CHAPTER IX
BARBARA IN MEXICO
THE manager of El Orobo Rancho was an American named
Grayson. He was a tall, wiry man whose education had been
acquired principally in the cow camps of Texas, where, among
other things one does NOT learn to love nor trust a greaser. As
a result of this early training Grayson was peculiarly unfitted
in some respects to manage an American ranch in Mexico; but
he was a just man, and so if his vaqueros did not love him,
they at least respected him, and everyone who was or possessed
the latent characteristics of a wrongdoer feared him.
Perhaps it is not fair to say that Grayson was in any way
unfitted for the position he held, since as a matter of fact he
was an ideal ranch foreman, and, if the truth be known, the
simple fact that he was a gringo would have been sufficient to
have won him the hatred of the Mexicans who worked under
him--not in the course of their everyday relations; but when
the fires of racial animosity were fanned to flame by some
untoward incident upon either side of the border.
Today Grayson was particularly rabid. The more so
because he could not vent his anger upon the cause of it, who
was no less a person than his boss.
It seemed incredible to Grayson that any man of intelligence
could have conceived and then carried out the fool thing
which the boss had just done, which was to have come from
the safety of New York City to the hazards of warring
Mexico, bringing--and this was the worst feature of it--his
daughter with him. And at such a time! Scarce a day passed
without its rumors or reports of new affronts and even
atrocities being perpetrated upon American residents of Mexico.
Each day, too, the gravity of these acts increased. From
mere insult they had run of late to assault and even to
murder. Nor was the end in sight.
Pesita had openly sworn to rid Mexico of the gringo--to
kill on sight every American who fell into his hands. And
what could Grayson do in case of a determined attack upon
the rancho? It is true he had a hundred men--laborers and
vaqueros, but scarce a dozen of these were Americans, and
the rest would, almost without exception, follow the inclinations
of consanguinity in case of trouble.
To add to Grayson's irritability he had just lost his
bookkeeper, and if there was one thing more than any other that
Grayson hated it was pen and ink. The youth had been a
"lunger" from Iowa, a fairly nice little chap, and entirely
suited to his duties under any other circumstances than those
which prevailed in Mexico at that time. He was in mortal
terror of his life every moment that he was awake, and at last
had given in to the urge of cowardice and resigned. The day
previous he had been bundled into a buckboard and driven
over to the Mexican Central which, at that time, still was
operating trains--occasionally--between Chihuahua and Juarez.
His mind filled with these unpleasant thoughts, Grayson sat
at his desk in the office of the ranch trying to unravel the
riddle of a balance sheet which would not balance. Mixed
with the blue of the smoke from his briar was the deeper
azure of a spirited monologue in which Grayson was engaged.
A girl was passing the building at the moment. At her side
walked a gray-haired man--one of those men whom you just
naturally fit into a mental picture of a director's meeting
somewhere along Wall Street.
"Sich langwidge!" cried the girl, with a laugh, covering her
ears with her palms.
The man at her side smiled.
"I can't say that I blame him much, Barbara," he replied.
"It was a very foolish thing for me to bring you down here at
this time. I can't understand what ever possessed me to do it."
"Don't blame yourself, dear," remonstrated the girl, "when
it was all my fault. I begged and begged and begged until you
had to consent, and I'm not sorry either--if nothing happens
to you because of our coming. I couldn't stay in New York
another minute. Everyone was so snoopy, and I could just tell
that they were dying to ask questions about Billy and me."
"I can't get it through my head yet, Barbara," said the
man, "why in the world you broke with Billy Mallory. He's
one of the finest young men in New York City today--just
my ideal of the sort of man I'd like my only daughter to
marry."
"I tried, Papa," said the girl in a low voice; "but I
couldn't--I just couldn't."
"Was it because--" the man stopped abruptly. "Well, never
mind dear, I shan't be snoopy too. Here now, you run along
and do some snooping yourself about the ranch. I want to
stop in and have a talk with Grayson."
Down by one of the corrals where three men were busily
engaged in attempting to persuade an unbroken pony that a
spade bit is a pleasant thing to wear in one's mouth, Barbara
found a seat upon a wagon box which commanded an excellent
view of the entertainment going on within the corral.
As she sat there experiencing a combination of admiration for
the agility and courage of the men and pity for the horse
the tones of a pleasant masculine voice broke in upon her
thoughts.
"Out there somewhere!" says I to me. "By Gosh, I guess, thats poetry!
"Out there somewhere--Penelope--with kisses on her mouth!"
And then, thinks I, "O college guy! your talk it gets me in the eye,
The north is creeping in the air, the birds are flying south."
Barbara swung around to view the poet. She saw a slender
man astride a fagged Mexican pony. A ragged coat and
ragged trousers covered the man's nakedness. Indian moccasins
protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat
upon his well-shaped head. AMERICAN was written all over
him. No one could have imagined him anything else. Apparently
he was a tramp as well--his apparel proclaimed him
that; but there were two discordant notes in the otherwise
harmonious ensemble of your typical bo. He was clean shaven
and he rode a pony. He rode erect, too, with the easy seat of
an army officer.
