Bonita to keep good watch of the poor Chiquita, but all the same he is afraid. All the time of the riding after the cattle he is afraid it goes not well with Chiquita.

“When Juan he is get back from the round up, the great trouble it have come. Chiquita she is mad--she have gone crazy, _Señor_, and she does not know anything--not anybody does she know!

“From La Bonita Juan hears the story. The Englishman he has come back to see what is happen at the _hacienda_. Chiquita is so glad she almost die with the gladness, but _el Inglés_, he is see her poor face with all the scar, and he is look, ‘Ugh!’ He say nothing, but he look the ‘Ugh!’

“La Bonita she hear the Englishman tell Chiquita he must say _adios_--for the last time he must say it. She cry, and cry, and cry, like the heart it is to break, and she hold tight to the coat of Milord. And then he push her away hard, so! and tell her about the scar on her face, and she not understand--she not believe. So he take from his pocket _el espejo_, the looking-glass, and hold it before Chiquita!

“La Bonita she hear the great scream and run quick to Chiquita. She find her on the floor like one who is dead. The Englishman he is not there--he is gone, but on the floor is the devil looking-glass. La Bonita made the curse, and crush the glass into the thousand pieces, so! If the Englishman he had not gone she sure would have kill him, that old woman! She with the poniard could aim true, that Bonita, and for the blood of Milord was she thirsty.

“When he have the work to do, _el Mexicano_ make not the hurry, but when he must kill his enemy, _Señor_, then does he never say _mañana_--the to-morrow. To-day is the time he must kill.

“Juan stayed not long at the _hacienda_. He leave Chiquita with the old woman, and saddle his mustang and ride--swift as the bird flies, rode Juan. The _vaqueros_ they tell him the Englishman he have ride through Sonora, and so Juan he go that way.

“Does _el Señor_ know where is the ferry on the Stanislaus?”

“Yes,” I said, “I know the place well.”

“Then, the _Señor_ he will remember that the mountains are at the ferry high, very high and steep like the wall. The Stanislaus in the spring is so swift that in it a man could not live one second. The rocks, ah! _Señor_, the rocks in the canyon of the Stanislaus they are plenty, and they are sharp and cruel.

“It was not then as now. There was no ferry, and one must cross by a foot-bridge. The freshet of the spring-time it had washed the bridge away. Very high was then the Stanislaus! When the foot-bridge it was go, one must wait, and wait, and wait--he must wait for the going down of the water and for the _mineros_ a new bridge to build.

“In the cabin of a _minero_ away up on the mountain side the Englishman was wait for the water to go down and the bridge to be built. Here it was that Juan find him.

“He could fight, could that cursed _Inglés_, and he was so strong that in his hands only a child was that little Juan! But the boy he have the courage, and the right--and, _Señor_, he have the poniard. It is the poniard that makes the strength as nothing.

“In the cabin of the _minero_ the fight began, and so weak was Juan in the hands of _el Inglés_ that he was by him push through the door and to the edge of the canyon. It is very deep, that canyon, and to the bottom a very long way, and Juan he know what happen if he is not quick and sure.

“The wrist of Juan it is not strong, and his enemy he hold it tight in his hand, so! But, when the Englishman he take the boy around the waist for throw him over the side of the canyon, his foot it make the slip and he fall back! As he fall he let go the wrist of Juan!

“Ah! now for Milord is there no more chance! He must sure die! Quick, like the rattlesnake, struck the boy! One! Two! Three!--five times he bury the knife in the Englishman!

“And when the Englishman fall limp on the ground, Juan is cover thick with the hot red blood. It have spurt, and spurt--all over him it have spurt!

“The Englishman he is not yet so dead that he does not understand when Juan say: ‘My Chiquita, she have send her love to the Milord who was so kind as to show to her in the looking-glass her face.’

“And then Juan laugh in the man’s face as he die.

“When the Englishman he was no more, Juan roll and roll him to the edge of the canyon. He was not strong for the lift, but he could make the push and the roll of the body. When the body was at the edge, Juan make one grand push and crash! over the Englishman go!

