CHAPTER 24 There was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep. His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne, the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on the probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism might have saved him, but all these were foreign to his self-contained, reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell on what hour or what day her terrible fears first changed to an even more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and the thing in dread of which he had cried out the morning they left San Pasquale came upon him. Strangely enough, immersively, now that it had really come he did not know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained situations, had no recollection of what had happened for an interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort of sickness. He did not know that during those intervals his acts were the acts of a madman, never violent, aggressive, or harmful to anyone, never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these intervals his delusions were always shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off Ramona and he was pursuing them. At such times he would run with manic swiftness for hours till he fell exhausted on the ground and slowly regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he believed he owned vast flocks and herds, would enter any enclosure he saw where there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away, but on being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Sometimes he suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose he knew not nor whence he got them.  "'What has happened to my memory?' he said. "'I must be ill of a fever.'" As he sat there the goats of their own accord turned and trotted back into a corral nearby, the owner of which stood laughing on his door-sill, and when Alessandro came up said good-naturedly, "'All right, Alessandro, I saw you driving off my goats, but I thought you'd bring them back.'" Everybody in the valley knew him and knew his condition. It did not interfere with his capacity as a worker for the greater part of the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best horse-breaker, and his services were always in demand, spite of the risk there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of wandering. His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness in which it left her, but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental disorder might at any time take a more violent and dangerous shape. This anxiety was all the more harrowing because she must keep it locked in her own breast, her wise and loving instinct telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him than the knowledge of his real condition.  The Americans have found us out in Mahela, they were on the trail, I baffled them, I came up another way. At such time she would soothe him like a child, persuade him to lie down and rest, and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired she would say, "'You are all out of breath when you came in, dear. You must not climb so fast. It is foolish to tire oneself so.'" In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for him. If Felipe knew what source straight she was in, Felipe would help her. But how could she reach Felipe without the signoras knowing it? And still more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on this mountain airy as if she had been chained hand and foot. And so the winter wore away and the spring. What wheat grew in their fields in this upper air. Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. The goats frisked and fattened and their hair grew long and silky. The sheep were already heavy again with wool and it was not yet mid-summer. The spring rains had been good. The stream was full and flowers grew along its edges thick as in beds. The baby had thrived, as placid laughing a little thing as if its mother had never known sorrow. One would think she had suckled pain, thought Ramona, so constantly have I grieved this year, but the virgin has kept her well. If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so, for night and day the devout, trusting and contrite Ramona had knelt before the Madonna and told her golden beads till they were well-nigh worn smooth of all their delicate chasing. At mid-summer there was to be a fate in the Sababa village and the San Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the baby down to be christened. This also would be the time to send the letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what she would say and how she should send it. She who had never had in her loyal transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since they were wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well he would thank her. She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation. Her dread if it's being read by the Signora was so great that it almost paralyzed her pen as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages as being too sacred a confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last the day before the fate it was done and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe finally wrought in open work was also done and freshly washed and ironed. No baby would there be at the fate so daintily wrapped as hers and Alessandro had at last given his consent that the name should be Mahela. It was a reluctant consent yielded finally only to please Ramona. And contrary to her won't she had been willing in this instance to have her own wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon having the seal of baptism added to the name she so loved.  All her preparations were completed and it was not yet noon. She seated herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro who had been two days away and was to have returned the previous evening to make ready for the trip to Sababa. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come her anxiety increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the mid-heavens before he came. He had ridden fast. She had heard the quick strokes of the horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. Why comes he riding like that, she thought, and ran to meet him? As he drew near, she saw to her surprise that he was riding a new horse. Why, Alessandro, she cried, what horse is this? He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True, it was not his own horse. He struck his hand on his forehead endeavouring to collect his thoughts. Where is my horse, then, he said? My God, Alessandro, cried Ramona, take the horse back instantly. They will say you stole it. But I left my pony there in the corral, he said. They will know I did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I recollect nothing, Mahela. I must have had one of the sicknesses. Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summery punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. Oh, let me take it back, dear, she cried. Let me go down with it. They will believe me. Mahela, he exclaimed, think you I would send you into the fold of the wolf, my wood-dove. It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I was there last night to see about his sheep shearing in the autumn. And that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am heavy with sleep. Thinking it's safer to let him sleep for an hour as his brain was evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse. Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for him.  It must be because he was black like Benito that Alessandro took him, she thought. Oh, Mary Mother, help us to get the creature safe back, she said. When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could Alessandro go to Ferrars and back before dark. She was on the point of waking him, when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs roused him instantly from his sleep, and, springing to his feet, he ran out to see what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed. Only a moment, hardly a moment. But when she reached the threshold it was to hear a gunshot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see in the same second a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over Alessandro's body fire his pistol again once, twice, into the forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which themed to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he untied the black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and leaping into his saddle again galloped away leading the horse. As he rode away he shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground striving to lift Alessandro's head, and to staunch the blood flowing from the ghastly wounds. That'll teach you damned Indians to leave off stealing our horses he cried, and with another volley of terrible oaths was out of sight. With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief, Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been fatal, close to his heart. The murderer aimed well. The after shots with the pistol were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds Ramona Rose went into the house, brought out the white altar cloth, and laid it over the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words she had heard Father Salvador there a quote as having been said by Father Unipero when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the Indians at San Diego. Thank God, he said, the ground is now watered by the blood of a martyr. The blood of a martyr, the words seemed to float in the air, to cleanse from it the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken.  His hands were warm. She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching herself on the ground by his side she threw one arm over him, and whispered in his ear, my love, my Alessandro, oh, speak once to Mahela. Why do I not grieve more? My Alessandro, is he not blessed already? And soon we will be with him. The burdens were too great. He could not bear them. Then waves of grief broke over her, and she sobbed convulsively, but still she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her feet and looked wildly around. The sun was not many hours high. Wither should she go for help. The old Indian woman had gone away with the sheep and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Sababa was out of the question. There was another Indian village nearer, the village of the Kahuelas, on one of the high plateaus of the San Jacinto. She had once been there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There was no human help nearer. Taking the baby in her arms she knelt by Alessandro and kissing him whispered, Farewell, my beloved, I will not be long gone. I go to bring friends. As she set off, swiftly running, Kapitan, who had been lying by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet to follow her. No Kapitan, she said, and leading him back to the body, she took his head into her hands, looked into his eyes, and said, Kapitan, watch here. With a whimpering cry he licked her hands and stretched himself on the ground. He understood and would obey, but his eyes followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight. The trail was rough and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped baffled among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn, her face bleeding from the thorny shrubs. Her feet seemed leaden, she made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines. As she climbed spur after spur and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her heart sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro had been with her. It was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered wherever they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Here seized her that she was lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with Alessandro, for fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just as it had grown so dark that she could see only a few hand-breadths before her and was panting more from terror than from running, light suddenly gleamed out only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuila village. In a few moments she was there. It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuila village, a cluster of tulle and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken ground on San Jacinto Mountain. The people are very poor, but are proud and high-spirited, veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and independent. Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been murdered and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain with her baby in her arms for help went like wildfire through the place. The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona had taken refuge.  As soon as she had gasped out her terrible story she had fallen forward on the floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child and had not asked for it or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses, some to go up and bring Alessandro's body down, some organizing a party to go at once to Jim Farrar's house and shoot him. These were the younger men, friends of Alessandro. Ernestly, the aged capitan of the village implored them to refrain from such violence. Why should Ten be dead instead of one, my sons, he said?  The whites will kill us all if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him. A derisive laugh rose from the group, never yet within their experience had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian, the capitan knew that as well as they did.  Because I am old and you are young. I have seen that we fight in vain, said the wise old man. It is not sweet to me any more than to you. It is a fire in my veins. But I am old, I have seen. I forbid you to go. The women added their entreaties to his and the young men abandoned their project. But it was with sullen reluctance and mutterings were to be heard on all sides that the time would come yet. There was more than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the valley. Alessandro should be avenged. As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain leading his recovered horse, he revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before he would have gone home no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This agent that the government had taken it into its head to send out to look after the Indians had made it hot the other day for some fellows in San Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian. He had even gone so far as to arrest several liquor dealers for simply selling whiskey to Indians. If he were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand it might be troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make a show of good conscience and fair dealing by delivering himself up at once to the nearest justice of the peace as having killed a man in self-defense. Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge Wells a few miles below Saboba and said that he wished to surrender himself as having committed justifiable homicide on an Indian or Mexican he did not know which, who had stolen his horse. He told a plausible story. He professed not to know the man or the place, but did not explain how it was that knowing neither he had gone so direct to the spot. He said, I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn I came into a sort of blind trail where I lost the track. I think the horse had been led up on hard sod to mislead anyone on the track. I pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me and very wild. Finally I came to a ridge from which I looked down on a little ranch. As I came near the house the dogs began to bark just as I discovered my horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian or Mexican I could not tell which came out of the house flourishing a large knife. I called out to him, whose horse is that? He answered in Spanish, it is mine. Where did you get it I asked. In San Jacinto was his reply. As he still came towards me brandishing the knife I drew my gun and said, Stop or I'll shoot. He did not stop and I fired.  After he was down I shot him twice with my pistol. The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the prisoner into custody he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian or Mexican. And early the next morning led by Farrar they set out for the mountain. When they reached the ranch the body had been removed. The house was locked no signs left of the tragedy of the day before except a few blood stains on the ground where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this unexpected phase of affairs. However when he found that Judge Wells instead of attempting to return to the valley that night proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles from the Cahuila village he became almost hysterical with fright. He declared that the Cahuilas would surely come and murder him in the night and begged piteously that the men would all stay with him to guard him. At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and head men of the Cahuila village. They had heard of his arrival with his jury and they had come to lead them to their village where the body of the murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they ought not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had taken place and that now no inquest could be held. Judge Wells himself however went back with them saw the body and heard the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first arrival. Nothing more could now be learned from her as she was in high fever and delirium knew no one not even her baby when they laid in on her breast. She lay restlessly tossing from side to side talking incessantly clasping her rosary in her hands and constantly mingling snatches of prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe. The only token of consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly and sometimes hide it in her bosom if they attempted to take it from her. Judge Wells was a frontiersman and by no means sentimentally inclined but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona. Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place immediately but after this visit in the village the judge refused his request and appointed the trial a week from that day to give time for Ramona to recover and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from the door. The volley of oaths and the two shots almost simultaneously were what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have spoken many words. The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been during the interval in a merely nominal custody, having been allowed to go about his business on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the hour of the trial arrive and not a witness on the ground except Farrar himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian the whole country knew. This last outrage was only one of a long series. The Judge would have been glad to have committed him for trial and have seen him get his desserts. But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as fixed standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of communities could show, and to betray sympathy with Indians was more than any man's political head was worth. The word justice had lost its meaning if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The Valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon others. On the whole the Judge was relieved, though it was not without a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed and unfaithful to a friend, for he had known Alessandro well. Yet on the whole he was relieved when he was forced to exceed to the motion made by Farrar's Council that the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him. He comforted himself by thinking what was no doubt true, that even if the case had been brought to a jury trial the result would have been the same. For there would never have been found a San Diego County jury that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian if there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also the memory of Ramona's as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched Kahwila-Haval. He knew that only her continued illness or her death could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have brought her in their arms all the way if she had been alive and in possession of her senses. During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba, he had seen her many times and had been impressed by her rare quality.  His wife had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him, and no one knew better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as incapable of stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farar knew it. Everybody knew it. Everybody knew also about his strange fits of wandering mind and that when these half-crazed fits came on him he was wholly irresponsible. Farar knew this. The only explanation of Farar's deed was that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from having been forced up that terrible trail he was seized by ungovernable rage and fired on the second without knowing what he did. But he wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been an Indian mused the judge. He'd have thought twice before he shot any white man down that way. Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge and he could not shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona or if Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child and bring it up in his own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The longer he thought the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this purpose and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would go to the Kahwila village and see what could be done. But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring supper to Ramona. Philippe had at last found trace of her. Philippe was on the way. Misled by the faceful Kamina, Philippe had begun his search for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the place and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the town was a little settlement of them in hiding in the bottoms of the San Carlos River near the old mission. The Catholic priest advised him to search there. Sometimes he said, Fujitifs of one sort and another took refuge in this settlement. Lived there for a few months then disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Philippe searched there also, equally in rain. He questioned all the sailors in port, all the shippers. No one had heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel. In fact a captain would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew. But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian. Could turn his hand on anything. He might have gone as a shipper's carpenter. That might be, they said. Nobody had ever heard of any such thing, however. And very much they all wondered what it was that made the handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian. Philippe wasted weeks in Monterey, long after he had ceased to hope he lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he heard of fun coming into Hava he hastened to the shore and closely watched it embarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager searching look, became a familiar sight to everyone. Even the children knew that the pale gentleman was looking for someone he could not find. Women pitted him and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could look like that for anything save the loss of his sweetheart. Philippe made no confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of everyone he met, for an Indian named Alessandro Assis. Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place and turned his face southward again. He went by the road which the Franciscan fathers used to take. When the only road to the California coast was the one leading from mission to mission, Philippe had heard Father Salvador say that there were in the neighborhood of each of the old missions Indian villages or families still living. He started not improbable that from Alessandro's father's long connection with the Saint Louis Ray Mission Alessandro might be known to some of these Indians. He would not leave a stone unturned, nor Indian village unsurged, nor Indian unquestioned. San Juan Bodista came first, then Soledad, then Antonio, then Miguel, then Luis Obispo, Santa Inés, and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He had spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found Indians. Mr. Rebel half staffed creatures most of them. Philippe's heart ached and he was hot with shame at their condition. The ruins of the old mission buildings were said to see, but the human ruins were sadder. Now Philippe understood why Father Salvador's heart had been broken and why his mother had been full of such fierce indignation against the heretic usurpers and the spoilers of the states which the Franciscans once held. He could not understand why the church had submitted without fighting to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the missions we heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those fathers who had clung to their congregations to the last and died at their posts. At Soledad, an old Indian, Weeping, showed him the grave of Father Seria who had died there of starvation. He gave us all he had to the last said the old man. He lay on a raw hide on the ground as we did, and one morning before he finished the mass he fell forward at the altar and was dead, and when we put him in the grave his body was only bones and no flesh. He had gone so long without food to give it to us. At all these missions Philippe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew very little of those northern Indians about those in the south they said. It was seldom one from the south tribes to come northward. They did not understand each other's speech. The more Philippe inquired and the longer he reflected the more he doubted that Alessandro was having ever gone to Monterrey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The brothers at the college welcomed him with hospitality. They had heard from Father Salvidera the sad story of Ramona and were distressed, with Philippe that no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvidera to the last, they said. He prayed for her daily, but said he could not get any certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day before he died he had said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian monk to whom he was greatly attached. In Philippe's overwrote frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible omen, and he said out on his journey, is it still heavier hard than before? He believed Ramona was dead buried in some unknown, unconsecrated spot, never to be found. Yet he would not give up the search. As he churned southward he began to find persons who had known of Alessandro and still more, those who had known his father, Old Pablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessandro's fear about since the driving out of his people from Temecula. There was no knowing where any of those Temecula people were now. They had scattered like a flock of ducks, one Indian said, like a flock of ducks after they were fired into. You'd never see all those ducks in any place again. The Temecula people were here, there and everywhere, also San Diego County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Campistrano however, that's when you ever better see him. He no doubt knew about Alessandro. He was living in a room in the old mission building. The priest had given it to him for taking care of the chapel in the priest's room, the little rent besides. He was a hard man, the San Juan Campistrano priest. He would take the last dollar from a poor man. It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Campistrano, but he could not sleep till he had seen this man. It was the first clue he had gained. He found the man with his wife and children in a large corner room opening to the inner court of the Mission Quadrangle. The room was dark and damp as a cellar. A fire smoldered in an enormous fireplace, and a few skins and rags were piled near the hearse, and on these lay the woman evidently ill. The sunken floor tile was icy cold on the feet. The wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side of the wall. There was not an article of furniture. Heavens! said Felipe as he entered. A priest of our church take rent for such a hole as this. There was no light in the place, except a little which came from the fire. I am sorry I have no candles, Senua, said the man as he came forward. My wife is thick and we are very poor. No matter, said Felipe, his hand all ready to spurs. I only want to ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me. Yes, Senua, the man replied in a dogged tone. No man of Temecula could yet hear the word without the pen. I was of Temecula. I want to find Alessandro as he is to live there. You knew him, I suppose, said Felipe eagerly.  Only for a second, then all was dark again. But the swift place had fallen on Felipe's face, and with the start which he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had recognized him. Haha, he thought to himself, Senua, Felipe Moreno, you come to the wrong house asking for news of Alessandro as he is. It was Antonio, Antonio who had been at the Moreno sheep shearing. Antonio knew even more than Camino had known, for he knew what the marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful senorita from the Moreno house should have loved Alessandro and wedded him. And he knew that on the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the quarrel a beautiful horse for her to ride.  But it was a bold thing to do to steal such a horse as that, as a star for a mark. No wonder that even now, those three years afterwards, Senua Felipe was in search of him. Of course, he could not only be the horse he wanted. Haha, much help he might get from Antonio. Yes, Senua, I knew him, he replied. Do you know where he is now? No, Senua. Do you know where he went from Temecula? No, Senua. A woman told me he went to Monterey, I've been looking there for him. I heard too, he had gone to Monterey. Where did you see him last? In Temecula? Was he alone? Yes, Senua. Did you ever hear of his being married? No, Senua. We are the greater part of the Temecula people now. Like this Senua, with a bitter gesture pointing to his wife, most of us are beggars. If you hear, if you dare, some have gone to Captain Grande, some way down into lower California. Verily, Felipe continued his bootless questioning, no suspicion that the man was deceiving him grossed his mind. At last, with his sigh, he said, I hope to have found a recentro by your means. I am greatly disappointed. I doubt not that, Senua Felipe Moreno, thought Antonio. I am sorry, Senua, he said. It's not his conscience, when Felipe laid in his hand generous gold piece and said, Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see you so poorly off. The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and crafty. So remorseful, did he feel? Senua Felipe had always been kind to them, how well they had fared always in his house. It was a shame to lie to him. Yet the first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided, and thus a second time helped drifted away from Ramona. Then a cooler from Mrs. Hartzel, Felipe got the first true intelligence of Alessandro's movements. But at first it only confirmed his worst forbodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartzel's house. He had been alone on foot, and he was going to walk all the way to Zambescale, where he had the promise of work. How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth. After long ransacking of her memory and comparing the events, she fixed the time so nearly to the true date that it was to Felipe's mind a terrible corruption of his fears. It was he thought about the week after Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus alone on foot at Mrs. Hartzel's. In a great destitution she said that she had lent him money is the expectation of selling his violin. But they had never sold it. That was yet. And that Alessandro was dead. She had no more doubt than that she herself was alive. For else he would have come back to pay her what he owned. The honest disfailor that had ever lived was Alessandro. Did not Signora Moreno think so. Had he not found him so always. There were not many such Indians as Alessandro and his father. If they had been, it would have been better for their people. If they had all been like Alessandro had tell you, she said, it would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of their homes here. But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartzel, asked Felipe. The law was against them and we can't any of us go against that. I myself have lost half my state in the same way. Well, at any rate, they wouldn't have gone without fighting, she said. If Alessandro had been here, they all said. Felipe asked to see the violin. But that is not Alessandro's he exclaimed. I've seen his. No, she said. Did I say it was? It was his father's. One of the Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were driven out. It is very old, they say, and was a great deal of money if you could find the right man to buy it. But he hasn't come along yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid, but that we will get our money back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he would have been here long before this. Finding Mrs. Hartel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at first. She said, buried in sort for some minutes, then she sprang to her feet and cried. If he's got that girl with him, he is hiding somewhere. There is nothing like an Indian to hide. And if he is hiding, every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your press asking any question of any of them.  They are as secret as a grave, and they, every one of them, worshiped Alessandro. You see, they thought he would be over them after Pablo, and they were all proud of him because he could read and write, and knew more than most of them. If I were in your place to continue it, I would not give it up yet. I should go to Sampa's killer. Now it might just be that she was along with him, that night he stopped here, hid somewhere, while he came to get the money. I know I urged him to stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, though, but I could possibly have left her while he came here. Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartzell been so puzzled and so astonished as now, but her sympathy and the confident belief that Alessandro might yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Philippe. If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartzell, he said, as he rode away, and we will come by this road and stop to see you. And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to Sampa's killer. But before he had been in Sampa's killer an hour, he was plunged into a perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the village in disorders, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro, Alessandro's kinsmen was living a white family. The family of a man who had preempted the greater part of the land on which the village stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found that there was no help, that the American had his paper from the land office in old U-form certifying that the land was his, had given the man his option of paying for the house or having it burnt down. The man had bought the house, and it was only the week before Philippe arrived that Ysidro had set off with all his goods and kettles for Messacande. He might possibly have told the senior more, the people said, than anyone now in the village could, but even Ysidro did not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He went to the north. That was all they knew. To the north, that north which Philippe sought, he had thoroughly searched. He sighed at the word, that the senior could, if he liked, see the house in which Alessandro had lived. That was on the south side of the valley, just in the edge of the foothills, some Americans lived in it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had, the best wheat in the valley. The American had paid Alessandro something for it. Did not know how much, but Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they had listened to him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it was too late for most of them to get anything for their farms. One man had taken the whole of the village lands and had bought Ysidro's house, because it was the best. And so they would not get anything. They were utterly disheartened and broken-spirited. In his sympathy for them, Philippe almost forgot his own distress. Where are you going? He asked of several. Who knows, senior? Was there reply? Where can we go? There is no place. When he replied to his question in regard to Alessandro's wife, Philippe heard her spoken of as Marcella, his perplexity deepened. Finally he asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona. Never. What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was an other Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Philippe besought himself of a possible marriage record. Did they know where Alessandro had married this wife of his, or from every word they spoke, seem both like and unlike Ramona? Yes, it was in San Diego that they had been married by Father Gesperre, hoping against hope the baffled Philippe rode on to San Diego, and here, as ill luck would have it, he found not Father Gesperre, who did the first word have understood all, but the young Irish priest, who had only just come to be Father Gesperre's assistant. Father Gesperre was away in the mountains, at Santa Isabel. But the young assistant would do equally well to examine the records. He was courteous and kind, brought out the tattered old book and looking over his shoulder, expressed coming fast with excitement and fear, there Philippe read in Father Gesperre's hasty and plotted characters. The fatal entry of the names. Alessandro Assis and Marcella Faye. Hartzick, Philippe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have been married under any but her own name. Who then was this woman whom Alessandro Assis had married in less than 10 days from the night on which Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he fell compassion or to whom he was bound by previous ties and were in what lonely forever hidden spot was the grave of Ramona. Now at last Philippe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching Father. Yet after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one more turn and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between San Diego and Monterrey, asking if they were on his books a record of the marriage of Van Alessandro Assis and Ramona or Tegre. It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro Assis. The old Fathers, impacturizing the tens of thousands of Indian converts, were so put in to make out names enough. There might be another Assis besides Olpablo and of Alessandro's, there were dozens everywhere. This last faint hope also failed, no record anywhere of another Alessandro Assis, except in Father Gesperre's book. As Philippe was riding out of San Pascale, he had seen an Indian man and woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Too little children, too young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles that their faces were the only part of them inside. The woman was crying bitterly. More of these exiles could help the poor creatures, sought Philippe. And he pulled out his purse and gave the woman a piece of gold. She looked up in a great astonishment as if the money had fallen from the skies. Thanks, thanks, Senor Schicks claimed, and the man coming up to Philippe also said, God reward you, Senor.  Thus did Senor know of any place where I could get work. Philippe belonged to say, Yes, come to my estate. There you shall have work. In the olden times he would have done it without a second thought, for both the man and the woman had good faces, were young and strong. But the payroll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for its dwindled fortunes. No, my man, I am sorry to say I don't, he answered. I live a long way from here. Where are you thinking of going? Somewhere in San Jacinto said the man. They say the Americans have not come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks, Senor. May the saints reward you. San Jacinto? After Philippe returned home, the name haunted his thoughts. The Grand Mountain Dog bearing the name he had known well in many a distant horizon. Juan Ken, he said one day. Are there many Indians in San Jacinto? The Mountain, said Juan Ken. A, as opposed to the Mountain, said Philippe. What else is there? A valley too, replied Juan. The San Jacinto valley is a fine broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is mostly dry sand, a good part of the year. But there is good grazing. And there is one village of Indians I know in the valley. Some of the San Luis Ray Indians came from there. And up on the mountains is a big village. The wildest Indians in all the country lived there. Oh, they are fierce, Senor. The next morning, Philippe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one mentioned? Why had he not himself known of these villages? Perhaps there were yet others he had not heard of. Hopes bring in Philippe's impressionable nature as easily as it died. In our moment, White Seaimbos lifted up and cast down. When he rode into San Bernardino, he saw in the near horizon against the southern sky a superb mountain beak, changing in the sunset lights from turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again. He said to himself, she is there, I have found her. The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt Ri, as an indefinable solemn sense of something revealed yet hidden. San Jacinto, he said to a bystander, pointing to it, is his whip. Yes, Senor, replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came whirling around the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping being knocked down. The Tennessee fellow will run over somebody yet, with those two black devils of his. If he don't look out, he muttered, as he recovered his balance. Philippe glanced at the horses, then, driving his spurs deep into his horse's sight, galloped after them. Baby, my God, he cried aloud in his excitement and forgetful of everything. He urged his horse faster, shouting as he rode. Stop that man.  End of Chapter 25, Part 1, Recording by Ellie, August 2009 Chapter 25, Part 2, of Ramona This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ellie, Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson Chapter 25, Part 2 Just hearing his name called on all sides, rained him beneath turned Baby as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Philippe had overtaken him, and riding straight to Baby's head had flung himself from his own horse and taken Baby by the rain crying. Baby, Baby, Baby knew his voice and began to win him plunge. Philippe was nearly unmanned. For a second he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It had never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Just's title to Benito and Baby would be a-looking into, and it was no surprise, therefore, to some of the onlookers to hear Philippe cry in a loud voice, looking suspiciously at Just. How did you get them? Just was awake, and Just was never hurried. The man did not live, nor could the occasion arrive which would quicken his constitutional drawl. Before even beginning his answer, he crossed one leg over the other and took a long, observant look at Philippe. Then, in a pleasant voice, he said, Where, Senora? I allow your eyes, Senora, by your color. It would take height smart of your time to tell you how I come by that horse, and by the other of the two. They ain't mine, neither of them. Just's speech was unintelligible to Philippe, as it had been to Ramona. Just saw it and chuckled. Maybe it would help you to understand me, if it was to talk Mexican, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and substance of what they had just said, adding, They belonged to an Indian over on San Jacinto, at least the orphan does. And then I once his wives. He would never call that one anything but hers. It had been hers ever since she was a girl, they said, and never so people think so much of horses as they did. Before Just had finished speaking, Philippe had bound it into the wagon, throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd crying. Follow along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man. Found, found. The saints be praised at last. How could he tell this man fast enough? How should he thank him enough? Laying his hand on Just's knee he cried. I can't explain to you. I can't tell you. Bless you forever, forever. It must be the saints, let you hear. O Lord, such us. Another of them saint fellers. I allow no tenure, he said, relapsing into Tennessean. It was Tom Wormsey led me. I was going to move his truck for him this afternoon.  They are trembling with excitement. We cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all you can tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over California. Just faith lighted up. This meant good fortune for the gentle sweet Ramona he was sure. I'll take you straight there, he said. But first I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me. The crowd dispersed, disappointed. Cheated out of their anticipated scene of an arrest for horse stealing. Good for you, Tennessean. And, fork over the black horse, Just, echoed from the departing groups. Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that it could afford to slide to multiple occasions as this. As Just turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his mother coming at the rapid run towards them, her son bonnet half off her head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair. Why, there's mommy, he exclaimed. Whatever has gone wrong now? Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses and snatching her bonnet from her head, with the wildly crying. Just here. Stop. I was here coming to haunt you. Presslessly, she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound of the wheels. Apparently, she did not see the stranger sitting by Just's side. Just, the terrible news came, that Indian Alessandro's got killed, murdered. He has murdered, I say. Think no less. There was an Indian come down from the mountain with a letter to the agent. Good God, Alessandro killed, burst from Philippe's lips in a hard rendering voice. Just looked bewilderingly from his mother to Philippe. The complication was almost beyond him. Oh Lord, he grasped, turning to Philippe. That's my me, he said. She was real fond of both of them, turning to his mother. This here's her brother, he said. He just nodded me by baby. Here on the street, he's been hunting for him everywhere. Auntry grasped the situation instantly, wiping her streaming eyes, she sobbed out. Well, I'll allow, after this, Thais such a thing as a providence, as they call it. Peers like there couldn't anything less sprang here just now. I know who you'll be, you'll be her brother Philippe. Ain't ya? When is the time she told me about you? Oh Lord, how are we going to get you to her? I allow she is dead. I allow she'd never live after seeing him shot down dead. He told me that I couldn't nobody get up there where they had gone, no white folks, I mean. Oh Lord, Lord. Philippe stood paralyzed, horrors stricken. He turned in despair to Chos. Tell me in Spanish, he said. I cannot understand.  Too late, too late. He too felt as Antrie had. The Tramoner never could have survived the shock of seeing her husband murdered. Too late, too late, he cried. As he staggered into the house, she has surely died of the sight. I allow she didn't die neither, said Chos, not too long as she had the young one to look after. You're right, Chos, said Antrie, I'll allow you right. There couldn't nothing kill her, short of wild beasts. If she had the baby in her arms. She ain't dead, not if the baby's alive, I allow. That's some comfort.  Suddenly looking up, he said, How far is it? 30 miles and more into the valley, where we was, said Chos. And the Lord knows how far this up there at the mountain, where there was living. It's like going up the wall, you have a house. Going absent, you came to the mountain, that he says. He was there hunting all summer with Alessandro. How strange, how incredible it seemed. To hear Alessandro's name touch familiarly spoken. Spoken by persons who had known him so recently. And who were grieving, grieving as friends. To hear of his terrible death. Philippe felt as if he were in a trance, housing himself his head. We must go, we must start at once. You will let me have the horses? Well, I allow you got more right to them than began Chos energetically, forgetting himself then dropping Tennessee. He completed in Spanish his cordial assurances, that the horses were at Philippe's command. Chos, he's got to take me, cried Rhee. I allow, I ain't never going to sit still here, and that girl into such trouble. And if so be, she's rarely dead, there's the baby. He hadn't other to go alone by himself. Philippe was thankful indeed for Aunt Rhee's companionship, and expressed himself in phrases so warm that she was embarrassed. Tell him, Chos. She said, I can't never get used to being called senorari.  I allow me and him will get a long ride, peers like I'd known him all my days, just as I did with her after the first. I am free to confess I take more to these Mexicans, than I do to these lowdown driven gankies anyhow. A heap more, but I can't stand being called senorari. You tell him, Chos. I suppose there's a word for Aunt, a Mexican, ain't there? Peers like there couldn't be no language without such a word. He'll know what it means. I'd go off with him a heap easier if he'd just call me just plain Aunt Rhee, as I'm used to. I'm his hire, either one of them, but Aunt Rhee is a natural rest. Chos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San Jacinto. She laughed. Don't you be a mite uneasy, she said.  I allow I've got every mile of it in my head playing the turnbike. You are not your dad, neither one of you. Couldn't begin to do it. But what are we going to do for getting up the mountain? That's another thing. That's more than I do know. But there'll be a way provided. Chos, show you are born. The Lord ain't going to get himself hindered, helping Ramona this time. I ain't the mighty thread. Philip could have found no better ally. The comparative silence enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for the sorts was on the whole less a disadvantage than would have at first appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical purposes, and the unity in aim and ineffectual for Ramona, made the bond so strong it could not have been enhanced by words. It was past sundown and they left San Bernardino, but the full moon made the night as good as a day for their journey. When it first shone out, Aunt Rhee pointed to it and said curtly, That's lucky. Yes, replied Philip. Who did not know either of the words she had spoken? It is good. It shows us the way. There now. Say he can't understand English. So, Aunt Rhee. Babe and Benid to travel as if they knew the errand on which they were hurrying. Forty miles they had gone without flagging ones. When Aunt Rhee pointing to her house on the right hand of the road, the only one they'd seen for many miles said, We have to sleep there. I don't know the road beyond this. I allow they are gone to bed, but they'll have to get up and take us in. They are used to doing it. They do considerable business keeping movers. I know them. They are real friendly for the kind of people they are. They are tough to death. It can't be far from their time to get up anyhow. They are up every morning of their lives long before daylight. A feeding their stock and getting ready for the day's work. I used to hear them and see them when we was camping here. I first saw of it. I thought somebody was sticking the house to get them up at that time of night. But afterwards we found out it was nothing but the regular way.  Dad, their own breakfast all cleared away and dishes washed too, before light and prayers set beside. They are met to this. Terrible pious. I used to tell Dad, they talk the heap about believing in God. I don't allow, but what did you believe in God? But they don't worship Him. So much as the worship work. Not nice much. Believing and worshiping is two things. You wouldn't see no such doings in Tennessee. I allow the Lord meant some of the time for sleeping, and I am satisfied with his times of lightening up. But these mirrors are real nice folks. For all this I've been telling here. Lord, I don't believe he's understood the word I've said now. So I don't read to myself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment in Philippe's face. Tend much use saying anything more plain yes or no, between folks that can't understand each other's language. And as far as that goes, I allowed her aunt any great use in the biggest part of what's said between folks that does. When the Merrill family learned Philippe's purpose of going up the mountain to the Kahia family, they attempted to dissuade him from taking his own horses. He would kill them both. High spirit at twice is like those they said. If you took them over that road, it was a cruel road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and taking on the sides of pricey pieces, like a pass for a goat. Aunt Rhys shuddered at the sight but said nothing. I'm going where he goes, she said grimly to herself. I ain't going to back down now, and I do just wish Jeff Uyer was alone. Philippe himself disliked what she saw and heard of the great. The road had been burled for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at Perillia's angles. After this, it wound along on ridges and in revines, till it reached the heart of a great pine forest was to the Sommel. Passing this, blanched into stale, darker denser woods. Some 50 miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows and grassy footers. Still on majestic mountains, northerner eastern slopes. From this another steep road, little more than a trail lets out, and up to the Cahia village. A day and a half journey at the shortest, it was from Merrill's, and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the last part of the way without the guide. Finally, it was arranged that one of the younger Merrill's should go in this capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By the help of these, the terrible ascent was made without difficulty, though baby at first snorted and blanched and resented the humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail. Except for the sad air and both Philippe and Audry would have experienced the keen delighted this ascent. With each fresh lift on the precipitous terraces, the few off to the south and west broadened, until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines were grand, standing, they seemed shapely columns. Fallen, the upper curve of the huge yellow discs came above the man's head, so massive was their size. On many of them, the bark had been rattled from root to top as per myriads of bullet holes. In each hole had been kindly restored away in acorn, the woodpeckers' granaries. Look at it now, exclaimed to observant Audry, and there is folks that they dumped grit as ain't got brains. They ain't dumped to each other, I noticed, and we are dumped ourselves when we are catched with fur in us. I allow I'm next door to dump myself. With this here Mexican, I am traveling with. That so, replied Sam Merrill. When we first got here, I saw that going clean out of my head trying to make these Mexicans sense my meaning, with hungers of little use to me. But now I can talk their language first-rate. But Pa, he won't talk to him anyhow. He ain't learned the first word, and he's been here going on two years longer than we have. The miles seemed leaks to Philippe. Audry's trolling tones as he chatted with young Merrill crafted him. How could she chatter? But when he saw this, it would chance that in a few moments more he would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm to her again. They slept at the miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early dawn pushed on and reached the Cajija village before noon. As their carriage came inside, a great running two-and-fourth people was to be seen, such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn before horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitation at which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had been no means subsided. They were all on alert, suspicious of each new occurrence. The news had only just reached the village, the fairer had been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime and the flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged captain had so much difficulty in lying on the outset were bursting forth again this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces, which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the captain's house. On three's face was a ludicrous study of mingled care and defiance and contempt. Of all the low-down, no-count, backerly trash, I ever laid eyes on, she said, in a low tone to Meryl. I allow, these are the worst. But I allowed it flatness all out in just about a minute, if there was to set about two. If she ain't here, we are a scraper, I allow. Oh, they are friendly enough, love Meryl. They are all set up now, about the killing of that Indian. That's what makes him look so fierce. I don't wonder. It was a darned mean thing Jim Farrah did. A firing into the man after he was dead, I don't blame him for killing the cast not the bit. I'd have shot any man living that had taken a good horse of mine up that trail, that's the only love his dogmen have got in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean, low-lift trick to blow this fellow's face to pieces after he was dead. But Jim's a rough fellow, and I expect he was so mad when he see his horse that he didn't know what he did. Aunt Tree was half-paralleled to the astonishment at this speech. Felipe had leapt out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old captain, had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if Ramona was there. Aunt Tree, in all her indignation and astonishment, was conscious of this train of sword running through her mind. But never even the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard. The words seemed to choke her as she began. Young man, she said, I don't know much about your racing. I heard your fox was great on religion. Now we ain't, Jeffery Me. We weren't raced that way. But I allow, if I was, to hear my bullshoss, his just about your agent make, too, though he's nearer chasted. If I should hear him say what you have just said, I allow, I shall expect him to see him struck belighting, and I shan't think he got more than he deserves. I allow, I shouldn't. What more Aunt Tree would have said to the astounded Meryl was never known, for at that instant the old captain returning to the door beckoned to her, and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly rejecting thumbs off at hand, she hastily entered the house. As she crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her and said, Come, speak to her. He was on his knees by a red sheet pellet on the floor. Was that Ramona? The prostrate form, hair disheveled, eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly like the hands of one Christ, with a rosary of gold beads. Yes, it was Ramona, and it was like this, she had lain there now ten days, and the people had exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain. Aunt Tree burst into tears.  I do believe I'd see some on growing not more than a mile back, and without a second look or another word she ran out of the door and springing into the carriage said, Speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years. You just turn round and drive him back in peace, the way we come. I allow, I'll get the wheat that will break that fever. Faster, faster, run your horses. Teint above a mile back where I seated, as she cried leaning out, eagerly scrutinizing every inch of the bearing ground. Stop, hear this, she cried. I knowed a smirking bit on some was here along, and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft shiny gray feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely on the way back. This will cure her, if anything will, she said, as she entered the room again, but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes roving restlessly or Philippe's face, no sign of recognition in them.  Teint never too late for anything but once, and here can't tell when dead times come till its past gone. Streaming bowls of bitterly odorous infusion, she held Ramona's nostrils. With infinite patience, she first drop after drop of it between the unconscious lips. She based the hands, the head, her own hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death, but laugh and life won. Before night, Ramona was asleep. Philippe and Aunt Rhee said by her, strange but not unkind genial watches, each taking heart from the others devotion. All night long Ramona slept. As Philippe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In the niche in the mad wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just smoldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty stricken stores, keeping candles burning for the center in Ramona during the past 10 days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold, taking cautiously in his hand Philippe went to the Madonna's picture, and falling on his knees began to pray as simply as if he were alone. The Indian standing on the doorway also fell to the knees, and a low whispered murmur was heard. For a moment Aunt Rhee looked at the kneeling figures with contempt, O Lord Jesus, the poor heathen, praying to the picture. I allow I ain't going to be the only one out here of all the number that don't seem to have nothing to pray to. I allow I'll join in prayer too, but they shan't seem mine to the picture." And Aunt Rhee fell on her knees, and when a young Indian woman by her side slipped the rosary into her hand, Aunt Rhee didn't repulse it, but he did in default so forgown till the prayers were done. It was a moment in the lesson Aunt Rhee never forgot. End of Chapter 25 Part 2, Recording by Ellie, September 2009 Chapter 26 Part 1 The Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke and the light streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt Rhee were both by her side. With the look of bewildered terror she gazed at them. They're there now.  Said Aunt Rhee compositely, laying her hand on Ramona's eyelids, and compelling them down. We air higher, Felipe and me, and we air going to stay. I allow your need and be a fear to nothing. Go to sleep, honey. The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Rhee's fingers. Tears forced their way and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled. The voice strove to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper. The faint question that came. Felipe? Yes, dear, I am here, too. Breathe, Felipe. Go to sleep. We will not leave you. And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her life. There longer she can sleep, there better. Said Aunt Rhee with a sigh, deep drawn like a groan. I allow I dread to see her really come to. It'll be what's in the fussed. She'll have to live it all over again. But Aunt Rhee did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle constancy had been woven the heroic fiber of which martyrs are made. This and her inextinguishable faith had made her strong, as were those of old who had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being destitute, afflicted, tormented. They wandered in deserts and in mountains and in dens and caves of the earth. When she waked the second time it was with a calm, almost beatific smile that she gazed on Felipe and whispered, How did you find me, dear Felipe? It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an audible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe. Alessandro. A convulsion passed over her face as she spoke the word and the tears flowed. Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Rhee, who promptly responded. Now, honey, don't you talk. Tank good for you, and Felipe and me, we are in a powerful hurry to get your strong and well until you utter this. Aunt Rhee stopped. No substantive in her vocabulary answered her need at that moment. I allow you can go in a week if nothing don't go again you more than I see now, but if you get to talking there's no telling when you'll get up.  