Jessica, the Heiress

The pain had returned and with added intensity; and it was due to that fact that he no longer delayed the confession he had sent for her to hear.

“Hark! Behold! I talk.”

“Yes, Antonio, I’m listening.”

“Well, I–how begin? It is a story long, not pleasant.”

“Wait. Open your mouth and I will feed you. Yes, do.”

His black eyes stared at her, astonished. In her place had anybody done him the ill that he had done her, he would have let his enemy starve and have rejoiced at a suffering well deserved. But this child–he wished she would turn her face away, and not look upon him with that innocent compassion. She was too like her dead father, and his one best friend; whom in life he had really loved and in death had not scrupled to despoil.

“Come, Antonio, eat. Afterward you’ll be stronger to talk,” she said, as coaxingly as if he had been her little brother, Ned; and thus persuaded, he opened his mouth and received the morsel she forced upon him. Thus it continued; she feeding, he resting and with halting eagerness relating the story of his own misdeeds.

“For I must go to pay the price. Si. But the poor lad, my half-wit brother Ferd, ugly, sinful, desolate–he will be left alone. Is it not? For him, if I restore all, there may still be kindness and a home at Sobrante, that should all be his–if–”

“No, Antonio; you know better. That is a poor, foolish notion that has been put into your head. You know; for Mr. Hale, who is a lawyer and understands everything like that, told you and us that you hadn’t a bit of right to a bit of land anywhere in this world. Unless, indeed, you may have bought it since that little while ago in Los Angeles. And if you have, where did you get the money?”

“Lo dicho dicho,” he muttered the Spanish phrase: “What I have said I have said,” and sighed profoundly, as one hopelessly aggrieved.

Jessica lost her temper. She forgot that he was ill and remembered only that he was imputing treachery to her parents and to others whom she loved, and retorted, warmly:

“What you have ‘said’ doesn’t make the truth, Senor Bernal. And if you have anything to tell me I wish you would tell it now. I ought to be at home with Mr. Sharp, who’s come to make us a visit. My mother is away, and it’s rude to leave guests alone like that. I, who want to be a perfect lady, do hate to be rude. So tell, please, and quick.”

“It was he, then, whom I saw on the road with old Ephraim, yes?” cried Antonio, in a voice which was certainly much stronger than it had been when Lady Jess arrived.

“Yes, it was he. Now begin, please. What first?”

Neither the man on the bed nor the girl who listened to him so intently suspected that other ears were as eager to hear this dying confession. Yet so it was, and Buster’s short whinny of welcome had been a real one. For John, on Moses, and Ninian, on Nimrod, had lost but little time in riding to the mesa; though because of the reporter’s poor horsemanship, the carpenter felt that they would really save time by taking the longer level road around by the north, and not the narrow canyon trail, which was dangerous for the inexperienced. This had consumed some time, but each felt a thrill of relief, when they at last arrived, to see Buster calmly nibbling at the dry herbage near the shepherd’s cabin.

“Where Buster is Jessica is, this time,” said the carpenter, softly. “And I was right. I’d heard of this spook being seen up here, and fool folks layin’ it to poor Old Century. That’s why I came. We didn’t make any mistake, did we?”

Then as they approached nearer to the house and quietly dismounted to hobble their horses, he added:

“Let’s go up sly. Everything seems terrible still, and I’d like to take a peek through that back window ’fore we let on we’ve come.”

Ninian was not so cautious; or, rather, he was more anxious about the little captain, and protested:

“How do we know but that this silence means mischief? If he has sent for her to harm her–”

“Hark! She’s all right. Thank God for that. I can hear her laughing, and he’s a coward. She isn’t; and, anyway, he’d think twice ’fore he hurt a hair of that child’s head. Why, man, his life wouldn’t be worth a minute’s purchase if he dared! He’d be hunted to his own destruction so quick you couldn’t say ‘scat.’ Humph! He may be after mischief–’cause he hasn’t been after anything else since Cass’us died–but he’ll keep within bounds. Now, this way. Lucky the grass is thick; but even so, don’t tread too heavy. Right behind that rear wall, close against the east, is the place to hear all and not be seen.”

