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Show By FRANK H. SPEARMAN rl H. Sermon WNU S.rvi. t II AITI K XI Continued II "Mavbe you hiui to obey orders, Kit. Hut I'd never think It nf you. Your brother Mose nover would have done tliiii you know that ns well as 1 do." "Well, It's done," snupped Kit. iiuu-h put out t the rebuke, "fo, anyway, tln-ro's no use talklns about it. Where you (join-, Henry?" Howie had risen, picked up his rl-He rl-He and was shaklni; his legs. "I'm K''ni!;. just as I told you, up the river t.i Sutter'i." I "Nut. bears V Injuns, hold your I i"-es till you talk to the old man." I "I'm not talkini; to him, Kit. He I -'.tn't hire me to murder decent Pe.u-eable boys like the He Haros." i "Sh! don't talk so loud, you old i bullfros stay overnight and think , it over. You've picked on the only mean job he ever put on me. Henry." Hen-ry." "Kit. I'm on my way." No effort j 111 persuasion availed. Bowie shook i hands with Kit and his friends and . exchanged raillery with them but j went lus way. i ! Everything at Sutter's Fort I pleased him. Captain Sutter had I charged the whole atmosphere with his own magnetic personality. When he persuaded Bowie to remain for ' a time with him It was to be on I Bowie's own terms, if Bowie would I name any. In the end Sutter named (or his new recruit so liberal a per-I per-I centage on his fur business that ; Bowie himself insisted on reducing 1 it Captain Sutter had at his command com-mand the services of former mission mis-sion Indians who. cn the despoiling ef the missions by the freebooting Mexican politicos. had found themselves them-selves adrift and thrown on their own resources. Some fell back into savagery and pillage, imitating their Mexican despoilers. Others, of the better stripe, sought service where they could; many were In the cm-ploy cm-ploy of Sutter. These men were tractable and were expert with the bow and the gun. Even Bowie, who was placed in sole charge of these hunters, was often amazed at their skill. No less a source of amazement amaze-ment to him. although he had thought himself familiar with the country, was its limitless wealth in game and fur-bearing animals. Elk supplied tallow worth more commercially com-mercially than that of cattle. Deer were a pest, and bears were hunted for their heavy pelage. The rivers and the tule beds swarmed with beavers and land otter. ot-ter. The quantities of skins brought in by the Indians astonished Sutter himself, and with every shipment ddwn the river he deposited with Nathan Spear, his factor at Yerba Euer.a. a sum of money for Bowie's credit. For to Bowie, Sutter ascribed the unlooked-for increase in the returns re-turns from his Indian contingent The lively frontier atmosphere at the fcrt the daily excitement owing to the constant succession of strangers, stran-gers, wanderers and travelers arriving, ar-riving, singly and in groups, in large and small companies with amazing stories of hardship, adventure, conflict, con-flict, discovery, treachery, starvation, starva-tion, stark tragedy and even cannibalism canni-balism served to keep Bowie's mind busy with interest in the strange frontier characters he encountered en-countered and in their strange tales cf deserts, mountains, valleys, riv- ers. snow and ice. AH their stories had a common feature their deserts were vast, their mountains towering, their valleys val-leys like paradises, their rivers swift, treacherous and mad to destroy. de-stroy. Some told of trees so great of girth and so tall that no listener could believe his ears; others of mysterious valleys where boiling water gushed hundreds of feet into I the air and ice froze on the edges of their pools. But even marvels lose their thrill. Even the adventure of the chase becomes be-comes commonplace when at last routine. For nearly two years Bowie made an active part of the enterprise enter-prise of Captain Sutter. Still, something some-thing suppressed but gnawing at his feelings urged him to seek new scenes, new excitement, to deaden a vague sense of loneliness. When he told Captain Sutter he was leaving leav-ing him there was an explosion. But it was a good-natured one, and the two parted friends. Bowie promised to come back sometime if he could make it. Leaving the valley with one pony, Eowie worked South along the Sierras, Si-erras, sleeping under the stars and killing such small game as he needed need-ed for food until, passing the Te-haehapi Te-haehapi range, he stopped at the Mission San Gabriel, only to learn that a state of war existed between Mexican factions