The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

"What changes?" asked John sharply.

"The most important of them is the growth in powerof Mexico," said de Armijo smoothly. "We triumphover all our enemies."

"Do you mean that you have really retaken Texas?"asked John, with a sudden falling of the heart.

De Armijo smiled again, then lighted a cigarette andtook a puff or two before he gave an answer which wasreally no answer at all, so far as the words themselveswere concerned.

"I said that Mexico had triumphed over her enemieseverywhere," he replied, "and so she has, but I give youno details. It has been the order that you know nothing.You have been contumacious and obstinate, and, free, you would be dangerous. So the world was to be closedto you, and it has been done. You know nothing of itexcept these four walls and the little strip of a mountainthat you can see from the window there. You are as onedead."

John Bedford winced. What the Mexican said wastrue, and he had long known it to be true, but he did notlike for de Armijo to say it to him now. His lonesomenessin his long imprisonment had been awful, but notmore so than his absolute ignorance of everything beyondhis four walls. This policy with him had been pursuedpersistently. Old Catarina, before her departure, had notdared to tell him anything, and now the soldier whoserved him would not answer any question at all. Hehad felt at times that this would reduce him to mentalincompetency, to childishness, but he had fought againstit, and he had felt at other times that the isolation, instead of weakening his faculties, had sharpened them.But he replied without any show of emotion in his voice:

"What you say is true in the main, but why do yousay it."

"In order to lay before you both sides of a proposition.You are practically forgotten here. You can spendthe rest of your life in this cell, perish, perhaps, on thevery bed where you are now sitting, but you can alsorelease yourself. Take the oath of fealty to Mexico, become a Mexican citizen, join her army and fight herenemies. You might have a career there, you might rise."

It was a fiendish suggestion to one who knew nothingof what was passing, and de Armijo prided himself uponhis finesse. To compel brother to fight against brotherwould indeed be a master stroke. He did not notice therising blood in the face before him, that had so longborne the prison pallor.

"Have you reconquered Texas?" asked John sharply.

"What has that to do with it?"

"Do you think I would join you and fight against theTexans? Do you think I would join you anyhow, afterI've been fighting against you? I'd rather rot here thando such a thing, and it seems strange that you, an officerand the governor of this castle, should make such anoffer. It's dishonest!"

Blood flashed through de Armijo's dark face, and heraised his hand in menace. John Bedford instantlystruck at him with all his might, which was not great, wasted as he was by prison confinement. De Armijostepped back a little, drew his sword, and, with the flatof it, struck the prisoner a severe blow across theforehead. John had attempted to spring forward, buttwenty-five pounds of iron chain confining his ankles heldhim. He could not ward off the blow, and he droppedback against the cot, bleeding and unconscious.

When John Bedford recovered his senses he was lyingon the cot, and it was pitch dark, save for a slendershaft of moonlight that entered at the slit, and that laylike a sword-blade across the floor. His head throbbed, and when he put his hand to it he found that it wasswathed in bandages. He remembered the blowperfectly, and he moved his feet, but the chains had beentaken off. They had had the grace to do that much. Hestrove to rise, but he was very weak, and the throbbing inhis head increased. Then he lay still for a long time, watching the moonbeam that fell across the floor. Hewas in a state of mind far from pleasant. To be shut upso long is inevitably to grow bitter, and to be struck downthus by de Armijo, while he was chained and helpless, was an injury to both body and mind that he could neverforgive. He had nothing to do in his cell to distract hismind from grievous wrongs, and there was no chance forthem to fade from his memory. His very soul rose inwrath against de Armijo.

He judged that it was far in the night, and, afterlying perfectly still for about an hour, he rose from thebed. His strength had increased, and the throbbing inhis head was not so painful. He staggered across thefloor and put his face to the slit in the wall. The coldair, as it rushed against his eyes and cheeks, felt verygood. It was spring in the lowlands, but there was snowyet on the peak behind the Castle of Montevideo, andwinter had not yet wholly left the valley in which thecastle itself stood. But the air was not too cold for John, whose brain at this moment was hotter than his blood.

