CHAPTER VIII A FIGHT IN AN OLIVE ORCHARD

SEVERAL days afterward, just at dawn, El Mojoso was returning from Cordova to his tavern, when, at a turn in the road, he came upon a small cavalcade made up of six men—five of whom were soldiers, and the other, an elegantly dressed young man.

El Mojoso, who had little liking for evil encounters, pricked up his beast in order to get into the paths ahead of the group, but the chief, who wore the insignia of a sergeant, when he noticed the innkeeper’s intention, shouted to him:

“Hey, my good man, wait a moment!”

El Mojoso stopped his donkey.

“What do you want?” he asked ill-humouredly.

“We’ve got something to say to you.”

“Well, I can’t lose anything by listening to it.”

“You are the owner of the Cross-roads Store, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir: what else do you want?”

“Why, just don’t go so fast, friend, we feel like going along with you.”

“Are you going to Pozo Blanco?”

“No, sir.”

“To Obejo, perhaps?”

“No. We’re going to the Store.”

“To the Store!” exclaimed El Mojoso, overcome with[96] astonishment. “Whom are you looking for in my house?”

“We’re looking for the Marquesito.”

“The Marquesito? What Marquesito?”

“Don’t you know him?”

“Upon my word I do not! I hope to die if I’m not telling you the truth.”

“Well, it seems that your daughter knows him very well,” replied the soldier meaningly.

El Mojoso’s face darkened, not that it had ever been exactly light, and looking back at the sergeant, he murmured in a dull voice:

“You’ve either said too much or too little.”

“I’ve said all that was necessary,” answered the soldier gruffly.

El Mojoso fell silent and urged on his donkey, while the soldiers and the unknown young gentleman followed him.

The sun came out from behind the mountain; in the distance they could see a series of low-lying hills and the Cross-roads Store in its little green clearing near the ravine.

When they reached the Store, El Mojoso dismounted from his donkey and began to pound furiously upon the door. He beat frantically with hands and feet.

“Open! Open!” he shouted impatiently.

“Who is it?” came from within.

“Me,” and El Mojoso ripped out a string of angry oaths.

A lock screeched, the door opened, and La Temeraria appeared half-dressed on the threshold.

“Why didn’t you open sooner?” El Mojoso vociferated.[97]

“What’s the matter?” she asked as she drew a short skirt over head and fastened it rapidly about her waist.

“A whole lot’s the matter. Are there any travellers in the house?”

“The young man who was here a few days ago passed the night here.”

The unknown gentleman and the chief of the soldiers exchanged a look of understanding. El Mojoso entered his house, and La Temeraria followed behind him.

“Go and see if there is a horse in the stable,” said the sergeant to one of his men, “and if there is, bring it here.”

The soldier dismounted, went into the stable, and returned after a little, leading a horse by the bridle.

La Temeraria, who had heard the noise, intercepted the soldier.

“Where are you taking that horse?” she asked.

“The sergeant ordered me to bring him out.”

“What for?”

“So the man who is here can’t escape.”

“What has the young man done?” asked La Temeraria, looking contemptuously at the soldier.

“He killed a man in Cordova about a month ago.”

At this moment, the innkeeper, who had been inside the house, returned shouting to the vestibule.

“Where is Fuensanta?” he asked his wife.

“She must be in her room.”

“She isn’t there.”

“Not there?”

“No. I just looked.”

El Mojoso and La Temeraria looked at each other furiously and understandingly.[98]

Meanwhile the sergeant, followed by one of his soldiers, went up the stairs to the garret. When the fugitive heard the noise their boots and spurs made, he must have realized his danger, for they heard the thud of a body as he threw himself against the door, then the turning of a key in the lock, and then a murmur of voices.

The sergeant drew his sword, went up to the door behind which he had heard the voices, and knocked with the hilt of his weapon.

“Open in the name of the law!” he shouted in a thundrous voice.

“Wait a moment, I’m dressing,” came the answer from within.

After a minute had elapsed, the sergeant exclaimed impatiently:

“Come, come! Open the door!”

“Wait just a second.”

“I won’t wait a minute longer. Open: I promise not to hurt you.”

“Words are air, and the wind carries them all away,” replied the fugitive ironically.

“Will you open, or will you not?”