and that the southern south-ern end of the department was, for one side or the other, under arms. CHAPTKR XII Eowie had no intention of mixing in a squabble between Mexican California Cal-ifornia grafters, and to avoid the sham battle lines he kept well inland in-land in order to reach San Diego. He meant to outfit there and strike across the desert for Texas, which he had not seen for years. He reached San Diego late at night. He had intended to sleep outside out-side the town overnight. But toward to-ward night fall rain had begun to fall and when he reached the presidio pre-sidio there was a heavy downpour. K rode UD to the presidio gate, where he was challenged by a sentry, sen-try, whom be answered in good Spanish and asked for shelter. The sentry called the captain of the gnu I'd out into the rain from a game of seveu-up. Whether tills was unpleasant for the captain, whether the call spoiled a winning streak, or whether the captain had hud too much puliiue, Bowie never could figure out. . Hut he was very brusque, lie ordered Bowie to dismount, ordered him searched and disarmed. No answer that the Texan could make to his insolent questioning would satisfy him. lie pronounced Howie a spy. put him under arrest and sent him to the guardhouse. The Texan's surprise was equaled by his annoyance and his contempt for his captors. However, he rolled-ed rolled-ed that a night in the dry guardhouse guard-house would be better than a night in the rain. Hut to find himself for the first time in his California life without his knife, his revolver, or his ritle and his ammunition was something to disturb him. He tossed all night and could console himself only by thinking that In the morning morn-ing he would easily satisfy the com-andante com-andante that his arrest was owing to the drunken stupidity of lingua lin-gua rd. After much palaver the next morning he was brought before an underling of the governor and subjected sub-jected to a grilling that astonished him. His own simple tale of who he was and what he was doing in San Diego was brushed aside as of no value, and he was questioned closely as to what his relations were with the faction that Governor Pico of the department feared was planning plan-ning an attack on him personally. After hours of examination which naturally developed nothing Bowie was remanded to the guardhouse There he fretted and fumed day after day until his resentment wore itself dumb. He was summoned at last before the governor himself. This, the prisoner felt sure, would be the end of IL Such was not the case. Pico bore a name that Inspired all who sought justice at his hands with foreboding. forebod-ing. But the Texan knew nothing of the mentality that characterized this leader of the mission spoilers. Again Bowie told his story; it fell on deaf ears. The strange revolver taken from him was not merely evidence evi-dence but proof conclusive in Pico's judgment that Bowie was a spy. His protestations availed him nothing. noth-ing. At three o'clock he was notified that he would be shot as a spy next morning. Bowie took the message, silent and hard featured, from the guard who brought it But with his wits keyed high by the amazing news, he studied closely through the bars of the peephole in the cell door the features of the Indian soldier who bore the message. It Bashed suddenly on Bowie that he had seen that man before. "Sanchez," he said calmly. "I thank you for telling tell-ing me this." The Indian started at the utterance utter-ance of his name. "I thank you, Sanchez," continued Bowie, unmoved un-moved by the stolid guard's amazement, amaze-ment, "because you and I are old friends. You do not recognize me; I am covered with half a beard and unwashed and eaten by vermin. Look closer, Sanchez" Boiyie lowered low-ered his voice "look closer. I am Bowie, whom you knew at Guadalupe. Guada-lupe. We fought together in the canyon can-yon of the Santa Maria did we not?" Sanchez stared hard at him. Bowie's Bow-ie's very quiet pierced the sluggishness sluggish-ness of his Indian nature. "Senor," he stammered, speaking low and with the utmost caution. "I remember all. I did not know you. How can I help you? If I let you out they will shoot me." "Do nothing of that kind. Only, as soon as you can, bring me something some-thing to eat and pass me a good knife. That's all go. Tell them 1 will be ready." Sanchez proved not ungrateful. Bowie's contempt for everything and everyone concerned in his Imprisonment Im-prisonment was not lessened by the threat of immediate death. But he set to work, within