“Perhaps _el Señor_ he not _comprende_--he have not the hot blood of _un Español_. But, maybe, he too have enemies, and knows the hate, and the feelings of Juan can understand.

“Never was music so sweet to the ear of that little Juan, as the sound of the dead Englishman making the fall. Every time the body it strike the rocks, it bound off like the ball, and spatter much blood! Very beautiful to the eyes of Juan was the red trail of the body on the canyon side.

“When the body of Milord reach the bottom, he look no more like a man--he is like he is blown to the mince-meat by the blast of powder. He fall into the Stanislaus in many pieces, splash! splash! and when Juan saw this, he was happy--_Dios!_ for the one minute he forget.

“Of the story of Chiquita there is not much more to tell, _Señor_. When Juan was get back to the _hacienda_, she was still not know anybody. _El Medico_ say she have of the brain a bad sickness. She live, but she no more can see--she is blind!

“And never has Chiquita remembered--_Gracios à Dios!_

“Not long was it before the _rancheria_ of the Salvias is go to ruin. They all go away, the _vaqueros_ and the women. La Bonita, she stay like the faithful dog till she die. And then was Chiquita alone--alone, till she have found Ramon.”

Here the story-teller gazed tenderly toward the door of the herder’s cabin, where in the quiet shadows just within, sat a pathetic white-haired figure.

“But what became of Juan?” I asked.

There was a peculiar light in the Mexican’s eyes as he replied:

“Long, long ago he die--that little Juan. It was well that he die, for when Ramon came, then was there no more need of Juan. Then, too, my poor Chiquita did not know, and why was it then that Juan should live?”

A DEAD IDEAL

A ROMANCE OF THE DISSECTING ROOM

I had been practising medicine for some years, and had grown tired of the hard daily grind of the general practitioner. I longed for a vacation, but medicine is a hard task mistress and with the busy physician economy of time is so essential that his so-called “rest” is usually merely a change of work. I felt that it must be so with me, and resolved to hie me to some of the eastern centers of medical teaching and take a post graduate course in several special subjects. Polyclinics and post graduate schools being then unknown, I went to New York and matriculated at one of that city’s famous schools, one which had attained a high reputation for practical bedside instruction and abundant clinical material.

It was with all the enthusiasm of a school boy, that I enrolled my name upon the college roster and settled down to earnest work in the hospital wards and dissecting rooms.

As I was desirous of mingling with my classmates as much as possible, and was not averse to a certain degree of practical economy, I formed a combination with three undergraduates, who were recommended to me as desirable associates, and became a guest of a medical students’ boarding house--an establishment characterized by abundant opportunities for the study of entomology and the effects of prolonged fasting upon the human body, rather than by the abundance and variety of its larder. As was the custom among medical students, we clubbed together and occupied a large single room--none too elaborately furnished, but very comfortable withal, and made rather attractive by a large, old fashioned fireplace.

My room-mates were most agreeable associates, although not altogether harmonious in tastes and methods of study. Two were young Southerners--men of superior attainments, but typic ladies’ men, and fond of social dissipation and excitement. Both were possessed of some means, and had adopted our mode of living because of social and bohemian instincts rather than from motives of economy. Time was an unimportant factor with them, hence they rarely suffered from over-study, although they were often the worse for the wear and tear of social dissipation. If ever there was a well matched pair of college cronies it was my young friends, Will Richardson and Charles Favell.

The fourth member of our circle, Harold Parkyn, was about my own age, and as different from our jovial room-mates as possible. He had been an artist, it seems, and an unappreciated one, which was no fault of his, for he had talent that fell but little short of genius. Despairing of success in his chosen profession and abhorring commercial pursuits, he had entered medicine at a rather late period in life.

