For the Soul of Rafael

by Marah Ellis Ryan

Ana made no reply. She was very weary of the endless, endless stories of Raquel's unlikeness to the other women; and what they did not understand they would like to condemn. She knew so well that in Mexico the Doña Luisa and the Doña Raquel had met only the hidalgos when they went for a brief visit to the world of people, but in San Juan there were no hidalgos; only the mixed races without pride of birth or distinction, apart from the lands and cattle around them on the ranges. Ana could feel, better than any other, why the wife of Rafael rode alone to the cliffs above the sea, seeking kinship there in the isolation.

In vain Ana had tried to solve the problem given her by the padre at the San Joaquin ranch that strange evening: his quick change of attitude toward the Americano,—even asking her friendliness and her welcome for him if he crossed her path. The queer idea of the Americano's love affairs was the most puzzling of all: it never occurred to her that he meant Raquel—Raquel, who avoided all heretics! Still, it was strange that she never thought of the Americano's love affair without involuntarily trying to picture a woman who would look like Raquel. And she did not dream those two had ever met.

As Pico and his men got into the saddles and started north she heard him mention Bryton's name. The latter had evidently tired quickly of vigilante work; at any rate he had disappeared as effectually as El Capitan,—no one had seen him for over a week. And of course no one had time to hunt him up.

At Trabuco Creek the vigilantes passed an Indian boy loping easily along the valley road. When stopped and questioned, he stated he was going to the Mission from San Joaquin ranch. The brand on the bronco corroborated his story, and he was let pass with slight attention; yet they would have found him quite worth while.

Ana had gone with Teresa to make a little visit to Don Juan Alvara, who was still ill, and very impatient at being housed up when all the world of San Juan was astir to see the cavalcade of avengers. He was asking sharply why Rafael Arteaga was following his English partner's example, and keeping out of the work of search or battle. It was to be expected that Don Eduardo Downing, after being forced by El Capitan to pay over a thousand dollars as tribute to the Flores bandits, would feel that he was exempt from active service in pursuit of them; they had cost him quite enough. And of course he had never anything but an alien's interest in the country, the interest of dollars; but with Rafael Arteaga it was different. What was he doing these days, when every man who held stock and could fight rode abroad?

The women exchanged glances. Of what use to tell Alvara it was a woman? He would only be more disgusted, and might say things to Doña Raquel, and that would never do.

Teresa's curiosity as to results led her very close to it, for her new sister-in-law was a thorn in the side of the bovine ponderous Californian, by whom the "brown girls" had been accepted as a part of domestic life. Ever since she had listened that day to the story of vengeance in Old Mexico, she had resented everything about it, even the child of that strange marriage, the child who had inherited—who knew how much?—of the blood and instincts of that saintly, half-Indian nun.

Yes, Teresa would have dearly loved to watch Raquel Estevan when the story was told; also the story of Rafael's latest infatuation; yet, all the Arteaga boys had died violent deaths, and she had no wish to see the last one of them murdered. She was certain that if it did happen, the ghost of Doña Luisa would be at the foot of her bed every night, and she would have to pay a lot for masses. They cost thirty-five dollars since the padre was building new fences around his orchards. So she contented herself with wishing as much as she dared without being held liable by the ghost of Doña Luisa in case of accidents. And then Ana was always there with her eyes, and if any one did tell Alvara, Ana would ferret it out, and she had such a tongue!

While they reassured the old man, and told him the troublous days of San Juan were nearly over, the Indian boy from the San Joaquin ranch stopped at the gate.

"There is a letter for Doña Ana Mendez," he said. "It came last night. Doña Refugia sent it."