Therefore, as noiselessly and hastily as possible, they placed themselves within earshot of what was said within the house; and the story they heard, reduced to simplest facts, was to the effect, as follows:

Upon receiving his discharge from legal detention at Los Angeles, Antonio had felt a homesick longing for his old haunts. He had returned without telling anybody of his intention and had taken up his abode at Solano’s ranch, where his unfortunate brother and the only person for whom he still cared was frequently to be found. There the dwarf had joined him, though rambling away again, from time to time, on errands of his own of which he neither spoke nor was questioned.

“Money, money! That’s the one thing, the only thing, no! Get money, Ferd whenever, however, wherever you can and what you get you keep. Hear me,” had been Antonio’s constant instruction during all the years of the hunchback’s life; and to the dwarf’s limited understanding, his adored brother typified incarnate wisdom.

He had anticipated high praise when, one day, he came back to Solano’s and reported his hiding of the little captain in the canyon cave. The praise was not so ready at first, for Antonio was astute enough to see whither such a hazardous scheme might lead; but the approbation came unstained when, later, Ferd again appeared, describing Pedro’s behavior at the time of the rescue and of the curious action of the ancient staff. Sent back alone to bring fresh specimens of the mineral Pedro had unearthed, Ferd had suddenly turned stubborn and refused to go more than halfway. Pedro had died suddenly, and Pedro’s ghost would haunt the spot; no, even Antonio should not compel him thither. He would do anything, everything else, but go to the canyon cave again he would not.

Indeed Antonio now felt that it was hardly necessary he should. The poor lad’s superstition had suggested a better way. With Solano’s aid, the deluded “top-lofty” hatched a notable scheme. He would himself impersonate Old Century’s uneasy spirit, which could not rest because he had betrayed the secret of the ancient padres. Nero could be made as white as any ghost horse by the application of a little paint; and shod with rubber could pass over the sandy roads with almost as little noise as any spectral steed. It was easy to bribe and terrify two small boys into securing and restoring to him the pointed wand, even if by their effort to obtain it they might happen to fall and break it. That mattered little, however, since the point was all that he wanted; but it was just as well to have that money he had seen through the window, that night of his first appearance on Sobrante grounds. That, too, was easy to get if one watched his opportunity in that cactus tunnel Ferd had scooped for his brother’s convenience. An unsuspecting, busy household left many chances for entering an open-windowed room, and who had ever been so familiar as he with the supposed safety secret place in which the key was kept? With the money he had found also the bit of copper Pedro had procured; and he knew enough of mining matters to rejoice, indeed. He had meant to do great things. He would prosecute his land claim to the uttermost; and there were plenty of unscrupulous men who would undertake his cause for a share in the profits of a copper mine. This very mesa would have been the scene of their first operations. Here the mill would have been built, and here–

“But what the use? The hand of punishment is upon me, yes. The money, it is there. Ferd shall tell of all the rest that he has put somewhere, I know not. His poor brain cannot carry out the plan, and to me it avails no more. Ay de mi! But Solano–beware. Of some things he knows, and of more he suspects, is it not? Ah! I weary, I languish, I die, I, Antonio Bernal, heir to wealth so boundless. It was so fine a plan–so most wonderful and simple. The fools, how they feared! Oh! the laughter I had! and the wild, rides on my so splendid ghost horse, yes. But I die–I die; and the great big plan for the copper turned to gold–I–who else will have the so great intellect, you call it, to make it real? Well, I have done. The staff I return–useless, save to me. The money–I cannot carry whither I must ride on the white horse of death–whiter than–the pity! The pity! Poor Antonio! Poor, poor Antonio!”

His long talk had, indeed, wearied him to faintness; but while his own tears rained down his cheeks in his self-pity, even as Jessica’s in sympathetic sorrow, a cheerful and hearty voice cried through the window:

“Don’t fret yourself, top-lofty! There’s one or two other smart men left, my friend, to carry out that noble scheme of yours, and my name ain’t John Benton, if they don’t do it! More’n that, I’ll promise you a few more years to spend in wickedness, if you like. On one condition.”

Antonio’s eyes almost leaped from his head in amaze at this interruption and greater amazement at this astounding promise; and John was swift to press his advantage:

“I’ll save your life–on one condition!”

CHAPTER XX.

THE VERDICT

“Benton!” warned Ninian Sharp, aghast at the audacity of a man who would trifle with the apparent death-hour of any man.

“Oh! that’s all right. Come around and in with me. I never yet heard a voice as lusty as that from a dying man, and I’ve been acquainted with Senor Bernal some little spell. He’s scared nigh to death–it’s just possible–but he ain’t sick nor wounded to death, or I’m mistook. Come in!”

Jessica met him at the door, and impulsively threw her arms about them at her relief in their presence. She had not been afraid of anything which could harm herself, but she had believed the man’s own statement that he was dying, and his suffering had been evidently intense at times. She had been saddened and awe-stricken, and she now shared Ninian’s indignation at the carpenter’s apparently heartless promise. How was it possible for him to bestow life where death had set its seal?

Nothing abashed by the reproachful looks cast upon him, John walked straight to the bed and demanded, in the most ordinary tone:

“Where you hurt, neighbor?”

Antonio caught at the straw the ranchman seemed to extend, and feebly pointed to the wound in his back.

What followed astonished Ninian far more than it did Jessica, who knew the carpenter’s ways. As tenderly, perhaps, because of his greater strength, the old man lifted the injured one and critically examined his wound; his face growing graver as he did so, yet not losing its expression of confidence and decision. When the examination was over, he replaced Antonio on the hard pillow, which had been Pedro’s one luxury, and quietly replied to the poor fellow’s unspoken question, burning in his great dark eyes:

“It’s a bad job, my son. A mighty bad job, and a sneaky one. I’ve seen such before in my time, and they didn’t mean death. To some folks, though, they meant what was worse.”

Nobody would now have recognized the voice which uttered this dictum, it had become so infinitely compassionate and gentle.

Antonio caught one meaning only: “I will not die? I need not die? It is you who will save me, yes? O’santos Dios!”

He had half risen from the bed, but now sank back, exhausted by the shock of emotion as well as by the physical effort; and Jessica sprang forward, terrified by the sudden pallor of his swarthy face. But John put her quietly aside and himself placed a flask to Antonio’s lips, saying:

“You’ve done your part well, my noble little captain, and you’ve done me proud. It’s my place now.”

The senor soon rallied, and again fixed his eyes imploringly on Benton’s face, as he sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

“Yes, top-lofty, I promise to help you. But first you must help yourself. You must pledge your word, the word of a dying man, that he dare not break. You will restore everything that you have taken from the mistress of Sobrante–or anybody else–so far as it will hereafter be in your power; you shall compel your Brother Ferd to guide a party of prospectors to that secret spot in the canyon where that piece of copper came from; and you shall do all that it is possible to do for the good, and not the evil, of your neighbors. That all clear?”

“But, yes, yes!” whispered Antonio, frantically. “Haste! Oh, haste!”

“I’m a-hasting, but I ain’t a-hurrin’. Which is a good thing for you, ’cause so I can think this thing over. That ball in your back will have to come out. I’ve taken some from folks myself, once or twice, but this one is in a ticklish place. A doctor is what we want, and the nearest one is ten miles away on Kimball’s ranch. He’d rather potter with his roses than other folks’ bullets, and I’ll have a tough piece of work to drag him up here, especially to see–you.”

With an impressive emphasis on the word “you” John paused, and waited some rejoinder. None came, and though Jessica again exclaimed against the carpenter’s contemptuous tone, Antonio neither resented it, nor felt it undeserved. Then Benton continued:

“Sharp, here, is a writin’ fellow, and knows what’s what every time. In the jerk of a lamb’s tail he’ll draw up a paper which’ll explain what you promise, and you’ve got strength enough to sign your name to it. The minute you do that I’m off for Kimball, and I’ll fetch him up here fast as horses can travel–if I have to carry him on my back!”

“Quick! The paper! I sign–I live!”

“Quick” it was, and though Ninian was no lawyer, he was always well provided with pads and fountain pens. Also, he was clever enough to use the longest and most impressive words wherever possible, and thus convinced the senor that the document sounded legally important. Indeed, the injured manager could scarcely wait to affix his signature, so eager was he that John should be off on his errand of salvation.

An hour later the padre came, and Jessica led Ninian away, that the pair might have the cottage to themselves. Then, when this visitation was over, the good man lingered, that he might hear for himself the doctor’s opinion when he should arrive. He, too, had listened to another confession from the truly repentant Antonio; but there was still a sacred office to perform if this awaited opinion should be for death, not life. But he had ridden far, and was tired, having come directly from his own church service at the distant mission, and Jessica’s hospitality could not endure to see the look of weariness on the old man’s kindly face.

“Beg pardon, Fra Sebastian, but would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Ah! my daughter, would I like the impossible? But, yes, I am famished, indeed, for the good dinner of Marta, my housekeeper,” he answered, with a shrug of his plump shoulders.

“Well, father, I cannot give you a dinner, but I can make you a pot of fresh coffee; and in Pedro’s little storeroom are cans of meat, and beans and biscuit. Oh! I tell you! I’ll bring the plates out here–there are two whole ones–and dear Mr. Sharp and you shall have a picnic.”

Already, with the light-heartedness of childhood, she had almost forgotten the sorrowful errand upon which she had come to the mesa. Besides, to her, a thing that was possible was, also, probable, and John would never have raised false hopes in Antonio’s breast. She was sure of that, and already the senor’s recovery a matter of but a little while. Moreover, to serve others was her dearest happiness, and though Fra Sebastian’s faith was different from her parents’, she had been trained to know all good people as the children of God. And he was especially such, for his benefactions and self-sacrifices were widespread, and he had been an honored guest at her father’s table.

“Oh! I am so happy to do anything for so holy a man, and I am so glad–so glad we came!” she whispered to Ninian, tripping away to relight the little stove and fill her kettle afresh.

“But I must be allowed to help, too, my captain,” he returned, eagerly entering into the altered spirit of things; and so merry were they over their preparations, so gay and bright the reverend guest became, that Antonio was helped over his own tedious time of waiting, and scarce knew how the time passed before John’s return.

This was sooner than could have been anticipated. The physician was already halfway on the road, intending a neighborly call at Sobrante, when the carpenter met and literally collared him.

“Come you must, Dr. Kimball. I shan’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” was the decisive retort to the rose-grower’s prompt refusal.

“I shall do nothing of the sort. I’m not a practicing physician now, and I never was a surgeon. As for that scalawag, Bernal, if he’s got himself shot, he’s met exactly what he deserved. Giddap!” he cried, to his horse, and was dashing past, just as John’s long arm reached out and clutched the ranchman’s coat.

“It isn’t so much for him as for our Lady Jess. You’re not in such a tearin’ hurry, neighbor, and if you are–well, just let your hurry wait.”

Whereupon, in a few brief, telling sentences, Dr. Kimball was put in possession of the facts Antonio had revealed, and had wheeled his horse about, with a whimsical snarl:

“Well, forge ahead. For anybody named Trent I’d break my own resolutions a dozen times a day.”

It is probable that the kind-hearted man would have gone anyway, even if he had ridden some miles still farther on an opposite road. The knowledge that somebody was suffering and needing him was an appeal to his professional instinct he would scarcely have resisted, but he had to make a protest first.

All merriment ceased when he entered the cabin on the mesa, and Jessica instinctively sought the reporter’s hand, needing his sympathy during the anxious few minutes that ensued upon the doctor’s arrival. Fra Sebastian and John had followed the surgeon indoors, but Ferd, who had brought the priest to the upland, still remained within the deserted fold, whither he had retreated as soon as his errand was accomplished. To him death of any sort, even that of an animal brought a horrible fear, and nothing would induce him to leave his shelter; till, when the conference was over, Jessica ran to him, exclaiming:

“Cheer up, Ferd! Oh, Ferd! He’s going to live, though, maybe–maybe he will never walk again. Come and see him, Ferd. He wants you. He needs you.”

The dwarf came reluctantly, still adoring his brother and still shrinking from him and the sight of his agony. The examination had been painful, of course; and the condition upon which life might still remain a bitter one. However, it was–life! And to Antonio, at that present moment, that was all he craved.

“We must make a litter or stretcher and take him to the valley. He will need the closest care and watching. He couldn’t stay up here, and have a single chance of recovery. Let’s see, there are five men of us, counting the dwarf. We’ll have to walk with the stretcher, and he shall lead the horses, all but Buster, whom Jessica can ride. One at a time he’ll ‘spell’ us, and the one released will take his place at the beasts,” was the doctor’s decision.

So it was done. A blanket was speedily fastened about two poles drawn from the corral, and over these Pedro’s hard mattress was laid; and thus, placed as comfortably upon it as might be, Antonio was once more conveyed to his old home at Sobrante.

And there, that Sunday night, was wild rejoicing and much speculation concerning the outcome of his confession.