At sight of the girl he raised his battered hat and swept it
low to his pony's shoulder as he bent in a profound bow.
"I seek the majordomo, senorita," he said.
"Mr. Grayson is up at the office, that little building to the
left of the ranchhouse," replied the girl, pointing.
The newcomer had addressed her in Spanish, and as he
heard her reply, in pure and liquid English, his eyes widened a
trifle; but the familiar smile with which he had greeted her left
his face, and his parting bow was much more dignified though
no less profound than its predecessor.
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Grayson and his employer both looked up as the words of
Knibbs' poem floated in to them through the open window.
"I wonder where that blew in from," remarked Grayson, as
his eyes discovered Bridge astride the tired pony, looking at
him through the window. A polite smile touched the stranger's
lips as his eyes met Grayson's, and then wandered past him to
the imposing figure of the Easterner.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said Bridge.
"Evenin'," snapped Grayson. "Go over to the cookhouse
and the Chink'll give you something to eat. Turn your pony in
the lower pasture. Smith'll show you where to bunk tonight,
an' you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin'. S'long!" The
ranch superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand
which he had been discussing with his employer at the moment
of the interruption. He had volleyed his instructions at
Bridge as though pouring a rain of lead from a machine gun,
and now that he had said what he had to say the incident
was closed in so far as he was concerned.
The hospitality of the Southwest permitted no stranger to
be turned away without food and a night's lodging. Grayson
having arranged for these felt that he had done all that might
be expected of a host, especially when the uninvited guest was
so obviously a hobo and doubtless a horse thief as well, for
who ever knew a hobo to own a horse?
Bridge continued to sit where he had reined in his pony. He
was looking at Grayson with what the discerning boss judged
to be politely concealed enjoyment.
"Possibly," suggested the boss in a whisper to his aide, "the
man has business with you. You did not ask him, and I am
sure that he said nothing about wishing a meal or a place to
sleep."
"Huh?" grunted Grayson, and then to Bridge, "Well, what
the devil DO you want?"
"A job," replied Bridge, "or, to be more explicit, I need a
job--far be it from me to WISH one."
The Easterner smiled. Grayson looked a bit mystified--and
irritated.
"Well, I hain't got none," he snapped. "We don't need
nobody now unless it might be a good puncher--one who
can rope and ride."
"I can ride," replied Bridge, "as is evidenced by the fact
that you now see me astride a horse."
"I said RIDE," said Grayson. "Any fool can SIT on a horse.
NO, I hain't got nothin', an' I'm busy now. Hold on!" he
exclaimed as though seized by a sudden inspiration. He looked
sharply at Bridge for a moment and then shook his head
sadly. "No, I'm afraid you couldn't do it--a guy's got to be
eddicated for the job I got in mind."
"Washing dishes?" suggested Bridge.
Grayson ignored the playfulness of the other's question.
"Keepin' books," he explained. There was a finality in his
tone which said: "As you, of course, cannot keep books the
interview is now over. Get out!"
"I could try," said Bridge. "I can read and write, you
know. Let me try." Bridge wanted money for the trip to Rio,
and, too, he wanted to stay in the country until Billy was
ready to leave.
"Savvy Spanish?" asked Grayson.
"I read and write it better than I speak it," said Bridge,
"though I do the latter well enough to get along anywhere
that it is spoken."
Grayson wanted a bookkeeper worse than he could ever
recall having wanted anything before in all his life. His better
judgment told him that it was the height of idiocy to employ a
ragged bum as a bookkeeper; but the bum was at least as
much of a hope to him as is a straw to a drowning man, and
so Grayson clutched at him.
"Go an' turn your cayuse in an' then come back here," he
directed, "an' I'll give you a tryout."
"Thanks," said Bridge, and rode off in the direction of the
pasture gate.
"'Fraid he won't never do," said Grayson, ruefully, after
Bridge had passed out of earshot.
"I rather imagine that he will," said the boss. "He is an
educated man, Grayson--you can tell that from his English,
which is excellent. He's probably one of the great army of
down-and-outers. The world is full of them--poor devils.
Give him a chance, Grayson, and anyway he adds another
American to our force, and each one counts."
"Yes, that's right; but I hope you won't need 'em before
you an' Miss Barbara go," said Grayson.
"I hope not, Grayson; but one can never tell with conditions
here such as they are. Have you any hope that you will
be able to obtain a safe conduct for us from General Villa?"
"Oh, Villa'll give us the paper all right," said Grayson; "but
it won't do us no good unless we don't meet nobody but
Villa's men on the way out. This here Pesita's the critter I'm
leery of. He's got it in for all Americans, and especially for El
Orobo Rancho. You know we beat off a raid of his about six
months ago--killed half a dozen of his men, an' he won't
never forgive that. Villa can't spare a big enough force to give
us safe escort to the border and he can't assure the safety of
the train service. It looks mighty bad, sir--I don't see what in
hell you came for."
"Neither do I, Grayson," agreed the boss; "but I'm here
and we've got to make the best of it. All this may blow over--
it has before--and we'll laugh at our fears in a few weeks."
