On the Frontier

“I suppose you know her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This woman. You have seen her?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“And you are his friend! That’s strange.” She raised her eyes to his. “Well,” she continued impatiently, “who is she? and what is she? You know that surely?”

“I know no more of her than what I have said,” said Poindexter. “She is a notorious woman.”

The swift color came to Mrs. Tucker’s face as if the epithet had been applied to herself. “I suppose,” she said in a dry voice, as if she were asking a business question, but with an eye that showed her rising anger,—“I suppose there is some law by which creatures of this kind can be followed and brought to justice—some law that would keep innocent people from suffering for their crimes?”

“I am afraid,” said Poindexter, “that arresting her would hardly help these people over in the tienda.”

“I am not speaking of them,” responded Mrs. Tucker, with a sudden sublime contempt for the people whose cause she had espoused: “I am talking of my husband.”

Poindexter bit his lip. “You’d hardly think of bringing back the strongest witness against him,” he said bluntly.

Mrs. Tucker dropped her eyes and was silent. A sudden shame suffused Poindexter’s cheek; he felt as if he had struck that woman a blow. “I beg your pardon,” he said hastily, “I am talking like a lawyer to a lawyer.” He would have taken any other woman by the hand in the honest fullness of his apology, but something restrained him here. He only looked down gently on her lowered lashes, and repeated his question if he should remain during the coming interview with Don Jose: “I must beg you to determine quickly,” he added, “for I already hear him entering the gate.”

“Stay,” said Mrs. Tucker, as the ringing of spurs and clatter of hoofs came from the corral. “One moment.” She looked up suddenly, and said, “How long had he known her?” But before he could reply there was a step in the doorway, and the figure of Don Jose Santierra emerged from the archway.

He was a man slightly past middle age, fair and well shaven, wearing a black broadcloth serape, the deeply embroidered opening of which formed a collar of silver rays around his neck, while a row of silver buttons down the side seams of his riding trousers, and silver spurs, completed his singular equipment. Mrs. Tucker’s swift feminine glance took in these details, as well as the deep salutation, more formal than the exuberant frontier politeness she was accustomed to, with which he greeted her. It was enough to arrest her first impulse to retreat. She hesitated and stopped as Poindexter stepped forward, partly interposing between them, acknowledging Don Jose’s distant recognition of himself with an ironical accession of his usual humorous tolerance. The Spaniard did not seem to notice it, but remained gravely silent before Mrs. Tucker, gazing at her with an expression of intent and unconscious absorption.

“You are quite right, Don Jose,” said Poindexter, with ironical concern, “it is Mrs. Tucker. Your eyes do NOT deceive you. She will be glad to do the honors of her house,” he continued, with a simulation of appealing to her, “unless you visit her on business, when I need not say I shall be only too happy, to attend you, as before.”

Don Jose, with a slight lifting of the eyebrows, allowed himself to become conscious of the lawyer’s meaning. “It is not of business that I come to kiss the Senora’s hand to-day,” he replied, with a melancholy softness; “it is as her neighbor, to put myself at her disposition. Ah! the what have we here for a lady?” he continued, raising his eyes in deprecation of the surroundings; “a house of nothing, a place of winds and dry bones, without refreshments, or satisfaction, or delicacy. The Senora will not refuse to make us proud this day to send her of that which we have in our poor home at Los Gatos, to make her more complete. Of what shall it be? Let her make choice. Or if she would commemorate this day by accepting of our hospitality at Los Gatos, until she shall arrange herself the more to receive us here, we shall have too much honor.”

“The Senora would only find it the more difficult to return to this humble roof again, after once leaving it for Don Jose’s hospitality,” said Poindexter, with a demure glance at Mrs. Tucker. But the innuendo seemed to lapse equally unheeded by his fair client and the stranger. Raising her eyes with a certain timid dignity which Don Jose’s presence seemed to have called out, she addressed herself to him.

“You are very kind and considerate, Mister Santierra, and I thank you. I know that my husband”—she let the clear beauty of her translucent eyes rest full on both men—“would thank you too. But I shall not be here long enough to accept your kindness in this house or in your own. I have but one desire and object now. It is to dispose of this property, and indeed all I possess, to pay the debt of my husband. It is in your power, perhaps, to help me. I am told that you wish to possess Los Cuervos,” she went on, equally oblivious of the consciousness that appeared in Don Jose’s face, and a humorous perplexity on the brow of Poindexter. “If you can arrange it with Mr. Poindexter, you will find me a liberal vendor. That much you can do, and I know you will believe I shall be grateful. You can do no more, unless it be to say to your friends that Mrs. Belle Tucker remains here only for that purpose, and to carry out what she knows to be the wishes of her husband.” She paused, bent her pretty crest, dropped a quaint curtsey to the superior age, the silver braid, and the gentlemanly bearing of Don Jose, and with the passing sunshine of a smile disappeared from the corridor.