The night was uncommonly clear. One could seealmost as well as by day, and he began to look over, oneby one, the little objects that his view commanded on themountainside. He looked at every intimate friend, thevarious rocks, the cactus, the gully, and the dwarfedshrubs-he still wished to know whether they were pinesor cedars, the problem had long annoyed him greatly.He surveyed his little landscape with great care. Itseemed to him that he saw touches of spring there, andthen he was quite sure that he saw the figure of a man, dark and shadowy, but, nevertheless, a human figure, pass across the little space. It was followed in a momentby a second, and then by a third. It caused himsurprise and interest. His tiny landscape was steep, and hehad never before seen men cross it. Hunters, or perhapsgoat herders, but it was strange that they should betraveling along such a steep mountainside at such an hour.

A person under ordinary conditions would have forgottenthe incident in five minutes, but this was an eventin the life of the lonely captive. Save his encounter withde Armijo, he could not recall another of so muchimportance in many months. He stayed at the loophole along time, but he did not see the figures again noranything else living. Once, about a month before, he hadcaught a glimpse of a deer there, and it had filled himwith excitement, because to see even a deer was a greatthing, but this was a greater. He remained at theloophole until the rocks began to redden with the morning sun, but his little landscape remained as it had ever been, thesame rocks, the same pines or cedars-which, in Heaven'sname, were they? – and the same cactus.

Then he walked slowly back to his cot. The chainswere lying on the floor beside it, and he knew that, intime, they would be put on him again, but he wasresolved not to abate his independence a particle. Norwould he defer in any way to de Armijo. If he cameagain he would speak his opinion of him to his face, lethim do what he would.

There was proud and stubborn blood in every vein ofthe Bedfords. John Bedford's grandfather had been oneof the most noted of Kentucky's pioneers and Indianfighters, and on his mother's side, too, there was a strainof tenacious New England. By some possible chance hemight be able to return de Armijo's blow. He drew thecover over his body and fell into a sleep from which hewas awakened by the slovenly soldier with his breakfast.The man did not speak while John ate, and John wasglad of it. He, too, had nothing to say, and he wishedto be left to himself. When the man left he lay down onthe cot again and slept until nearly noon. Then deArmijo came a second time. He had no apologieswhatever for the manner in which he had struck down anunarmed prisoner, but was hard and sneering.

"I merely tell you," he said, "that you lost your lastchance yesterday. The offer will not be repeated."

John said not a word, but gazed at him so steadilythat the Mexican's swarthy face flushed a little. Hehesitated, as if he would say something, but evidentlythought better of it, and went out. That night he had afever from his wounded head and the exertion that he hadmade in standing so long at the loophole. He becamedelirious, and when he emerged from his delirium a littleweazened old Indian woman was sitting by the side of hiscot. She had kindly and pitying eyes, and Johnexclaimed, in a weak but joyous voice:

"Catarina!"

"Poor boy," she said, "I have watched you one dayand one night."

"Where have you been all the time before?" he askedin the Mexican dialect that he had learned.

"I have been one of the cooks," she said. "Theofficers, they eat so much, tortillas, frijoles, everything, and they drink so much, mescal, pulque, wine, everything.Many busy months for Catarina, and I ask for you, but I cannot see you. They say you bad, very bad.Then they say you try to kill the governor, Captain deArmijo, but he strike you on the head with the flat of hissword to save his own life. You have fever, and at lastthey send me to nurse you as I did that other time."

"Do you believe, Catarina, that I tried to kill deArmijo?" asked John.

She looked about her fearfully, drew the reboso closelyacross her shrunken shoulders, and answered in afrightened tone as if the thick walls themselves could hear:

"How should I know? It is what they say. If Ishould say otherwise they would lash me with the whip, even me, old Catarina."

The captive sighed. Nothing could break the awfulwall of mystery that enveloped him. Catarina even didnot dare to speak, although no one but himself couldpossibly hear.

"You mind I smoke?" said Catarina.

"No," replied John with a wan smile. "Any ladycan smoke in my presence."

She whipped out a cigarrito, lighted it with a match, held it for a moment between the middle and fore finger, then inserted it between her aged lips. She took two orthree long, easy whiffs, letting the smoke come outthrough her nose. John had never learned to smoke, buthe said to her:

"Does it do you good, Catarina?"

"Whether it does me good, I know not," replied theIndian woman, "but it gives me pleasure, so I do it. Ihave to tell you, Señor John, that my son, Porfirio, hasreturned from the north. He has been at Monterey andthe country about it."

