The Bells of San Juan Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  THE BELLS RING

  Ignacio Chavez, Mexican that he styled himself, Indian that thecommunity deemed him, or "breed" of badly mixed blood that he probablywas, made his loitering way along the street toward the Mission. Athin, yellowish-brown _cigarita_ dangling from his lips, his wide,dilapidated conical hat tilted to the left side of his head in alistless sort of concession to the westering sun, he was, as wascustomary with him, utterly at peace. Ten minutes ago he had hadtwenty cents; two minutes after the acquisition of his elusive wealthhe had exchanged the two dimes for whiskey at the Casa Blanca; theremaining eight minutes of the ten he required to make his way, as henaively put it, "between hell and heaven."

  For from a corner of the peaceful old Mission garden at one end of thelong street one might catch a glimpse of the Casa Blanca at the otherend sprawling in the sun; between the two sturdy walled buildings hadthe town strung itself as it grew. As old a relic as the church itselfwas La Casa Blanca, and since San Juan could remember, in all mattersantipodal to the religious calm of the padres' monument. Deep-shadeddoorways let into the three-feet-thick earthen walls, waxed floors,green tables, and bar and cool looking-glasses . . . a place whichinvited, lured, held, and frequently enough finally damned.

  San Juan, in the languid philosophy of Ignacio Chavez, was what youwill. It epitomized the universe. You had everything here which thesoul of man might covet. Never having dwelt elsewhere since his motherbore him here upon the rim of the desert and with the San Juanmountains so near that, Ignacio Chavez pridefully knew, a man standingupon the Mesa Alta might hear the ringing of his bells, he experienceda pitying contempt for all those other spots in the world which were soplainly less favored. What do you wish, senor? Fine warm days? Youhave them here. Nice cool nights for sound slumber? Right here in SanJuan, _amigo mio_. A desert across which the eye may run withoutstopping until it be tired, a wonderful desert whereon at dawn and duskGod weaves all of the alluring soft mists of mystery? Shaded canons atnoonday with water and birds and flowers? Behold the mountains.Everything desirable, in short. That there might be men who desiredthe splash of waves, the sheen of wet beaches, the boom of surf, didnot suggest itself to one who had never seen the ocean. So, then, SanJuan was "what you will." A man may fix his eye upon the littleMission cross which is always pointing to heaven and God; or he maypass through the shaded doors of the Casa Blanca, which, men say, givepathway into hell the shortest way.

  Ignacio, having meditatively enjoyed his whiskey and listened smilinglyto the tinkle of a mandolin in the _patio_ under a grape-vine arbor,had rolled his cigarette and turned his back square upon thedevil . . . of whom he had no longer anything to ask. As he went outhe stopped in the doorway long enough to rub his back against a cornerof the wall and to strike a match. Then, almost inaudibly humming themandolin air, he slouched out into the burning street.

  For twenty years he had striven with the weeds in the Mission garden,and no man during that time dared say which had had the best of it,Ignacio Chavez or the interloping alfileria and purslane. In thematters of a vast leisureliness and tumbling along the easiest way theyresembled each other, these two avowed enemies. For twenty years hehad looked upon the bells as his own, had filled his eye with them dayafter day, had thought the first thing in the morning to see that theywere there, regarding them as solicitously in the rare rainy weather ashis old mother regarded her few mongrel chicks. Twenty full years, andyet Ignacio Chavez was not more than thirty years old, or thirty-five,perhaps. He did not know, no one cared.

  He was on his way to attack with his bare brown hands some of the weedswhich were spilling over into the walk which led through the garden andto the priest's house. As a matter of fact he had awakened with thispurpose in mind, had gone his lazy way all day fully purposing to giveit his attention, and had at last arrived upon the scene. The frontgate had finally broken, the upper hinge worn out; Ignacio carefullyset the ramshackly wooden affair back against the fence, thinking howone of these days he would repair it. Then he went between the biggerpear-tree and the _lluvia de oro_ which his own hands had plantedhere, and stood with legs well apart considering the three bells uponthe easterly arch.

  "_Que hay, amigos_?" he greeted them. "Do you know what I am going todo for you some fine day? I will build a little roof over you thatruns down both ways to shut out the water when it rains. It will makeyou hoarse, too much wet."

  That was one of the few dreams of Ignacio's life; one day he was goingto make a little roof over each arch. But to-day he merely regardedaffectionately the Captain . . . that was the biggest of thebells . . . the Dancer, second in size, and Lolita, the smallest uponthis arch. Then he sighed and turned toward the other arch across thegarden to see how it was with the Little One, La Golondrina, andIgnacio Chavez. For it was only fair that at least one of the sixshould bear his name.

