Susy, A Story of the Plains - Bret Harte (ebook reader for pc and android txt) 📗

At the end of the terrace Clarence dismounted, and helped them from the carriage. He then gave directions to the coachmen to follow the road slowly to the corral in front of the casa, and tied his horse behind the second carriage. Then, with Mrs. Peyton and the two young girls, he plunged into the grain.

It was hot, it was dusty, their thin shoes slipped in the crumbling adobe, and the great blades caught in their crape draperies, but they uttered no complaint. Whatever ulterior thought was in their minds, they were bent only on one thing at that moment,—on entering the house at any hazard. Mrs. Peyton had lived long enough on the frontier to know the magic power of POSSESSION. Susy already was old enough to feel the acute feminine horror of the profanation of her own belongings by alien hands. Clarence, more cognizant of the whole truth than the others, was equally silent and determined; and Mary Rogers was fired with the zeal of loyalty.

Suddenly a series of blood-curdling yells broke from the direction of the corral, and they stopped. But Clarence at once recognized the well-known war-whoop imitation of Jim Hooker,—infinitely more gruesome and appalling than the genuine aboriginal challenge. A half dozen shots fired in quick succession had evidently the same friendly origin.

“Now is our time,” said Clarence eagerly. “We must run for the house.”

They had fortunately reached by this time the angle of the adobe wall of the casa, and the long afternoon shadows of the building were in their favor. They pressed forward eagerly with the sounds of Jim Hooker’s sham encounter still in their ears, mingled with answering shouts of defiance from strange voices within the building towards the front.

They rapidly skirted the wall, even passing boldly before the back gateway, which seemed empty and deserted, and the next moment stood beside the narrow window of the boudoir. Clarence’s surmises were correct; the iron grating was not only loose, but yielded to a vigorous wrench, the vine itself acting as a lever to pull out the rusty bars. The young man held out his hand, but Mrs. Peyton, with the sudden agility of a young girl, leaped into the window, followed by Mary and Susy. The inner casement yielded to her touch; the next moment they were within the room. Then Mrs. Peyton’s flushed and triumphant face reappeared at the window.

“It’s all right; the men are all in the courtyard, or in the front of the house. The boudoir door is strong, and we can bolt them out.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Clarence quietly; “you will not be disturbed.”

“But are you not coming in?” she asked timidly, holding the window open.

Clarence looked at her with his first faint smile since Peyton’s death.

“Of course I am, but not in THAT way. I am going in by THE FRONT GATE.”

She would have detained him, but, with a quick wave of his hand, he left her, and ran swiftly around the wall of the casa toward the front. The gate was half open; a dozen excited men were gathered before it and in the archway, and among them, whitened with dust, blackened with powder, and apparently glutted with rapine, and still holding a revolver in his hand, was Jim Hooker! As Clarence approached, the men quickly retreated inside the gate and closed it, but not before he had exchanged a meaning glance with Jim. When he reached the gate, a man from within roughly demanded his business.

“I wish to see the leader of this party,” said Clarence quietly.

“I reckon you do,” returned the man, with a short laugh. “But I kalkilate HE don’t return the compliment.”

“He probably will when he reads this note to his employer,” continued Clarence still coolly, selecting a paper from his pocketbook. It was addressed to Francisco Robles, Superintendent of the Sisters’ Title, and directed him to give Mr. Clarence Brant free access to the property and the fullest information concerning it. The man took it, glanced at it, looked again at Clarence, and then passed the paper to a third man among the group in the courtyard. The latter read it, and approached the gate carelessly.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I am afraid you have the advantage of me in being able to transact business through bars,” said Clarence, with slow but malevolent distinctness, “and as mine is important, I think you had better open the gate to me.”

The slight laugh that his speech had evoked from the bystanders was checked as the leader retorted angrily:—

“That’s all very well; but how do I know that you’re the man represented in that letter? Pancho Robles may know you, but I don’t.”

“That you can find out very easily,” said Clarence. “There is a man among your party who knows me,—Mr. Hooker. Ask him.”

The man turned, with a quick mingling of surprise and suspicion, to the gloomy, imperturbable Hooker. Clarence could not hear the reply of that young gentleman, but it was evidently not wanting in his usual dark, enigmatical exaggeration. The man surlily opened the gate.

“All the same,” he said, still glancing suspiciously at Hooker, “I don’t see what HE’S got to do with you.”

“A great deal,” said Clarence, entering the courtyard, and stepping into the veranda; “HE’S ONE OF MY TENANTS.”

“Your WHAT?” said the man, with a coarse laugh of incredulity.

“My tenants,” repeated Clarence, glancing around the courtyard carelessly. Nevertheless, he was relieved to notice that the three or four Mexicans of the party did not seem to be old retainers of the rancho. There was no evidence of the internal treachery he had feared.

“Your TENANTS!” echoed the man, with an uneasy glance at the faces of the others.