“I will not; and he who contradicts me is in danger of his life. You’ll have to kill me here.”

At the risk of breaking his neck, the sergeant ran down the stairs three steps at a time, and addressing his soldiers, said:

“Boys, come upstairs with your guns. We’ve got to break down the door. One of you stay here on guard, and if any one tries to escape, fire on him.”

Two of the men dismounted rapidly, crossed the vestibule, and, preceded by the sergeant, rushed headlong[99] upstairs, reached the garret, and began to beat upon the door with the butts of their heavy guns.

“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant again and again.

No one answered.

“Quick now! Throw down the door.”

The door was new and did not yield to the first blows, but little by little the panels gave way, and at last, a formidable blow with the butt broke the lock....

The soldiers entered:—stretched upon the floor lay a half-dressed woman. The window was open.

“The scoundrel escaped through that,” said one of the men.

“My God! We can’t let him escape,” shouted the sergeant, and sticking his head through the window, he saw a man running across a field half hidden among the olive trees. Without making sure whether it was the man they were after or not, he drew a pistol from his belt and fired.

“No—he’s gone. We’ve got to catch him.”

They all left the room; there came a devilish noise of boots and spurs on the stairs, and they crossed the vestibule.

“To your horses,” said the sergeant.

The order was obeyed instantly.

“You, Aragonés, and you, Segura, get behind that hay-stack,” and the chief indicated a great pile of black straw. “You two, ride around that field, and this gentleman and I will go and look for the Marquesito face to face.”

The two pairs of troopers took their appointed places, and the sergeant and the unknown gentleman advanced through the middle of the olive orchard.

Aragonés and Segura were the first to see the fugi[100]tive, who was running along hiding behind the olive trees, with a gun in his hand. The two soldiers cocked their guns and advanced cautiously; but the youth saw them, stopped and waited for them, kneeling upon one knee. The soldiers attempted to make a detour in order to get near their game, but as they described an arc, the youth kept the trunk of an olive tree between him and them. Seeing that he was making sport of them, the soldiers advanced resolutely. The Marquesito aimed his gun and fired, and one of the horses, that of Aragonés, fell wounded in the shoulder, throwing his rider. Segura, the other soldier, made his horse rear, in order to guard against a shot, but the Marquesito fired a pistol with such good aim, that the man fell to the ground with blood pouring from his mouth.

Then the youth, realizing that the other pursuers would immediately come to the spot where they had heard the shots, ran until he came to a century-old olive tree with a great, deformed trunk whose gnarled roots resembled a tangled mass of snakes. He took advantage of the respite to load his gun and pistol. Then he waited. Presently a shot was fired behind him, and he felt a bullet enter his leg. He turned rapidly and saw the sergeant and the gentleman approaching on horseback.

“My death will cost you dear,” murmured the Marquesito angrily.

“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant, and approached the fugitive at a trot.

The Marquesito waited, and when the sergeant was twenty paces from him, he fired his gun and pierced him with a bullet.

“Hey, boys!” shouted the sergeant. “Here he is.[101] Kill him!” Then he put his hand to his breast, began to bleed at the mouth, and fell from his horse murmuring, “Jesus! He’s killed me!”

One of the sergeant’s feet caught in the stirrup, and the horse, becoming frightened, dragged his rider’s body for some distance over the ground.

“Now it’s your turn, coward!” shouted the Marquesito, addressing the gentleman.

But that person had turned on his croup and couldn’t get away fast enough.

The youth began to think that he was safe: the blood was flowing copiously from his wound, so he took the handkerchief from about his neck and bound his leg firmly with it. Next, he reloaded his weapons, and limping slowly, sheltering himself behind the olive trees and glancing from side to side, he advanced.

When he had reached a little plaza formed by a space that was bare of trees, he saw one of the soldiers in ambush. Perhaps it was the last one.

When they saw each other, pursuer and pursued immediately took refuge behind the trees. The soldier fired; a ball whistled by the Marquesito’s head; then he rested his gun against a tree trunk, fired, and the soldier’s helmet fell to the ground.

They both concealed themselves while they reloaded their weapons, and for more than a quarter of an hour, they kept shooting at each other, neither of them making up his mind to come out into the open.

The Marquesito was beginning to feel faint from the loss of blood; so he decided to risk all for all.

