The Full of the Moon/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
An Insult Avenged
Every person in Las Rubertas not actually bedridden was in the plaza that morning to drink and gossip with his friends, to view the sports and contests, and then—oh, glorious news!—to celebrate the victory of Spain over the pigs of Americans.
As Nan's horse ambled easily through the soft sand of the road leading into the square, she saw its sides lined with the old men, the women and the children of the village, and all the country round, while every youth who owned or could borrow a horse was a dashing caballero.
And anxious to attract attention to himself, each in his vanity spurred his horse deep, and held it hard with the cruel Mexican bit, that the bewildered animal in its pain might prance and cavort.
But a group of horsemen at the far end of the square seemed to be the center of interest, and they were being discussed with excited gesticulation. They were making ready for a race, Nan thought, or for some feat of Mexican prowess, so she pulled her horse far to one side and rode at a leisurely gait into the plaza.
Instantly she more than divided attention with the horsemen at the other end, though she was a familiar sight on horseback to them all.
There was no friendliness in the rows of black eyes turned intently upon her; derision, mockery, scorn of the gringo, but no longer fear or respect. Had not the Spain lick the America? and had they not Juan Ospino's word for it? Nan heard their scoffing tones, then a jeer, a hoot as she passed, and her blood tingled. But there was only one thing for her to do, and that was to ride on with her head high and ignore the insults.
At a shrill command the horses grouped at the end of the plaza leaped forward. With a thunder of hoofs and their riders shrieking like madmen, they came headlong. In the center of the square the foremost swung downward from his saddle and made a frantic swoop with his outstretched hand at the bobbing head of a rooster buried to the neck in the sand.
The spectators hooted and howled their derision. The leader's face, dark with chagrin at his failure, grew still darker at their ridicule. He lifted his eyes to see Nan.
Inflamed with much wine, the sight of her at this moment of his failure maddened him and, with a frenzied yell, he swung his horse and rode straight at her, lashing and spurring furiously.
In the second that it took him to cover the distance between them, Nan recognized the malevolent face of Ignacio Bojarques. She read his purpose in his eyes before the horses crashed together. The impact of the oncoming horse against the shoulder of her own knocked its legs from under it, and horse and rider fell. Bojarques's horse staggered and went on.
Then the fallen horse, still dazed, struggled to its feet, but Nan did not rise. Of all the throng, only Bob, who had witnessed it from Riley's doorway, and little Rosario Richards, reckless in her fright for Nan, ran to the limp heap in the sand.
The avalanche of horsemen swept by, grinning, and their enjoyment was reflected in the faces of the spectators.
Bob, as pale as Nan herself, lifted her head and shoulders to his knee.
"Can you get me some water, Rosario?" His quiet voice was unsteady.
"Pronto, señor!" and she was off like a deer.
The flying horsemen had swept on unable yet to check their horses, leaving behind them a cloud of dust which had not settled when whoops in a different key—whoops which came only from lusty American throats—were heard on the road which led in to the square from the other side of the village.
The grins faded. Women gathered their children beneath their shawls and scuttled for their doorways, the men looked at each other uncertainly. They were conquerors, the Spain had lick the America, but the vanquished were still uncommonly handy with their guns.
It might be as well, perhaps, to stand inside one's own dooryard. Inside one's own dooryard one might not be so tempting a target. Therefore, from that less dangerous point of vantage they watched the L.X. outfit, with Ben Evans at its head, dash into the plaza and turn its horses toward its solitary occupants.
"Is she dead?" Ben's horse went back on its haunches.
"Stunned, I think."
"Who—how did it happen?"
"Borjarques ran her down."
Ben's mouth was set in a straight, hard line as he flashed a look at the others. Then he raised his reins and asked:
"Which way did he go?"
Bob directed him with a nod. That was all. The saddle leathers creaked as the horses responded to the spurs.
The Mexicans were returning, laughing boisterously, and Ignacio was a hero, wearing a self-conscious smirk. How neatly he had bowled her over! They bent in mirth over their saddle-horns.
What horsemanship he had displayed in striking the shoulder at the right angle! Ah, he was a devil when roused! They had better beware of him—Ignacio Bojarques! There was proud blood in his veins. Ignacio Bojarques twirled his mustache and tossed his head. Pigs of Americans—bah!
What was that? The caballeros stopped on the instant. The pounding of hoofs, a cloud of dust—Dios! the Americanos! They recognized Ben Evans's big sorrel in the lead.