“Sharp’s the man to put the thing in trim. He’s the very chap! He knows all about minerals, and he says that this copper we’ve struck is the very purest article he ever saw! Hurray! Hurray! Three cheers and a tiger for the Sobrante Copper Mine!” shouted the hilarious Marty.

Meanwhile, there had been short but heated discussion among her loyal henchmen as to whether Mrs. Trent should be forced to receive and care for, under her immediate roof, a man who had done her so much injury; and the decision had been unanimous: “No!”

Even John, who had helped to bring him thither, joined his voice to this assertion; and to the next question propounded, as to who would attend him and where, had as loudly answered: “I don’t know.”

Temporarily, the senor was resting in the household sitting-room, but it was evident should not long remain there.

“Where then? Hate him as we may, we can’t let him die on our hands,” said Samson, looking as black as he could.

“Don’t you fret yourselves, ‘boys,’” said a cheerful voice near the group. “Mr. Ma’sh and me, or me and Mr. Ma’sh–for I had to put it to him pretty plain, ’fore he’d seed it right–me and him will take that misguided creatur’ into our hands, and–”

“May the Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Marty, fervently.

“Me and Ephraim will ’tend him, turn and turn about,” continued Mrs. Benton, ignorant of Marty’s irreverent remark. “He’s to be put into Mr. Ma’sh’s room at the quarters, and I’ll take this first night’s job. I shall begin it with a dose of picra, and the first page of the Westminster catechism; and if that don’t put him in good shape for the doctor and Ephraim, in the morning, my name ain’t Sally Benton, nor never was. The doctor, he’s rode home for his instruments and such, and hopes to get the bullet out in the course of time. But it’s my opinion, and his, too, I reckon, ’cause he didn’t deny it when I put the question plain, it’s our opinion that Antonio Bernal will never walk another step in his life. But he’ll live. He’ll live everlastin’. Them old Californy folks always do. He’ll simply be paralyzed from his waist down.”

Despite their antipathy to him, a thrill of pity ran through every one who heard her; and to most of those stalwart men it seemed that this was a punishment they could not have endured. Death would have been far preferable to them.

So it befell that the late manager’s fate was in the hands of his enemies, so to speak; and while Mrs. Benton and “Forty-niner” would faithfully perform their duty toward him, they elected to do it along lines of their own.

CHAPTER XXI.

CONCLUSION

Events crowded one another at Sobrante.

Under the compulsion of his brother’s will, so soon as that brother was able to think of anything beyond his own suffering, Ferd led a party of the ranchmen, with Ninian Sharp at their head, to the canyon cave and the pit where the little captain had been imprisoned. They shuddered as they beheld it; yet could but rejoice that Old Century had sought her there, and had, so opportunely, revealed its precious secret. They also took good care to blaze their path as they went, for it was most intricate and bewildering. They had the curiosity to test the powers of the wonderful staff, which John had carefully fitted with a new top, and were amazed at its curious behavior, as it zigzagged over the floor of the almost unsupported. Whatever the metal, or compound of metals, on the point, it was certainly attracted by, and indicated the presence of, copper in the earth beneath.

Returning to the house after this trip of exploration, Marty was promptly mounted upon the “ghost horse” Nero, and sent to Marion with telegrams for Ninian’s expert friends in Los Angeles, and to bring back the mail. The unhappy animal had been treated to a liberal bath of gasoline and soap suds, and had come out of it a sort of mongrel; but with the phosphorus gone from about his eyes and face, and with a reasonable prospect that he might some day be restored to his original ebony hue. Yet his spirit seemed broken, as if he had felt the disgrace of the part he had been forced to play in the late escapades of Antonio and his fellow-conspirators.

“It’s what one might call the irony of fate that the man who caused the death of Comanche should thus be forced to supply Comanche’s place with his own beloved Nero,” commented the reporter, as the messenger rode away.

“Yes. Things generally do even up in this world, if a body has patience to wait a spell,” answered Samson. “And though I’ve no love for him, and wouldn’t trust him across this plaza, without watchin’, I can’t help pitying poor ‘top-lofty,’ and thinking he was more fool than knave. The idee! Them plans and performances of his savor more of the ‘middle ages,’ that I’ve heard about, than of these days. But it just takes my breath away to think of what Sobrante will be, some time, if that ‘find’ in the canyon turns out what we imagine. Why–but there! No use talking. Wait and see. How long you think before you get an answer back from the town, tellin’ what your friend’ll do?”