“Let’s see if we can’t finish this business,” he murmured between his clenched teeth; and he advanced, limping resolutely toward the soldier. After a few steps[102] he discharged his gun point blank, and immediately after, his pistol.

When he saw that his enemy had not fallen, that he was still standing, he tried to escape, but his strength failed him. Then the soldier took aim and fired. The Marquesito fell headlong ... he was dead. The ball had struck him in the back of the neck and had come out through one of his eyes, shattering his skull.

“He was a brave chap,” murmured the soldier as he gazed at the corpse; then he kneeled by his side and searched his clothes. He wrapped his watch and chain, his shirt studs, and his money, in a handkerchief, tied it in a knot, and made his way back to the tavern.

As he drew near, he heard a voice wailing in despair:

“Oh, mother! Oh, mother! Oh, my dearest mother!”

In the clearing before the house was Fuensanta, half-undressed, livid, with her face black and blue from the beating her father had given her. The girl was moaning upon the ground, terror-stricken. La Temeraria, with her arms lifted tragically, was shouting:

“She has dishonoured us! She has dishonoured us!”

The innkeeper’s other daughter stood in the doorway, watching her sister as she dragged herself along the ground, exhausted by her beating.

“Don’t beat the girl like that,” said the soldier.

“Don’t beat her!” shouted El Mojoso. “No, I won’t beat her any more,” and seizing his daughter by the arm he pushed her brutally from him, shouting:

“Go ... and never come back!”

The bewildered girl hid her face in her hands, and then the poor little thing began to walk away, weeping,[103] and not knowing what she was doing, nor where she was going.

Months later, a woman from an Obejo mill came to El Mojoso and announced that Fuensanta had given birth to a son, and that she desired to be forgiven and to return home; but the innkeeper said that he would kill her if she ever came near him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

“The scoundrel! The bandit!” exclaimed Quentin, striking the table a blow with his fist.

“Who is a scoundrel?” asked Se?or Sabadía in surprise.

“That Mojoso fellow, the dirty thief ... his daughter dishonoured him because she loved a man, yet he did not dishonour himself, though he robbed every one that came along.”

“That’s different.”

“Yes, it’s different,” cried Quentin furiously. “To the hidalgos of Spain it is a different matter; to all those commonplace and thoughtless men, a woman’s honour is beneath contempt. Imbeciles!”

“I see that you are enraged,” said Don Gil with a smile. “Does the story interest you?”

“Very much.”

“Shall I proceed?”

“Please do.”

“Then kindly call Se?ora Patrocinio and ask her to bring more bottles of wine, for my throat is very dry.”

“But you are a regular cask, my dear Don Gil.”

“Yes I’m the Cask of the Danaides. Call her, please.”

“Se?ora Patrocinio! Se?ora Patrocinio!” called Quentin.[104]

“Isn’t she coming?”

“No. She is probably busy with her witchcraft. Perhaps this very minute she is burning in her magic fire the sycamore torn from the sepulchre.”

“Or the funereal cypress, and the feathers and eggs of a red owl soaked in toad’s blood,” added Don Gil.

“Or the poisonous herbs which grew in such abundance in Iolchos, and in far-off Iberia,” continued Quentin.

“Or the bones torn from the mouth of a hungry bitch,” added the arch?ologist.

“Se?ora Patrocinio! Se?ora Canidia!” shouted Quentin.

“Se?ora Patrocinio! Se?ora Canidia!” echoed Se?or Sabadía.

“What do you want?” asked the old woman as she suddenly entered the room.

“Ah! She was here!” exclaimed Quentin.

“She was here!” echoed Se?or Sabadía. “We want some more bottles.”

“What kind do you want?”

“I believe, venerable dame,” Quentin ejaculated, “that it is all the same to my friend here, whether it be wine from the vines of Falernus, Phormio, or Cécube, as long as it is wine. Is that not true, Don Gil?”

“Of course. I see that you are a sagacious young man. Bring them, old woman,” said the arch?ologist, turning to Se?ora Patrocinio, “bring fearlessly forth that excellent wine that you have guarded so jealously these four years in the Sabine pitchers.”

The old woman brought the bottles, Quentin filled Don Gil’s glass and then his own, they emptied them both, and Se?or Sabadía went on with his story in these words: