The Crimson Conquest 39

The Crimson Conquest 39

They inclined their heads graciously and Pedro raised his eyes to the

third, some paces in the rear. As he bowed again he was conscious of a

buxom figure, strangely bedight in a rusty corselet and a man’s sombrero

which showed marks of the hard journey, its limp rim hanging tow about a

face which he saw only partly. She was astride, he noted, with a huge

battle-axe at her saddle-bow, and a ponderous spur on a foot of goodly

size.

 

The lady glanced at him, gasped, reined up with vigor, and shouted in a

voice of joyful surprise, "_Pedro!_"

 

Pedro straightened with a jerk and staggered against the wall.

 

"Pedro!" she shouted again. She urged her steed across the street with

a series of jabs of her spurs, and tumbled out of the saddle, a

confusion of petticoats, arms, legs, and a flapping sombrero. Dropping

the reins, she charged the cook, who stood transfixed to the wall,

powerless.

 

"Pedro, as I live!" she cried, seizing his hands. "Oh, Pedro, thou

graceless, fat, one-legged darling of a cook, I was never more joyed in

my life!"

 

Pedro struggled in her grasp, speechless, his face reddening violently,

as she held him at arm’s length, surveying him with pleasure.

 

"And ’t is thou!" she exclaimed. "Hold, whilst I look at thee—stop

squirming, thou lubber! Yes, I’d know thee in a brigade, even did I not

see thy peg. But why dost not greet me, Pedro? Greet me, sinner! Dost

think I’ve journeyed a thousand leagues over sea and mountain to be

received like a cold omelet? Fie, Pedro!"

 

He gained his voice with an effort. "Why—my greetings, Señora Bolio!"

he panted. "What the devil—I’m glad to see thee well!—but release my

hands, prithee!—we’re in the street, woman. Thou’lt stir a scandal!"

 

"A scandal!" returned the señora, scornfully. "Soapsuds! A scandal,

forsooth! What care I for these pagans? I’m glad to see thee."

 

"Of course—of course!" gasped Pedro. "But look to thy mule!—he’s

wandering away, reins down. Let me go! I’ll—I’ll catch him."

 

"Let him wander, Pedro, and may the fiend ride him with hot spurs! He

hath jolted the life out of me these many days. But, art not surprised

to see me? Say!"

 

"Name of a martyr! Yes!" said Pedro, desperately. "But loose my hands,

I tell thee! We’re observed."

 

"Oh, Pedro, thou ’rt so coy, thou dear old cherub!"—and she laughed

joyfully.

 

"Oh, coy!" groaned Pedro. "Thunder and Mars! Dost not see the town

watching us? And look at the rear guard!"

 

The troopers had halted, and were observing the little drama with

interest.

 

"Brava, Señora!" called one, encouragingly. "His timidity is that of

inexperience. Persist, and he’ll succumb, my head upon it!"

 

The lady turned. "What now?" she demanded, indignantly, facing them

with hands upon her hips. "Who gave you command to halt? Jog on, jog

on! Circulate! Go, you singular accumulation of veal and old iron!

Wend, worry on, flit, you most unusual galaxy of junk and poultice! You

grotesque pack of——"

 

They tarried not to hear the completion of her period. They had

journeyed with Señora Bolio for many weeks, and had learned her powers.

When she turned to Pedro he was vanishing through the doorway, and she

followed precipitately. He backed against a table, and she dropped into

a chair facing him.

 

"Vagabonds!" she exclaimed, wrathfully, fanning herself with her

sombrero. "They have gone clean through my patience a hundred times

since we sailed from Panama. May the goblins gnaw their shin-bones!"

 

Pedro passed his sleeve across his forehead. "But they have left thee

thy gifts of speech, Señora," he ventured.

 

"Ah! What would I do without them—a helpless woman? Oh, me! ’T is a

sad world, Pedro.—But thou ’rt plump as a suckling porker, _chiquito_.

And this is thy place? _Cara_! What a savory smell!"

 

"Why, bless me!" cried Pedro, forgetting his disturbance in his

hospitality. "Thou must be hungry!"

 

"Hungry!" said Señora Bolio. "Boil me this hat, and I would eat it,

_amigo mio_! But first, help me off with this rusty furniture of mine.

Saints! I was never so wearied of a garment as of this iron bodice. ’T

is a man’s, of course, tight where it should be full, and’ full where it

should be snug. But they told me I should have to fight as often as

eat, or more, so I bought it, with the cleaver thou mayst have seen on

my saddle. And, Pedro, we must find the mule, for I would keep that

cleaver by me. No telling when I may need to use it on an Inca—thou

callest them Incas, these varlets in sleeveless pinafores?—Well, ’tis

all the same. Now, I am ready for a full trencher."