The two men remained silent for a moment, Don Jose gazing abstractedly on the door through which she had vanished, until Poindexter, with a return of his tolerant smile, said, “You have heard the views of Mrs. Tucker. You know the situation as well as she does.”

“Ah, yes; possibly better.”

Poindexter darted a quick glance at the grave, sallow face of Don Jose, but detecting no unusual significance in his manner, continued, “As you see, she leaves this matter in my hands. Let us talk like business men. Have you any idea of purchasing this property?”

“Of purchasing, ah, no.”

Poindexter bent his brows, but quickly relaxed them with a smile of humorous forgiveness. “If you have any other idea, Don Jose, I ought to warn you, as Mrs. Tucker’s lawyer, that she is in legal possession here, and that nothing but her own act can change that position.”

“Ah, so.”

Irritated at the shrug which accompanied this, Poindexter continued haughtily, “If I am to understand, you have nothing to say—”

“To say, ah, yes, possibly. But”—he glanced toward the door of Mrs. Tucker’s room—“not here.” He stopped, appeared to recall himself, and with an apologetic smile and a studied but graceful gesture of invitation, he motioned to the gateway, and said, “Will you ride?”

“What can the fellow be up to?” muttered Poindexter, as with an assenting nod he proceeded to remount his horse. “If he wasn’t an old hidalgo, I’d mistrust him. No matter! here goes!”

The Don also remounted his half-broken mustang; they proceeded in solemn silence through the corral, and side by side emerged on the open plain. Poindexter glanced around; no other being was in sight. It was not until the lonely hacienda had also sunk behind them that Don Jose broke the silence.

“You say just now we shall speak as business men. I say no, Don Marco; I will not. I shall speak, we shall speak, as gentlemen.”

“Go on,” said Poindexter, who was beginning to be amused.

“I say just now I will not purchase the rancho from the Senora. And why? Look you, Don Marco;” he reined in his horse, thrust his hand under his serape, and drew out a folded document: “this is why.”

With a smile, Poindexter took the paper from his hand and opened it. But the smile faded from his lips as he read. With blazing eyes he spurred his horse beside the Spaniard, almost unseating him, and said sternly, “What does this mean?”

“What does it mean?” repeated Don Jose, with equally flashing eyes, “I’ll tell you. It means that your client, this man Spencer Tucker, is a Judas, a traitor! It means that he gave Los Cuervos to his mistress a year ago, and that she sold it to me—to me, you hear!—ME, Jose Santierra, the day before she left! It means that the coyote of a Spencer, the thief, who bought these lands of a thief, and gave them to a thief, has tricked you all. Look,” he said, rising in his saddle, holding the paper like a baton, and defining with a sweep of his arm the whole level plain, “all these lands were once mine, they are mine again to-day. Do I want to purchase Los Cuervos? you ask, for you will speak of the BUSINESS. Well, listen. I HAVE purchased Los Cuervos, and here is the deed.”

“But it has never been recorded,” said Poindexter, with a carelessness he was far from feeling.

“Of a verity, no. Do you wish that I should record it?” asked Don Jose, with a return of his simple gravity.

Poindexter bit his lip. “You said we were to talk like gentlemen,” he returned. “Do you think you have come into possession of this alleged deed like a gentleman?”

Don Jose shrugged his shoulders. “I found it tossed in the lap of a harlot. I bought it for a song. Eh, what would you?”

“Would you sell it again for a song?” asked Poindexter.

“Ah! what is this?” said Don Jose, lifting his iron-gray brows; “but a moment ago we would sell everything, for any money. Now we would buy. Is it so?”

“One moment, Don Jose,” said Poindexter, with a baleful light in his dark eyes. “Do I understand that you are the ally of Spencer Tucker and his mistress, that you intend to turn this doubly betrayed wife from the only roof she has to cover her?”

