The Bells of San Juan Read online

  THE BELLS OF SAN JUAN

  A Novel

  by

  JACKSON GREGORY

  Author of _Judith of Blue Lake Ranch_, _The Joyous Trouble Maker_,_Man to Man_, etc.

  Illustrated by Frank Tenney Johnson

  New YorkGrosset & DunlapPublishers

  1919

  [Frontispiece: Having come closer he reined in his horse, stared at hera moment in surprised wonderment. . .]

  TO

  RODERICK NORTON GREGORY

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD--THE BELLS

  CHAPTER

  I. THE BELLS RING II. THE SHERIFF OF SAN JUAN III. A MAN'S BOOTS IV. AT THE BANKER'S HOME V. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE PATIO VI. A RIDE THROUGH THE NIGHT VII. IN THE HOME OF CLIFF-DWELLERS VIII. JIM GALLOWAY'S GAME IX. YOUNG PAGE COMES TO TOWN X. A BRIBE AND A THREAT XI. THE FIGHT AT LA CASA BLANCA XII. WAVERING IN THE BALANCE XIII. CONCEALMENT XIV. A FREE MAN XV. THE KING'S PALACE XVI. THE MEXICAN FROM MEXICO XVII. A STACK OF GOLD PIECES XVIII. DESIRE OUTWEIGHS DISCRETION XIX. DEADLOCK XX. FLUFF AND BLACK BILL XXI. A CRISIS XXII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END XXIII. THE STRONG HAND OF GALLOWAY XXIV. IN THE OPEN XXV. THE BATTLE IN THE ARROYO XXVI. THE BELLS RING

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  Having come closer he reined in his horse, stared at her a moment insurprised wonderment . . . . Frontispiece

  Then came the second meeting with Jim Galloway

  "Come, and I'll share my secret with you"

  On through the bright moonlight came the sheriff's posse

  FOREWORD

  THE BELLS

  He who has not heard the bells of San Juan has a journey yet to make.He who has not set foot upon the dusty road which is the one street ofSan Juan, at times the most silent and deserted of thoroughfares, atother times a mad and turbulent lane between sun-dried adobe walls, mayyet learn something of man and his hopes, desires, fears and ruderpassions from a pin-point upon the great southwestern map.

  The street runs due north and south, pointing like a compass to theflat gray desert in the one direction, and in the other to the brokenhills swept up into the San Juan mountains. At the northern end, thatis toward the more inviting mountains, is the old Mission. To rightand left of the whitewashed corridors in a straggling garden ofpear-trees and olives and yellow roses are two rude arches made ofseasoned cedar. From the top cross-beam of each hang three bells.

  They have their history, these bells of San Juan, and the biggest withits deep, mellow voice, the smallest with its golden chimes, seem to bechanting it when they ring. Each swinging tongue has its tale to tell,a tale of old Spain, of Spanish galleons and Spanish gentlemenadventurers, of gentle-voiced priests and sombre-eyed Indians, ofconquest, revolt, intrigue, and sudden death. When a baby is born inSan Juan, a rarer occurrence than a strong man's death, the littlest ofthe bells upon the western arch laughs while it calls to all tohearken; when a man is killed, the angry-toned bell pendant from theeastern arch shouts out the word to go billowing across the stretchesof sage and greasewood and gama-grass; if one of the later-day framebuildings bursts into flame, Ignacio Chavez warns the town with astrident clamor, tugging frantically; be it wedding or discovery ofgold or returns from the county elections, the bell-ringer cunninglymakes the bells talk.

  Out on the desert a man might stop and listen, forming his surmise asthe sounds surged to meet him through the heat and silence. He mightsmile, if he knew San Juan, as he caught the jubilant message tappedswiftly out of the bronze bell which had come, men said, with Coronado;he might sigh at the lugubrious, slow-swelling voice of the big bellwhich had come hitherward long ago with the retinue of Marco de Niza,wondering what old friend or enemy, perchance, had at last closed hisears to all of Ignacio Chavez's music. Or, at a sudden fury ofclanging, the man far out on the desert might hurry on, goading hisburro impatiently, to know what great event had occurred in the oldadobe town of San Juan.

  It is three hundred and fifty years and more since the six bells of SanJuan came into the new world to toll across that land of quiet mysterywhich is the southwest. It is a hundred years since anall-but-forgotten priest, Francisco Calderon, found them in variousdevastated mission churches, assembled them, and set them chiming inthe old garden. There, among the pear-trees and olives and yellowroses, they still cast their shadows in sun and moonlight, in silence,and in echoing chimes.