John at once was all eagerness.

"And Antonio Vaquez, the leader of the burro train?"he exclaimed. "Has he heard from him? Does he knowif the letter went on beyond the Rio Grande?"

"My son Porfirio has not seen Antonio Vaquez," repliedCatarina, "and so he does not know from AntonioVaquez whether the letter has crossed the Rio Grande ornot. But it is a time of change."

"De Armijo told me that."

The old woman looked at him very keenly, and drovemore smoke of the cigarrito through her nose. Her nextwords made no reference to de Armijo, but they startledJohn:

"You look through the loophole to-night, aboutmidnight," she said, "You see something on the mountainside, fire, a torch, it may mean much. Who can tell?"

Excitement flamed up again in John's veins.

"What do you mean, Catarina?" he exclaimed.

"Last night I crawled to the loophole for air. It wasbright moonlight, and while I was standing there Ithought three human beings passed on the little patch ofthe mountainside that I can see."

"It is all I know," said Catarina. "I can tell you nomore. Now I am concinero (cook) again. Now I go.But watch. There have been many changes. Diego, thesoldier, will bring you your food as before. Watch that, too."

"Poison!" exclaimed John aghast.

"No! No! No! Hai Dios (my God), no! But doas I say!"

She snuffed out the end of the cigarrito, picked up thedishes, and promptly left the cell. She also left thecaptive much excited and wondering. De Armijo had saidthere were changes! Truly there had been changes, saidCatarina, but she had not told what they were. Hemade many surmises, and one was as good as another, even to himself. Let a man cut three years out of hislife and see if he can span the gulf between. But he wassure, despite his ignorance of their nature, that Catarina'swords were full of meaning, and, perhaps among all thegreat changes that had come, one was coming for him, too.

He slept that afternoon in order that he might be sureto keep awake at night, and long before midnight he wason watch at the loophole. There was still soreness in hishead, where the flat of the heavy steel blade had struck, but it was passing away, and his strength was returning.It is hard to crush youth. It was now easier for him, too, as the chains had not been put back upon his ankles.

He waited with great impatience, and, as hisimpatience increased, time became slower. He began to feelthat he was foolish. But Catarina had been good to him.She would not make him keep an idle quest in the longcold hours of the night. And he had seen the threeshadows pass the night before. He was sure now fromwhat Catarina had said that they were the shadows ofhuman beings, and their presence there had beensignificant.

The night was not so bright as the one before, but, bylong looking, he could trace the details of his landscape, all the well known objects, every one in its proper place, with the dusky moonlight falling upon them. He staredso long that his eyes ached. Surely Catarina had beentalking foolish talk! No, she had not! His heart stoppedbeating for a few moments, because, as certainly as hewas at that loophole, a light had appeared on his bit oflandscape. It was but a spark. A spark only at first, but in a moment or two it blazed up like a torch. Itshowed a vivid red streak against the mountainside, andthe heart of the captive, that had stood still for a fewmoments, now bounded rapidly. The words of Catarinahad come true, and he had had a sign. But what didthe sign mean? It must be connected in some way withhim, and nothing could be worse than that which he nowendured. It must mean good.

It was a veritable flame of hope to John Bedford, theprisoner of the Castle of Montevideo. New strengthsuffused his whole body. Courage came back to him in afull tide. A sign had been promised to him, and it hadcome.

The light burned for about half an hour, and thenwent out suddenly. John Bedford returned to his cot, anew hope in his heart.

CHAPTER XVII

THE THREAD, THE KEY, AND THE DAGGER

When John Bedford rose the next morning he wasseveral years younger. He held himself erect,as became his youth, a little color had creptinto the pallid face, and his heart was still full of hope.He had seen the light that Catarina had promised.Surely the world was making a great change for him, andhe reasoned again that, his present state being so low, anypossible change must be for the better.

But the day passed and nothing happened. Diego, the slouching soldier, brought him his food, and, bearingin mind the vague words of Catarina, he noticed itcarefully while he ate. There was nothing unusual. It wasthe same at his supper. The rosy cloud in which hishopes swam faded somewhat, but he was still hopeful.No light had been promised for the second night, but hewatched for long hours, nevertheless, and he could notrestrain a sense of disappointment when he turned away.

