The most pleasant of Christmas Eve duties, arranging the childrens’ presents near or under the lighted lamps, followed the Pastores. Occasionally a lamp would be hung in a chapel or other preferred place not adjoining the family home, there being no danger of its being molested, a certain sacredness protecting both lamp and presents.
Waking early, Jesusa crept on tip-toe from her little room and hurried to the spot where her lamp had been hung, trembling with glad expectancy of the beautiful things she hoped to find there. A light still flickered in it, but there was nothing beneath or near it. What could it mean? She stood a moment spell-bound, then recalling some childish misdemeanors she burst into tears, and falling on her knees, sobbed: “I have been wicked. I was not worthy of Thy favor, Holy Child of God! Thou hast seen fit to punish me.” Don Pedro and Donna Inez, hearing her leave the house, had followed her, wishing to see her delight at the pleasant surprises they had prepared for her. “Wicked, indeed,” said he; “the angels in heaven are not purer. Some thief has despoiled you. We’ll catch him, punish him and force him to make restitution.”
Though slow to anger and prone to mercy, he was so incensed that he summoned the Mission Council to meet at once in his office to consider an important matter. A night guard at the Alamo testified that making his rounds he saw the white girl called Cana cross the street and go round the corner where the lamp hung; that later he saw her again cross the street and return home, but that seeing her often playing with Jesusa he suspected nothing, and did not follow her. However, when relieved from duty, he picked up near the corner she had passed the dulces and ribbon end, which he there and then produced. The Mexican woman with whom the child lived testified that early that morning Cana had divided with her children a box of dulces, and had given her a bow from which the ribbon end had evidently been detached, claiming to have found them. Cana when arrested and brought to the Alcalde’s office, denied bitterly any knowledge of either dulces or ribbon, then when cross-questioned she became confused and finally began crying: “I knew where Jesusa meant to hang her lamp. I was curious to see what she had, then I don’t know how or why I did it, I grabbed her things, carried them home and hid them in the hole at the foot of the hill.”
Jesusa, who had been sitting on a stool at her father’s feet, slipped to Cana’s side and gently took her hand. “Don’t cry, Cana,” said she. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You knew I would be willing for you to have them.” “Señor Alcalde,” said one of the Council, a tall, dark man with a loud, harsh voice, “justice and public safety demand the punishment of criminals, and I move that this self-convicted thief be fined twenty-five pesos and in default of payment of said fine that she be stripped and publicly flogged, then confined during Christmas week in the Mission jail.” Cano, who, hanging his head in shame, had crouched behind the door, here sprang forward, fell on his knees and grasping Jesusa’s hand, prayed: “Oh! Jesusa, don’t let them strip and flog my sister. I have strong arms and keen eyes. I will work and earn the money to pay for the things Cana, poor little weak lamb, took. For the love of God, for the Holy Virgin’s sake, don’t let them whip her.” Jesusa, kindly pressing his hand, said: “Have no fear,” then throwing her arms round her father’s neck, cried: “Padre mio, caro padre mio, you have never refused a request. Don’t let them harm Cana.” “Be quiet, my love”; then turning to the Junta he said firmly (and Don Pedro knew well how and when to assume the air of authority): “I will pay this child’s fine and give her the protection of my home. I also adjourn the Junta.”
He then summoned the Mexican with whom the children lived and obtained from him the following story:
“As has been my custom for some time, I went last year to the Comanche Camp on the Pecos for trading purposes, and while there noticed two white children whose miserable condition excited my pity and caused me to ask the chief who they were and where they came from. Evading my questions at first, he finally told me that he had stolen them while on a horse-raiding expedition to the Brazos; that going through the woods late one evening near a house occupied by apparently well-to-do people, he saw the children gathering pecans, and creeping up to them, seized them, strapped them to the back of his horse and fled, expecting to ransom them for a considerable sum. He sent an agent to make terms with the parents, but the agent, returning, reported that the affair had created such a stir he thought it unadvisable to broach the subject. I proposed a trade, and he agreed to take for them a mule, a bridle and a red blanket. I brought them home, intending to try for the ransom, but I did not know how to go about it.” “Speaking of ransom, for how much could you, amigo mio, be induced to relinquish all claims to these children?” asked the Alcalde. “Señor, you know me to be a poor man with a family to support, and needing money badly. Otherwise, I would present them to your honor. Would you be willing to offer twenty pesos?” “Here are fifty pesos. Read and sign this agreement, which, as you will see, transfers to me your right and claim to them.”
Obtaining the requisite authority, the Alcalde engaged a man, known to be trustworthy, to take charge of the Americanos, go with them to the neighborhood designated, hunt up their parents and restore to them their stolen children. Supplying them with clothes and giving to each one a well-filled purse, the Alcalde said, on parting with them: “Never forget that you owe your deliverance from captivity, and your restoration to home and friends, to Jesusa, and remember her in your prayers.”
The leave-taking between the two little girls could not have been more affecting had they been sisters, and Cano’s trembling lips and tearful eyes as he bade Jesusa good-bye expressed more eloquently than words the grateful emotions surging in his brave boyish heart. In due time letters came from the rejoicing parents invoking God’s blessing on the kind-hearted, generous Alcalde. Believing that their little ones had, lost in the woods, perished from starvation, or been drowned in the Brazos, they had mourned them as dead.
The night following the disappointing morning and the harrowing scene in her father’s office found little Jesusa ready for bed betimes. While she slept, Donna Inez, entering her room noiselessly, hung above her cot a picture depicting the healing of Jairus’ daughter, and opposite a scroll inscribed, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,” both scroll and picture being the work of the Nuns at the Mission Convent, who, hearing of Jesusa’s defense of Cana, aspired to play the part of rewarding spirits; and nearby, a doll dressed as a queen and many playthings and trinkets calculated to please a little girl.