“Yes,” said Clarence, with business brevity; “and, for the matter of that, although I have no reason to be particularly proud of it, SO ARE YOU ALL. You ask my business here. It seems to be the same as yours,—to hold possession of this house! With this difference, however,” he continued, taking a document from his pocket. “Here is the certificate, signed by the County Clerk, of the bill of sale of the entire Sisters’ title to ME. It includes the whole two leagues from Fair Plains to the old boundary line of this rancho, which you forcibly entered this morning. There is the document; examine it if you like. The only shadow of a claim you could have to this property you would have to derive from ME. The only excuse you could have for this act of lawlessness would be orders from ME. And all that you have done this morning is only the assertion of MY legal right to this house. If I disavow your act, as I might, I leave you as helpless as any tramp that was ever kicked from a doorstep,—as any burglar that was ever collared on the fence by a constable.”

It was the truth. There was no denying the authority of the document, the facts of the situation, or its ultimate power and significance. There was consternation, stupefaction, and even a half-humorous recognition of the absurdity of their position on most of the faces around him. Incongruous as the scene was, it was made still more grotesque by the attitude of Jim Hooker. Ruthlessly abandoning the party of convicted trespassers, he stalked gloomily over to the side of Clarence, with the air of having been all the time scornfully in the secret and a mien of wearied victoriousness, and thus halting, he disdainfully expectorated tobacco juice on the ground between him and his late companions, as if to form a line of demarcation. The few Mexicans began to edge towards the gateway. This defection of his followers recalled the leader, who was no coward, to himself again.

“Shut the gate, there!” he shouted.

As its two sides clashed together again, he turned deliberately to Clarence.

“That’s all very well, young man, as regards the TITLE. You may have BOUGHT up the land, and legally own every square inch of howling wilderness between this and San Francisco, and I wish you joy of your d—d fool’s bargain; you may have got a whole circus like that,” pointing to the gloomy Jim, “at your back. But with all your money and all your friends you’ve forgotten one thing. You haven’t got possession, and we have.”

“That’s just where we differ,” said Clarence coolly, “for if you take the trouble to examine the house, you will see that it is already in possession of Mrs. Peyton,—MY TENANT.”

He paused to give effect to his revelations. But he was, nevertheless, unprepared for an unrehearsed dramatic situation. Mrs. Peyton, who had been tired of waiting, and was listening in the passage, at the mention of her name, entered the gallery, followed by the young ladies. The slight look of surprise upon her face at the revelation she had just heard of Clarence’s ownership, only gave the suggestion of her having been unexpectedly disturbed in her peaceful seclusion. One of the Mexicans turned pale, with a frightened glance at the passage, as if he expected the figure of the dead man to follow.

The group fell back. The game was over,—and lost. No one recognized it more quickly than the gamblers themselves. More than that, desperate and lawless as they were, they still retained the chivalry of Western men, and every hat was slowly doffed to the three black figures that stood silently in the gallery. And even apologetic speech began to loosen the clenched teeth of the discomfited leader.

“We—were—told there was no one in the house,” he stammered.

“And it was the truth,” said a pert, youthful, yet slightly affected voice. “For we climbed into the window just as you came in at the gate.”

It was Susy’s words that stung their ears again; but it was Susy’s pretty figure, suddenly advanced and in a slightly theatrical attitude, that checked their anger. There had been a sudden ominous silence, as the whole plot of rescue seemed to be revealed to them in those audacious words. But a sense of the ludicrous, which too often was the only perception that ever mitigated the passions of such assemblies, here suddenly asserted itself. The leader burst into a loud laugh, which was echoed by the others, and, with waving hats, the whole party swept peacefully out through the gate.

“But what does all this mean about YOUR purchasing the land, Mr. Brant?” said Mrs. Peyton quickly, fixing her eyes intently on Clarence.

A faint color—the useless protest of his truthful blood—came to his cheek.

“The house is YOURS, and yours alone, Mrs. Peyton. The purchase of the sisters’ title was a private arrangement between Mr. Peyton and myself, in view of an emergency like this.”

She did not, however, take her proud, searching eyes from his face, and he was forced to turn away.

“It was SO like dear, good, thoughtful papa,” said Susy. “Why, bless me,” in a lower voice, “if that isn’t that lying old Jim Hooker standing there by the gate!”

CHAPTER VIII.

Judge Peyton had bequeathed his entire property unconditionally to his wife. But his affairs were found to be greatly in disorder, and his papers in confusion, and although Mrs. Peyton could discover no actual record of the late transaction with Mr. Brant, which had saved her the possession of the homestead, it was evident that he had spent large sums in speculative attempts to maintain the integrity of his estate. That enormous domain, although perfectly unencumbered, had been nevertheless unremunerative, partly through the costs of litigation and partly through the systematic depredations to which its great size and long line of unprotected boundary had subjected it. It had been invaded by squatters and “jumpers,” who had sown and reaped crops without discovery; its