"This thing that's happenin' now won't never blow over 'til
the stars and stripes blow over Chihuahua," said Grayson with
finality.
A few moments later Bridge returned to the office, having
unsaddled his pony and turned it into the pasture.
"What's your name?" asked Grayson, preparing to enter it
in his time book.
"Bridge," replied the new bookkeeper.
"'Nitials," snapped Grayson.
Bridge hesitated. "Oh, put me down as L. Bridge," he said.
"Where from?" asked the ranch foreman.
"El Orobo Rancho," answered Bridge.
Grayson shot a quick glance at the man. The answer
confirmed his suspicions that the stranger was probably a
horse thief, which, in Grayson's estimation, was the worst
thing a man could be.
"Where did you get that pony you come in on?" he
demanded. "I ain't sayin' nothin' of course, but I jest want to
tell you that we ain't got no use for horse thieves here."
The Easterner, who had been a listener, was shocked by the
brutality of Grayson's speech; but Bridge only laughed.
"If you must know," he said, "I never bought that horse,
an' the man he belonged to didn't give him to me. I just took
him."
"You got your nerve," growled Grayson. "I guess you
better git out. We don't want no horse thieves here."
"Wait," interposed the boss. "This man doesn't act like a
horse thief. A horse thief, I should imagine, would scarcely
admit his guilt. Let's have his story before we judge him."
"All right," said Grayson; "but he's just admitted he stole
the horse."
Bridge turned to the boss. "Thanks," he said; "but really I
did steal the horse."
Grayson made a gesture which said: "See, I told you so."
"It was like this," went on Bridge. "The gentleman who
owned the horse, together with some of his friends, had been
shooting at me and my friends. When it was all over there
was no one left to inform us who were the legal heirs of the
late owners of this and several other horses which were left
upon our hands, so I borrowed this one. The law would say,
doubtless, that I had stolen it; but I am perfectly willing to
return it to its rightful owners if someone will find them for
me."
"You been in a scrap?" asked Grayson. "Who with?"
"A party of Pesita's men," replied Bridge.
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"You see they are working pretty close," said Grayson, to
his employer, and then to Bridge: "Well, if you took that
cayuse from one of Pesita's bunch you can't call that stealin'.
Your room's in there, back of the office, an' you'll find some
clothes there that the last man forgot to take with him. You
ken have 'em, an' from the looks o' yourn you need 'em."
"Thank you," replied Bridge. "My clothes are a bit rusty. I
shall have to speak to James about them," and he passed
through into the little bedroom off the office, and closed the
door behind him.
"James?" grunted Grayson. "Who the devil does he mean
by James? I hain't seen but one of 'em."
The boss was laughing quietly.
"The man's a character," he said. "He'll be worth all you
pay him--if you can appreciate him, which I doubt, Grayson."
"I ken appreciate him if he ken keep books," replied
Grayson. "That's all I ask of him."
When Bridge emerged from the bedroom he was clothed in
white duck trousers, a soft shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes,
and such a change had they wrought in his appearance that
neither Grayson nor his employer would have known him
had they not seen him come from the room into which they
had sent him to make the exchange of clothing.
"Feel better?" asked the boss, smiling.
"Clothes are but an incident with me," replied Bridge. "I
wear them because it is easier to do so than it would be to
dodge the weather and the police. Whatever I may have upon
my back affects in no way what I have within my head. No, I
cannot say that I feel any better, since these clothes are not as
comfortable as my old ones. However if it pleases Mr. Grayson
that I should wear a pink kimono while working for him
I shall gladly wear a pink kimono. What shall I do first, sir?"
The question was directed toward Grayson.
"Sit down here an' see what you ken make of this bunch of
trouble," replied the foreman. "I'll talk with you again this
evenin'."
As Grayson and his employer quitted the office and walked
together toward the corrals the latter's brow was corrugated
by thought and his facial expression that of one who labors to
fasten upon a baffling and illusive recollection.
"It beats all, Grayson," be said presently; "but I am sure
that I have known this new bookkeeper of yours before. The
moment he came out of that room dressed like a human being
I knew that I had known him; but for the life of me I can't
place him. I should be willing to wager considerable, however,
that his name is not Bridge."
"S'pect you're right," assented Grayson. "He's probably one
o' them eastern dude bank clerks what's gone wrong and
come down here to hide. Mighty fine place to hide jest now,
too.
"And say, speakin' of banks," he went on, "what'll I do
'bout sendin' over to Cuivaca fer the pay tomorrow. Next
day's pay day. I don't like to send this here bum, I can't trust
a greaser no better, an' I can't spare none of my white men
thet I ken trust."
"Send him with a couple of the most trustworthy Mexicans
you have," suggested the boss.
"There ain't no sich critter," replied Grayson; "but I guess
that's the best I ken do. I'll send him along with Tony an'
Benito--they hate each other too much to frame up anything
together, an' they both hate a gringo. I reckon they'll hev a
lovely trip."
"But they'll get back with the money, eh?" queried the
boss.
"If Pesita don't get 'em," replied Grayson.