a minute after the knife was in his hand, to dig himself out of his crude surroundings. surround-ings. Working feverishly for an hour in the clay underlying the stone floor, he had made progress in his tunnel when, although no sound reached his ear, the scant light through the peephole of his cell door lessened just enough to make him realize someone was looking in. Expecting a bullet in the back of his head, he turned as unconcernedly unconcerned-ly as possible from the bunk near which he was working. Behind the bunk lay the loose earth scooped from under the floor. He glanced toward the peephole. A face was there. But the aperture was so narrow nar-row and high that he could see only the face itself. Bowie, sitting on the -bunk, studied keenly the eyes that studied him. For a long moment mo-ment there came a calm voice from the barred window. "My son: I am a padre. May I speak a moment with you?" Bowie was annoyed but prudent. "Certainly, Padre." He stepped to the cell door. "What can I do for you?" he asked in a courteous manner, though inwardly resentful. "The guard will be here present ly," continued the padre, "lie will open the door." "That Is not necessary, Padre. We can talk here (ace to face quite as well." "Not quite so well, my son. I would rather sit down with you a (ew moments that we may speak undisturbt d." "Padre mio," said Howie (Irmly, "I am at my devotions; please leuve nie in peace. I have but a few hours to live." "That Is why I wish to speak with you, my son. You were ut your devotions. That is well. Are you a Catholic?" Howie wus stumped. "I well, not exactly. Padre. You see , . ." Footsteps were heard outside. "Here comes the guard," said the padre, tinning to look. "Let him open the door Just a moment, my son. I promise I will not annoy you." After locking the cell door, the guard had gone, leaving the two men in Huwie's narrow quarters. "My leg is not very good. You notice my limp," said the padre. "May I sit down?" Motioning his unbidden guest to the one three-legged stool mid Beating Beat-ing himself on his bunk. Howie "Maybe you did. Kit. but I'd never think It of you." hoped the padre's searching eyes would detect nothing of the loose earth piled underneath 1L Yet to the uneasy prisoner It seemed almost al-most too much to hope. His Industry Indus-try had made noticeable progress. "They tell me. my son, that you are spy," began the padre casually." casu-ally." "So they tell me." returned Bowie, slightly acid in his tone. "I ask, is it true?" continued his questioner. "It Is not," answered Bowie bluntly. blunt-ly. "I have had no trial; not a shred of evidence lies against me. The truth is. Padre mio. your governor wants for himself a new and unusual un-usual flrearm it is called a revolverthat revolv-erthat his men took from me. And he is putting me out of the way to get a clear title to it" "Do not, my son, say "your governor." gov-ernor." I am not an officer of the Mexican government. I am a Spaniard. Span-iard. My sole earthly quest in California Cali-fornia is the salvation of souls. You may be a spy though I do not behove be-hove it, for the whole story has been told me or you may be twenty twen-ty times a spy; that matters nothing noth-ing to me. But since you are condemned con-demned to death let me ask: what of your soul? what of eternity? You are an Americano?" "No, Padre." "Not Americano what then, my son?" "A Tejano." "A Tejano," echoed the Franciscan, Francis-can, still searching Bowie's face narrowly and speaking as if musing or as if placing in his mind a fact at a time to serve as tesserae for a possible mosaic. "When did you first come to California?" "Some ten or twelve years ago, Padre. What," demanded Bowie impatiently, "has that to do with this trumped-up charge against me?" "Nothing, nothing whatever, my son. But if you will be patient it may have something to do with what I have in mind. By what routs did you come to California?" "Across the Rio Colorado and the desert of the South." The padre's interest seemed to grow. He spoke on with slight but increasing keenness. "Then you must have come in not very far from San Diego," he persisted, still musing. "I did so come." "I presume," continued the padre gently insinuating, "that you spoke Spanish when you came to California?" Califor-nia?" "When I came to California neither nei-ther I nor my companions could speak a word of Spanish." "You did not come alone, then?" "Two Texan scouts came with ii.e." "Three of you." The white-haired man, his penetrating eyes bent closely on Bowie, hesitated an