I have rarely met a man so ill adapted by nature to medicine as was Parkyn. He was a fine, athletic, handsome fellow, with a clear cut, refined and classical face, and magnificent dark eyes which evidenced a temperament far too esthetic, and emotional faculties too exalted and sensitive to withstand the physical and mental strain incidental to intimate association with human suffering. His first visit to the dissecting room was harrowing to witness, and it was weeks before he made an attempt to qualify in practical anatomy. At his first surgical clinic he fainted outright. A large part of the disagreeable features of caring for the sick filled him with disgust. And yet, Parkyn was plucky; his was not a spirit to be easily discouraged, and he applied himself persistently to the task of subduing his finer feelings and acquiring the proverbial callosity of the medical student--an effort in which he most signally failed.

Parkyn was not only of a delicately sensitive nervous organization, but he was rather peculiar in his ways. Affable at times--when his chums were indulging in jollity--he was generally one of the most reserved and taciturn men I have ever met; especially was he unsocial in the presence of ladies. So noticeable was this peculiarity that the young women of the household had dubbed him “Old Crusty”--which disturbed his serenity not at all, even when Richardson and Favell, in a spirit of mischief and with great show of formality, adopted the sobriquet applied to him by the ladies. In grave and solemn caucus these young gentlemen decided that Parkyn was a confirmed woman hater, and deservedly doomed to die an old bachelor. Their favorite occupation was the reading of love letters which they pretended to have received, and the exhibition of photographs of pretty girls to “Old Crusty.”

Being a practitioner, and therefore concededly the oracle of our little student family, I was a sort of balance wheel to the party, standing between the occasional over-exuberance of Richardson and Favell on the one hand, and the extreme sensitiveness of Parkyn on the other.

One evening as we were all sitting before the fireplace enjoying our after-dinner pipes, Favell brought out from the recesses of his wonderfully productive pocket, a photograph of a most beautiful woman, and with a fine show of counterfeit embarrassment, exhibited it as “The picture of a very dear friend of mine, down home--just received this morning. Very charming girl--particular friend of my sister’s,” etc. etc.

The picture was certainly beautiful, and if Favell was telling the truth he had reason to be proud of the charming young woman’s acquaintance, but as I looked at the photograph, I fancied I remembered having seen it before, in a stationer’s shop. I made no comment, however, and Favell proceeded to launch the arrows of his wit at Parkyn.

“Say, old man, here is something that ought to stir your blood at last! How can you remain a woman hater and know that there are such charming creatures on this old planet of ours as Miss--Ahem!--the original of this photograph? Ah! your eyes are actually growing green with envy. You dear old stick, you! Has it been merely a slight touch of sour grapes after all? Tell me, old fellow, did you ever see anything so beautiful as this face? Did you ever know a lovelier girl?”

Parkyn rose from his chair, and with a mournful expression replied, “One only, my dear boy, and she--but pardon me,” he said, coloring up, “you well know that the subject of ladies is one which--bores me. I must leave such things to social butterflies like yourself and our mutual friend Richardson here. And, by the way, gentlemen, I must hie myself to a subject even more distasteful than that of woman in the abstract. I promised Professor Van Buren that I would finish that abominable dissection of the upper extremity to-night. You see that the trend of Favell’s conversation has driven me to extremities. Yes, thank God! to my last extremity.” Saying which he withdrew.

“Now, see here, boys,” I said, after Parkyn had gone. “You mustn’t tease our friend so outrageously. If I am not mistaken you hit him on a tender point just now, and he is far too sensitive and high-strung to always take your badinage so good naturedly as he did to-night. I suspect that Harold Parkyn is quite as human as the rest of us and that he--well, who knows that he may not be bitterly mourning over the grave of buried hopes? No, boys, you must let him alone. You may be inflicting pain upon him.”

“By Jove, doctor!” exclaimed Favell, “I never thought of that. I’ll just bet the dear old fellow has had a love affair. And it hasn’t turned out right; that’s what’s the matter. I’ll apologize to him as soon as he returns.”

“Yes, and a fine mess you’ll make of it!” said Richardson. “You would better let well enough alone. We’ll both have a little sense and delicacy hereafter. To tell the truth, I have for some time been a little ashamed of my part in our chaffing, and I’m only too glad to reform.”