“Ah, I comprehend not. You heard her say she wished to go. Perhaps it may please ME to distribute largess to these cattle yonder, I do not say no. More she does not ask. But YOU, Don Marco, of whom are you advocate? You abandon your client’s mistress for the wife, is it so?”

“What I may do you will learn hereafter,” said Poindexter, who had regained his composure, suddenly reining up his horse. “As our paths seem likely to diverge, they had better begin now. Good morning.”

“Patience, my friend, patience! Ah, blessed St. Anthony, what these Americans are! Listen. For what YOU shall do, I do not inquire. The question is to me what I”—he emphasized the pronoun by tapping himself on the breast—“I, Jose Santierra, will do. Well, I shall tell you. To-day, nothing. To-morrow, nothing. For a week, for a month, nothing! After, we shall see.”

Poindexter paused thoughtfully. “Will you give your word, Don Jose, that you will not press the claim for a month?”

“Truly, on one condition. Observe! I do not ask you for an equal promise, that you will not take this time to defend yourself.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No! It is only this. You shall promise that during that time the Senora Tucker shall remain ignorant of this document.”

Poindexter hesitated a moment. “I promise,” he said at last.

“Good. Adios, Don Marco.”

“Adios, Don Jose.”

The Spaniard put spurs to his mustang and galloped off in the direction of Los Gatos. The lawyer remained for a moment gazing on his retreating but victorious figure. For the first time the old look of humorous toleration with which Mr. Poindexter was in the habit of regarding all human infirmity gave way to something like bitterness. “I might have guessed it,” he said, with a slight rise of color. “He’s an old fool; and she—well, perhaps it’s all the better for her!” He glanced backwards almost tenderly in the direction of Los Cuervos, and then turned his head towards the embarcadero.

As the afternoon wore on, a creaking, antiquated ox-cart arrived at Los Cuervos, bearing several articles of furniture, and some tasteful ornaments from Los Gatos, at the same time that a young Mexican girl mysteriously appeared in the kitchen, as a temporary assistant to the decrepit Concha. These were both clearly attributable to Don Jose, whose visit was not so remote but that these delicate attentions might have been already projected before Mrs. Tucker had declined them, and she could not, without marked discourtesy, return them now. She did not wish to seem discourteous; she would like to have been more civil to this old gentleman, who still retained the evidences of a picturesque and decorous past, and a repose so different from the life that was perplexing her. Reflecting that if he bought the estate these things would be ready to his hand, and with a woman’s instinct recognizing their value in setting off the house to other purchasers’ eyes, she took a pleasure in tastefully arranging them, and even found herself speculating how she might have enjoyed them herself had she been able to keep possession of the property. After all, it would not have been so lonely if refined and gentle neighbors, like this old man, would have sympathized with her; she had an instinctive feeling that, in their own hopeless decay and hereditary unfitness for this new civilization, they would have been more tolerant of her husband’s failure than his own kind. She could not believe that Don Jose really hated her husband for buying of the successful claimant, as there was no other legal title. Allowing herself to become interested in the guileless gossip of the new handmaiden, proud of her broken English, she was drawn into a sympathy with the grave simplicity of Don Jose’s character, a relic of that true nobility which placed this descendant of the Castilians and the daughter of a free people on the same level.

In this way the second day of her occupancy of Los Cuervos closed, with dumb clouds along the gray horizon, and the paroxysms of hysterical wind growing fainter and fainter outside the walls; with the moon rising after nightfall, and losing itself in silent and mysterious confidences with drifting scud. She went to bed early, but woke past midnight, hearing, as she thought, her own name called. The impression was so strong upon her that she rose, and, hastily enwrapping herself, went to the dark embrasures of the oven-shaped windows, and looked out. The dwarfed oak beside the window was still dropping from a past shower, but the level waste of marsh and meadow beyond seemed to advance and recede with the coming and going of the moon. Again she heard her name called, and this time in accents so strangely familiar that with a slight cry she ran into the corridor, crossed the patio, and reached the open gate. The darkness that had, even in this brief interval, again fallen upon the prospect she tried in vain to pierce with eye and voice. A blank silence followed. Then the veil was suddenly withdrawn; the vast plain, stretching from the mountain to the sea, shone as clearly as in the light of day; the moving current of the channel glittered like black pearls, the stagnant pools like molten lead; but not a sign of life nor motion broke the monotony of the broad expanse. She must have surely dreamed it. A chill wind drove her back to the house again; she entered her bedroom, and in half an hour she was in a peaceful sleep.