A second day passed without event, and a third, andthen a fourth. John Bedford was overcome by a terribledepression. Catarina was old and foolish, or perhapsshe, too, had shown at last the cunning and trickery thathe began to ascribe to all these people. He would stayin that cell all his life, fairly buried alive. A fierce, unreasoning anger took hold of him. He would have flaredout at stolid Diego who brought the food, but he did notwant those heavy chains put back on his ankles. Hishead was now healed enough for the removal of thebandage, but a red streak would remain for some time underthe hair. Doubtless the hair had saved him from afracture of the skull. Every time he put his hand to thewound, which was often, his anger against de Armijorose. It was that cold, silent anger which is the mostterrible and lasting of all.

Although he was back in the depths, John felt thatthe brief spell of hope had been of help to him. Hiswound had healed more rapidly, and he was sure that hewas physically stronger. Yet the black depressionremained. It was even painful for him to look through theslit at his piece of the slope, which he sometimes calledhis mountain garden. He avoided it, as a place of hopethat had failed. On the sixth day, Diego brought himhis dinner a little after the dinner hour. He was sittingon the edge of his cot and he bit into a tamale. Histeeth encountered something tough and fibrous, and hewas about to throw it down in disgust. Then the wordsof Catarina, those words which he had begun to despise, came suddenly back to him. He put the tamale downand began to eat a tortilla, keeping his eye on Diego, whoslouched by the wall in the attitude of a Mexican of thelower classes, that lazy, dreaming attitude that they canmaintain, for hours.

Presently Diego glanced at the loophole, and in aninstant John whipped the tamale off the plate and thrust itunder the cover of the cot. Then he went on calmly withhis eating, and drank the usual amount of bad coffee.Diego, who had noticed nothing, took the empty tray andwent out, carefully locking the heavy door behind him.Then John Bedford did something that showed hiswonderful power of self-restraint. He did not rush to thebed, eager to read what the tamale might contain, butstrolled to the loophole and looked out for at least aquarter of an hour. He did not wish any trick to be playedupon him by a sudden return of Diego. Yet he wasquivering in every nerve with impatience.

When he felt that he was safe, he returned to the cotand took out the tamale. He carefully pulled it open, and in the middle he found the tough, fibrous substancethat his teeth had met. He had half expected a paper ofsome kind, rolled closely together, that the writing mightnot perish, and what he really did find caused adisappointment so keen that he uttered a low cry of pain.

He held it up in his hand. It was nothing more thana small package of thread, such as might have been putin a thimble. What could it mean? Of what possibleuse was a coil of fifty yards or so of thread that wouldnot sustain the weight of half a pound? Was he to escapethrough the loophole on that as a rope? He looked at theloophole four inches broad, and then at the tiny thread, and it seemed to him such a pitiful joke that he sat downon the cot and laughed, not at the joke itself, but at anyone who was foolish enough to perpetrate such a thing.

He tested the thread. It was stronger than he hadthought. Then he put it on his knee, took his head inhis two hands, and sat staring at the thread for a longtime, concentrating his thoughts and trying to evolvesomething from this riddle. It did mean something.No one would go to so much trouble to play a miserablejoke on a helpless captive like himself. Catarina certainlywould not do it, and she had given him the hint aboutthe food, a hint that had come true. He kept his mindupon the one point so steadily and with so much forcethat his brain grew hot, and the wound, so nearly cured, began to ache again. Yet he kept at it, studying outevery possible twist and turn of the riddle. At last hetested the thread again. It was undeniably strong, andthen he looked at the loophole. Only one guess savoredof possibility. He must hang the thread out of the loophole.

He ate the rest of the tamale, hid the little packageunder his clothing, and at night, after supper, when thedarkness was heavy, he threw the end of the threadthrough the long slot, a cast in which he did not succeeduntil about the twelfth attempt. Then he let the threaddrop down. He knew about how many feet it was to thepavement below, and he let out enough with three or fouryards for good count. Then he found that he had severalyards left, which he tied around one of the iron bars atthe edge of the loophole. It was a black thread, and, although some one might see it by daylight, there was notone chance in a thousand that any one would see it atnight.