instant. in-stant. He spoke then intently. "My son, did you and your companions hear about that time of Indian murders?" "I have heard of many Indian murders since coining to California." Califor-nia." "I Bpeak of a ruld and a murder In which a Spanish ranchero and his two vaquorns were killed, his house burned and two of his little girls carried Into captivity by the Indians." Indi-ans." Howie eyed the Franclnenn for a moment without speaking. He was completely surprised. The priest's features were immobile. "I do remember re-member such an Incident, yes, Pud-re," Pud-re," returned Bowie Impassively. Then with his curiosity aroused: "Why do you ask?" The questioning padre straight-ened straight-ened on his stool. "Because," he said slowly, "you are the Texan who brought those two girls back from the mountains. I am the priest In whose care you left them. I have been looking (or you for twelve years." "Twelve years ago! Is It that long? It must be. These years have taken their toll of your health and strength. Give me the stool; you take the bunk. It Is a little better. If I were a Catholic I would confess to you that the reason I did not ask you to the better seat Is because ... 1 do not think you will betray me." He lowered his voice. "I'm digging a tunnel to get out of this place." "I hud already perceived as much! " Bowie laughed, In spite of himself, him-self, os Die dry avowal. 'Tt Is certainly strange. Padre, that you and I should meet again utter twelve years, under circumstances circum-stances such as thesel Well, queer things happen In California. Those were two nice little girls I remember remem-ber them well. But they were scared dumb. Whatever became of them?" "My son, I have not seen these girls for almost ten years. They live fur north In Cal.fornia . . But to your present position." He lowered his voice to whisper. "Should your attempt to escape fail, you face a terrible alternative. You may face a firing squad within a few hours." "No, Padre mio. I shall face no squad. These Mexican dogs I should feel disgraced to be shot by such curs. If you sympathize with my predicament, dismiss your fears for myself I have but one perplexity: per-plexity: where to find a horse when I get out." "A horse?" "A man on foot In California! Only you padres can stand that." "I have a thought," whispered the padre. "But If I could provide a horse how could you, a stranger here, find it?" "Please sit here with me on the bunk." Eowie speke in whispers to one on whose good faith he was practically staking his life. "I shall not use this tunnel. It Is a blind. Padre, to protect a friend. I shall walk out of the door tonight. A guard, to whom I once did a good turn, will aid me. Before daybreak I shall be gone." "If I can have a horse at the back of this guardhouse at a certain time tonight, can you get to it?" "I certainly can and I will thank you forever." "But the time " "If I could see the stars I could tell you," said Bowie. "But I have no way. A signal? I could hear thaL What time will the moon rise?" "Not until after midnight." "Then, by ten o'clock. All will be quiet here. Padre, you could not get two horses?" "As easily as one." "Then the guard will go with me. Two low whistles will tell me the horses are there. I shall be eternally eternal-ly grateful." "Shortly after dark," said the padre, "I shall pass your cell door. Be alert. If I do not speak, the horses will be there. And now we must think about eternity. If you are discovered escaping, you will be instantly shot." A heavy footstep approached in the corridor. It was the guard. He knocked roughly with his keys on the cell door. "Is my time up?" asked the padre quietly as the guard stuck his face against the bars of the peephole. "You're long past .your time," ha answered in surly tone. "Come out." "Give me but two minutes," pleaded the padre. "No." "One minute." "One minute no more," roared the guard. "He's drunk," whispered Bowie. "You do not know how to make confession of your sins?" whispered the padre to his neophyte. "I do not. Padre." "But tell me for I think your heart is good now, in the face of possible death, tell me you are sorry sor-ry for your sins. Can you honestly do this, my son?" Bowie hesitated. "I see no reason. Padre mio, why I should not do as you ask," he said at length. "And being sorry for your owi. sins, tell me. my son that you forgive for-give those who have sinned againsl you." "That is different, Padre." "It only seems so. These men are nothing in your life you will forget them. Forgive them. Tell me you do." (TO BE CONTINUED) |