 

Seated before his guest while she ate with an appetite keened by hard

marches and harder fare, Pedro recovered his composure in listening to

news of the civilized world, interrupted now and again by the entrance

of patrons, each of whom started at sight of the lady, then bowed with a

curious glance at the host which made him fidget.

 

"Now," said the señora, finishing, "thou must find me lodgings, Pedro

dear; and before night, my mule, for I’ll not sleep without that axe.

My crucifix and it have been mine only comforts since I touched this

benighted land. I’ll part with neither. Canst find me a room, thinkst

thou? Ah, thou’rt a love! I could wish thou hadst two legs; but with

only one and a half thou ’rt more complete than any other man I ever

knew," and she bestowed a smile whose warmth caused him to back away

with an uneasy glance about the room. To his relief she made no further

demonstration, and shortly they sallied out in search of quarters for

her accommodation. A satisfactory lodging was found with a native

couple—and thus was Señora Margarita Bolio established in the land of

the Incas.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXII*

 

_*Rava in the Toils*_

 

 

Next morning early Pedro’s mule, held by Pedrillo, stood at his door,

surrounded by a whispering, awe-stricken group of native urchins

lingering to see the dread beast mounted by the Viracocha of the

fabulous leg. As Pedro appeared the brute twitched an ear toward him,

opened his mouth, and drew breath in a faint, rasping, wheezy note of

salutation. Pedro was gloomy, but he paused to rub the gray nose.

 

"Ah, my good friend," he said, with feeling, "there is melancholy in

thine accent—belike, the echo of a melancholy in thy soul, like that in

mine. ’T is but a sorry life: we’re agreed in that, and comrades in

misery. Thou, a mule, a cook’s mule; I, a cook, a one-legged cook; and

a panting, surcharged, vociferous Bolio at our heels, following with the

pertinacy of doom! But if thou, too, hast doleful thoughts, forbear to

voice them, lest I be brought to tears. Now, prithee, lend me thy back.

_Adiós_, Pedrillo. Remember the _frijoles_. Burn them again, scamp,

and I’ll—Whoa, mule! Thou misbegotten whimsy, I thought I read sadness

in thine eye,—and ’t was the devil. Be done, or I’ll chew thine ear!

Farewell, Pedrillo."

 

Pedro was off. Half-an-hour’s ride took him through the suburbs, and he

turned into the military road toward the grim fortress overlooking the

town. A short, steep climb, and he was at the gate, bantered by the

guard about the coming of Señora Bolio. Within was a citadel,

surrounded by buildings for the garrison, or the townspeople when driven

by war, and quarters for the Inca’s officers. As Pedro was passing he

was hailed by the familiar pipe of Rogelio. He drew rein, not in the

best of grace, awaiting the _veedor’s_ approach.

 

"Ah, Pedro, my good friend," said Rogelio, "I am pleased to see thee. I

had thee in mind, ’t is but a moment since. I——"

 

"Ware the heels of the mule!" bellowed Pedro, with a violence that

startled the _veedor_ into sudden agility in a backward spring.

 

"My soul and body!" exclaimed Rogelio, rolling his eyes from the beast

to its rider. "No need to roar, my friend. Thine animal looketh gentle

enough."

 

"He hideth an abundance of wickedness under a smooth exterior—like some

of his brethren who go on two legs," remarked Pedro.

 

"Ah?" Rogelio eyed the cook suspiciously.

 

"Ah!" returned Pedro. "But, hadst aught to say, Señor _Veedor_?"

 

"Why, I have, good Pedro," said Rogelio, recovering. "In a few

days—perhaps a fortnight, perhaps very soon—I expect—that is to say,

I—he, he, Pedro!—’tis a delicate subject—but—well, I may need a woman

servant. Just a common servant, Pedro."

 

"Ah!" said the cook. "Just a common servant! So! ’T is a common need,

_Veedor_, shared by common and uncommon. I thank thee for thy

confidence, Señor. I’ll betray it to no man." And apparently

considering the interview closed, Pedro gathered his reins to go.

 

"Wait!" shouted the _veedor_. "Blockhead, that is not all!"

 

"Not all, Señor! Thou hast need of two?"

 

The _veedor_ piped a curse, then controlled himself and went on with a

smile of forced amiability. "I mean it is not all I have to say, Pedro.

In a few days—or less—I hope to share thy happiness."

 

"My happiness!" exclaimed Pedro, mystified. "Oh, I see! The Señor is going to turn cook."