"Fishing," he said to himself, as he lay down on hiscot, intending to sleep awhile, but to draw in the threadbefore the day came. It might be an idle guess, he couldnot even know that the thread was not clinging to thestone wall, instead of reaching the ground, but there wasrelief in action, in trying something. He fell asleepfinally, and when he awoke he sprang in an instant to thefloor. The fear came with his waking senses that hemight have slept too long, and that it was broaddaylight. The fear was false. It was still night, with onlythe moon shining at the loophole. But he judged thatmost of the night had passed, and his impatience told himthat if anything was going to happen it had happenedalready. He went to the window. His thread was there, tied to the bar and, like a fisherman, he began to pull itin. He felt this simile himself. "Drawing in the line,"he murmured. "Now I wonder if I have got a bite."

Although he spoke lightly to himself, as if a calmman would soothe an excitable one, he felt the cold chillthat runs down one's spine in moments of intenseexcitement. The moonlight was good, and he watched theblack thread come in, inch by inch, while the hand thatdrew it trembled. But he soon saw that there was noweight at the other end, and down his heart went againinto the blackest depths of black despair. Nevertheless,he continued to pull on the thread, and, as it emergedfrom the darkness into the far end of the loophole, hethought he saw something tied on the end, althoughhe was not sure, it looked so small and dim. Here hepaused and leaned against the wall, because he suddenlyfelt weak in both mind and body. These alternationsbetween hope and despair were shattering to one who hadbeen confined so long between four walls. The verystrength of his desire for it might make him seesomething at the end of the thread when nothing was reallythere.

He recovered himself and pulled in the thread, andnow hope surged up in a full tide. Something was onthe end of the thread. It was a little piece of paper notmore than an inch long, rolled closely and tied tightlyaround the center with the thread. He drew up his stooland sat down on it by the loophole, where the moonlightfell. Then he carefully picked loose the knot andunrolled the paper. The light was good enough, and heread these amazing words:

"Don't give up hope.Your brother is here.He received your letter.Put out the threadAgain to-morrow night.Read and destroy this."

John leaned against the wall. His surprise and joywere so great that he was overpowered. He realized nowthat his hope had merely been a forlorn one, an effort ofthe will against spontaneous despair. And yet themiracle had been wrought. His letter, in some mysteriousmanner, had got through to Phil, and Phil had come.He must have friends, too, because the letter had not beenwritten by Phil. It was in a strange handwriting. Butthis could be no joke of fate. It was too powerful, tooconvincing. Everything fitted too well together. It musthave started somehow with Catarina, because all herpresages had come true. She was the cook, she had put thethread in the tamale. How had the others reached her?

But it was true. His letter had gone through, and thebrave young boy whom he had left behind had come. Hewas somewhere about the Castle of Montevideo, and sincesuch wonders had been achieved already, others could bedone. From that moment John Bedford never despaired.After reading the letter many times, he tore it intominute fragments, and, lest they should be seen below andcreate suspicion, he ate them all and with a goodappetite. Then he rolled up the thread, put it next to hisbody, and, for the first time in many nights, slept sosoundly that he did not awake until Diego brought himhis breakfast. Then he ate with a remarkable appetite, and after Diego had gone he began to walk up and downthe cell with vigorous steps. He also did many otherthings which an observer, had one been possible, wouldhave thought strange.

John not only walked back and forth in his cell, buthe went through as many exercises as his lack ofgymnastic equipment permitted, and he continued his work atleast an hour. He wished to get back his strength asmuch as possible for some great test that he felt sure wascoming. If he were to escape with the help of Phil andunknown others, he must be strong and active. Aweakling would have a poor chance, no matter how numeroushis friends. He had maintained this form of exercise fora long period after his imprisonment, but lately he hadbecome so much depressed that he had discontinued it.

He felt so good that he chaffed Diego when he cameback with his food at dinner and supper. Diego hadlong been a source of wonder to John. It was evidentthat he breathed and walked, because John had seen himdo both, and he could speak, because at rare intervalsJohn had heard him utter a word or two, but this powerof speech seemed to be merely spasmodic. Now, whileJohn bantered him, he was as stolid as any woodenimage of Aztecs or Toltecs, although John spoke in Spanish, which, bad as it was, Diego could understand.