  Changing his direction thus, moving directly toward the dropping sun,he shifted his hat well over his eyes and so was constrained to notehow the weeds were asserting themselves with renewed insolence. Hemuttered a soft "_maldito_!" at them which might have been mistakenfor a caress and determined upon a merciless campaign of exterminationjust as soon as he could have fitted a new handle to his hoe. Then hepaused in front of the Mission steps and lifted his hat, made anelegant bow, and smiled in his own inimitable, remarkably fascinatingway. For, under the ragged brim, his eyes had caught a glimpse of apretty pair of patent-leather slippers, a prettier pair ofblack-stockinged ankles, and the hem of a white starched skirt.

  Nowhere are there eyes like the eyes of old Mexico. Deep and soft andsoulful, though the man himself may have a soul like a bit of charredleather; velvety and tender, though they may belong to an out-and-outcutthroat; expressive, eloquent even, though they are the eyes of apeon with no mind to speak of; night-black, and like the night filledwith mystery. Ignacio Chavez lifted such eyes to the eyes of the girlwho had been watching him and spontaneously gave her the last iota ofhis ready admiration.

  "It is a fine day, senorita," he told her, displaying two glisteningrows of superb teeth friendliwise. "And the garden . . . _Ah, que haymas bonito en todo el mundo_? You like it, no?"

  It was slow music when Ignacio Chavez spoke, all liquid sounds andtender cadences. When he had cursed the weeds it was like love-making.A _d_ in his mouth became a softened _th_; from the lips of such asthe bell-ringer of San Juan the snapping Gringo oath comesmetamorphosed into a gentle "Gah-tham!" The girl, to whom the speechof Chavez was something as new and strange as the face of the earthabout her, regarded him with grave, curious eyes.

  She was seated against the Mission wall upon the little bench which noone but Ignacio guessed was to be painted green one of these fine days,a bronze-haired, gray-eyed girl in white skirt and waist, and with awide panama hat caught between her clasped hands and her knee. For amoment she was perhaps wondering how to take him; then with asuddenness that had been all unheralded in her former gravity, shesmiled. With lips and eyes together as though she accepted hisfriendship. Ignacio's own smile broadened and he nodded his delight.

  "It is truly beautiful here," she admitted, and had Ignacio possessed atithe of that sympathetic comprehension which his eyes lied about hewould have detected a little note of eagerness in her voice, would haveguessed that she was lonely and craved human companionship. "I havebeen sitting here an hour or two. You are not going to send me away,are you?"

  Ignacio looked properly horrified.

  "If I saw an angel here in the garden, senorita," he exclaimed, "wouldI say _zape_ to it? No, no, senorita; here you shall stay a thousandyears if you wish. I swear it."

  He was all sincerity; Ignacio Chavez would no sooner think of beingrude to a beautiful young woman than of crying "Scat!" to an angel.But as to staying here a thousand years . . . she glanced through thetangle of the garden to the tiny graveyard and shook her head.

  "You have just come to San Juan?" he asked. "To-day?"

 
"Yes," she told him. "On the stage at noon."

  "You have friends here?"

  Again she shook her head.

  "Ah," said Ignacio. He straightened for a brief instant and she couldsee how the chest under his shirt inflated. "A tourist. You haveheard of this garden, maybe? And the bells? So you travelled acrossthe desert to see?"

  The third time she shook her head.

  "I have come to live here," she returned quietly.

  "But not all alone, senorita!"

  "Yes." She smiled at him again. "All alone."

  "Mother of God!" he said within himself. And presently to her: "I didnot see the stage come to-day; in San Juan one takes his siesta at thathour. And it is not often that the stage brings new people from therailroad."

  In some subtle way he had made of his explanation an apology. Whilehis slow brown fingers rolled a cigarette he stared away through thegarden and across the desert with an expression half melancholy, halfmerely meditative, which made the girl wonder what his thoughts were.When she came to know him better she would know too that at times likethis he was not thinking at all.

  "I believe this is the most profoundly peaceful place in the world,"she said quietly, half listlessly setting into words the impressionwhich had clung about her throughout the long, still day. "It is likea strange dream-town, one sees no one moving about, hears nothing. Itis just a little sad, isn't it?"

  He had followed her until the end, comprehending. But sad? How that?It was just as it should be; to ears which had never been filled withthe noises or rushing trains and cars and all of the traffic of a city,what sadness could there be in the very natural calm of the rim of thedesert? Having no satisfactory reply to make, Ignacio merely muttered,"Si, senorita," somewhat helplessly and let it go with that.

  "Tell me," she continued, sitting up a little and seeming to throw offthe oppressively heavy spell of her environment, "who are the importantpeople hereabouts?"