They curbed their horses in sudden panic, and the faces of the jaunty caballeros paled perceptibly. It was one thing to fight the Americano in the imagination and quite another to face him in reality, particularly when he was seeking the encounter with all his heart and soul. Indecision was in the Mexicans' attitudes in the momentary pause. Should they fight or run?
Perhaps the Americans desired to wreak their vengeance only upon Ignacio Bojarques. In that case surely it were not cowardice to remain neutral, since he alone was guilty? Happy inspiration! It was far less ignominious than to run; besides, one's back is a wide target.
They drew their horses to the roadside, huddling close to let the cowboys pass if they would, and fight if they must. The only one among them who was in no doubt as to what he should do was Bojarques. With the first hoof-beat he promptly turned and ran.
The cowboys thundered by, passing the Mexicans grouped by the roadside without a glance, for they knew well enough whose horse kicked up the dust ahead.
Ignacio had no need to look over his shoulder to know that they were gaining. He rode far over his horse's neck, sick with fear. The hoof-beats behind him were only a little louder than the pounding of his heart.
When his winded horse began to stumble, he cast a terrified glance over his shoulder. The gap was closing fast, and his horse's breath was coming in sobs.
In front of him was a long stretch of ankle-deep sand. Once, twice, his horse's knees gave way. Its wind was almost gone!
In a frenzy of desperation he looked about for some way of escape other than the road. The torneo grew like a hedge on either side, dense, impassable, its thorns ready to tear his flesh to shreds if he tried to force it.
And then, Jesus Maria, if only he could reach it; a trail branching to the river. In his insane fright he cared not where it went; he thought only of leaving the road, where quickly he must fall or surrender.
The horse was staggering when he reached it, but the trail was little used and harder than the road, which enabled it to recover somewhat. A hundred yards or so and the sullen Rio Grande spread before him. The trail ended on its sandy bank, and he could not go back.
The river was up, and running like a mill-race, yellow with sand and mud, and swirling in ominous eddies. Heavy rains and melting snows in the mountains to the North had raised it nearly level with its banks.
Uprooted trees and debris were rushing by, swirling and bobbing in the erratic current. It was thick, too, with sand, and from the torrent came a steady, dull, awesome roar.
For an instant it appalled Bojarques though he had forded it often at this crossing when the river was down. He looked at it, ashen with fear, while his horse stood at its edge with drooping head and spreading legs, its knees shaking violently beneath it.
A bullet sung by Bojarques's ear, and the river looked less formidable at the moment than his pursuers. He spurred the horse, which balked, bunching its feet in refusal upon the the very edge of the sandy bank.
The Mexican plied the quirt, and still the horse refused, while Bojarques in his fright screamed at it like a hysterical woman.
Without warning the bank caved beneath the horse's feet, and horse and rider sank with a splash to rise again in the swirling flood.
"Look at him—the crazy fool—he thinks he can swim it!" There was a certain compassion in the cowboys' faces, for the horse that was struggling gallantly in the yellow flood. It could as easily have breasted a cloudburst.
"If its head goes under once, they're gone; that water's more'n half sand."
The cowboys, looking on grimly, followed along the bank as the current swept horse and rider down.
The struggles of the already exhausted animal were growing weaker and, snorting, strangling, it turned its wild, beseeching eyes toward shore.
"Gosh! that hurts me clean through." Ben Evans began to uncoil his saddle rope.
The Mexican felt the horse was swimming lower, and realized that it could not keep up much longer with his weight upon its back, so he grasped its mane and slipped from the saddle.
"Look at him—he don't know straight up! Slidin' off on the upper side! That there Ignacio's a gone goslin'"
Joe Brindell seemed to have stated facts, since, as the horse was swimming toward shore, the current swept Bojarques underneath him. They both went under, rose, and sank again, then the sand filled the Mexican's clothes, and he went down to rise no more. The horse righted itself, but its nostrils were barely above water.
"Be careful, Ben"
But the cowboy was already out of hearing, riding hard to reach a bend where the current came close to the bank. There, with the noose swinging lightly to and fro, he waited.
If the horse recovered sufficiently to swim a little higher there was a chance. Ben waited with, his eyes fixed intently upon the oncoming horse, then the noose whirled through the air and dropped about its head. The noose closed, the rope grew taut, and the big sorrel braced its feet.
"Good boy, Ben; you shore can twist the manilla;" The L.X. outfit was hearty in its praise.
"I don't mind the greaser," Ben explained as he dragged the half-drowned animal up the bank, "but a good horse—well it would a set heavy on my conscience."