  _La gente_? Oh, Ignacio knew them well, all of them! There was SenorEngle, to begin with. The banker of whom no doubt she had heard? Heowned a big _residencia_ just yonder; you could catch the gleam of itswhite walls through a clump of cottonwoods, withdrawn aloofly from SanJuan's street. Many men worked for him; he had big cattle and sheepranches throughout the county; he paid well and loaned out much money.Also he had a beautiful wife and a truly marvellously beautifuldaughter. And horses such as one could not look upon elsewhere. Thenthere was Senor Nortone, as Ignacio pronounced him; a sincere friend ofIgnacio Chavez and a man fearless and true and extravagantly to beadmired, who, it appeared, was the sheriff. Not a family man; he wastoo young yet. But soon; oh, one could see! It would be Ignacio whowould ring the bells for the wedding when Roderico Nortone marriedhimself with the daughter of the banker.

  "He is what you call a gunman, isn't he?" asked the girl, interested."I heard two of the men on the stage talking of him. They called himRoddy Norton; he is the one, isn't he?"

  _Seguro_; sure, he was the one. A gunman? Ignacio shrugged. He wassheriff, and what must a sheriff be if not a gunman?

  "On the stage," continued the girl, "was a man they called Doc; andanother named Galloway. They are San Juan men, are they not?"

  Ignacio lifted his brows a shade disdainfully. They were both San Juancitizens, but obviously not to his liking. Jim Galloway was a big man,yes; but of _la gente_, never! The senorita should look the other waywhen he passed. He owned the Casa Blanca; that was enough to tickethim, and Ignacio passed quickly to _el senor doctor_. Oh, he wassmart and did much good to the sick; but the poor Mexican who calledhim for a bedridden wife must first sell something and show the money.

  Beyond these it appeared that the enviable class of San Juan consistedof the padre Jose, who was at present and much of the time awayvisiting the poor and sick throughout the countryside; Julius Struve,who owned and operated the local hotel, one of the lesser luminaries,though a portly gentleman with an amiable wife; the Porters, who had afarm off to the northwest and whose connection to San Juan lay in thefact that an old maid daughter taught the school here; various otherindividuals and family groups to be disposed of with a word and acareless wave of a cigarette. Already for the fair stranger Ignaciohad skimmed the cream of the cream.

  The girl sighed, as though her question had been no idle one and hisreply had disappointed her. For a moment her brows gathered slightlyinto a frown that was like a faint shadow; then she smiled againbrightly, a quick smile which seemed more at home in her eyes than thefrown had been.

  Ignacio glanced from her to the weeds, then, squinting his eyes, at thesun. There was ample time, it would be cooler presently. So,describing a respectful arc about her, he approached the Mission wall,slipped into the shade, and eased himself in characteristic indolenceagainst the white-washed adobe. She appeared willing to talk with him;well, then, what pleasanter way to spend an afternoon? She sought tolearn this and that of a land new to her; who to explain more knowinglythan Ignacio Chavez? After a little he would pluck some of the newlyopened yellow rosebuds for her, making her a little speech aboutherself and budding flowers. He would even, perhaps, show her hisbells, let her hear just the suspicion of a note from each. . . .

  A sharp sound came to her abruptly out of the utter stillness but meantnothing to her. She saw a flock of pigeons rise above the roofs of themore distant houses, circle, swerve, and disappear beyond thecottonwoods. She noted that Ignacio was no longer leaning lazilyagainst the wall; he had stiffened, his mouth was a little open,breathless, his attitude that of one listening expectantly, his eyessquinting as they had been just now when he fronted the sun. Then camethe second sound, a repetition of the first, sharp, in some waysinister. Then another and another and another, until she lost count;a man's voice crying out strangely, muffled. Indistinct, seeming tocome from afar.

  It was an incongruous, almost a humorous, thing to see the sun-warmedpassivity of Ignacio Chavez metamorphosed in a flash into activity. Hemuttered something, leaped away from the Mission wall, dashed throughthe tangle of the garden, and raced like a madman to the eastern arch.With both hands he grasped the dangling bell-ropes, with all of hismight he set them clanging and shouting and clamoring until thereverberation smote her ears and set the blood tingling strangelythrough her. She had seen the look upon his face. . . .

  Suddenly she knew that those little sharp sounds had been the rattle ofpistol-shots. She sprang to her feet, her eyes widening. Now all wasquiet save for the boom and roar of the bells. The pigeons werecircling high in the clear sky, were coming back. . . . She wentquickly the way Ignacio had gone, calling out to him:

  "What is it?"

  He seemed all unmoved now as he made his bells cry out for him; it wasfor him to be calm while they trembled with the event which surely theymust understand.

  "It is a man dead," he told her as his right hand called upon theCaptain for a volume of sound from his bronze throat. "You will see.And there will be more work for Roderico Nortone!" He sighed and shookhis head, and for a moment spoke softly with his jangling bells. "Andsome day," he continued quietly, "it will be Roderico's time, _no_?And I will ring the bells for him, and the Captain and the Dancer andLolita, they will all put tears into men's eyes. But first, SantaMaria! let it be that I ring the others for him when he marries himselfwith the banker's daughter."

  "A man dead?" the girl repeated, unwilling to grasp fully.

  "You will see," returned Ignacio.