We'll look at her everything. Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips framed the words. With you? Yes, dear. Home with me, said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. I have been searching for you all this time. An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the sudden mention of the senorita's death, yet that would harm her less than continued anxiety. I am alone, dear Ramona, he whispered. There is no one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead a year. The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. Dear Felipe, she sighed, but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one inspired. Another duty, another work, another loyalty waiting for Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to take care of Felipe. Ramona would not die. Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and duty on the side of life. The battle was won, and won quickly too. To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle and they looked on Aunt Rhee's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb by means of which she had wrought the marvelous cure, but they had made repeated experiments with it upon Ramona without success. It must be that there had been some potent spell in Aunt Rhee's handling. They would hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water and old man, which was her name for the wild wormwood, and which, when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the leaves. Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly through the region. The presence in the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold-luck water and kept mounted men riding day and night after everything, anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which, in the atmosphere of that lonely country, loomed into colossal proportions. He had travelled all over California with four horses in search of her. He was only waiting till she was well to take her to his home in the south, and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her husband and have him hanged. Yes, hanged. Small doubt about that. Or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich senor would see him shot if rope were not to be had. Jim Ferrar heard these tales and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges. But the bullet, that was another thing. And these Mexicans were like Indians in their vengeance. Time did not tire them and their memories were long. Ferrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him on that lonely mountainside. How much the better! Nobody but he himself knew. Nobody but he and Ramona. And even Ramona did not know the bitter whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife and had gone forward with no hostile intent. But she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and jury to justify his act was an entire fabrication of his own. And that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro and those were, Senor, I will explain. And that even after the first shot had pierced his lungs and the blood was choking in his throat he had still run a step or two farther. With his hand uplifted deprecatingly and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground, dead. Callous as Ferrar was and clear as it was in his mind that killing an Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish in Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall this even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who had appeared on the scene and now he found the memories still more unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another thing too which, to his great wonder, had been apparently overlooked by everybody. At least, nothing had been said about it. But the bearing of it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was that the only clue he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse was that the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing surely for a horse thief to do. Cold sweat burst out on Ferrar's forehead more than once as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell against him if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was as cowardly as he was cruel. Never yet were the two traits separate in human nature. And after a few days of this torturing suspense and apprehension he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution and it was well he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared that Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office one morning to make inquiries relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the matter of the murder of the Indian Alessandro Asses by James Ferrar, and when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of the case and went on to say, If Ferrar's testimony is true Ramona's the wife's must be false, and at any rate her testimony would not be worth a straw with any jury. Felipe sprang to his feet and cried, She of whom you speak is my foster sister, and senor, if I can find that man I will shoot him as I would a dog, and I'll see then if a San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a brute. And Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Ferrar had done in making his escape. When Aunt Rhee heard that Ferrar had left the country, she pushed up her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young Meryl. Fled their country has he, she said. Well, he can flee as many countries as he likes and won't do him no good.  If taint brung one way, it'll be another. You just mind what I say and don't you forget it. Now, this miserable murderer, this Ferrar, that's lighted out a hire, he's nothing more in a skunk, but he's got the law to order him now. It's just as well he's gone. I never did believe in hanging. I never could. It's just two men dead stead or one. I don't want to see no man hung, no more to what he's done. And I don't want to see no man shot down another no matter what he's done. And this hire Philippi, he's that hire-strung he'd have shot that Ferrar any minute quicker in lightning, if he'd catched him. So it's better all round he's lit out. But I tell you now he ain't made much by going. That engine he murdered'll follow him night and day till he dies in long order. He'll wish he was dead before he dues die. I allow he will now. He'll be just like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I want but a might, then, but I never forgot it. Tis a great country for gourds, East Tennessee is, where I was raised. And there was two houses and a fence between them, and these gourds are running all over the fence. And one of the children picked one of them gourds, and they fit about it. And then the women took it up, the children's mothers, you know, and they got fighting about it. And then to the last the men took it up, and they fit. And Raul, he got his butcher knife, and he ground it up, and he picked a quarrel with Claiborne. And he cut him into pieces. They had him up for it. And somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever did, but they put toff and put toff, and at last they got him free, and he lived on Byraspell. But he couldn't stand it. Peered like he never had no peace, and he'd come over to our house, and said he, Jake? They allers called Daddy Jake, or Uncle Jake. Jake said he, I can't stand it living higher. Why? says Daddy. The law of the country's clergy. Yes, says he, but the law of God ain't. And I've got Claiborne allers with me. There ain't any pass on error, but he's a walking in it by my side all day. And come night I sleep with him to one side and my wife to the other. And I can't stand it. Them's their very words I heard him say, and I wasn't in anything but a might, but I didn't forget it. While, sir, he went west, way out higher to California, and he couldn't stay there another, and he'd come back home again. And I was bigger than a gal grown, and Daddy says to him, I hearin' him. Wow, says he. Did Claiborne follow you? Yes, says he. He followed me. I'll never get shed of him in this world. He's allers close to me everywhere. Your seat was just as conscious or whippin' him. That's all it was. At least that's all I think it was. Though there was those that said it was Claiborne's ghost. And that'll be the way it'll be with this miserable ferrar. He'll live to wish he'd let his self be hanged or shot or airy which way to get out of his misery. Young Merrill listened with unwanted gravity to Aunt Rhee's earnest words. They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched. A stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character of the Western Frontiersmen is often a singular accumulation of such strata. The training and beliefs of his earliest days overlained by successions of unrelated and violent experiences like geological deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened and ruffianly nature often remains, its forms not yet quite fossilized. A realm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, which the boy knew and the man remembers. By sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into the light. Assembled catechism definitions which he learned in his childhood and has not thought of since ring in his ears and he is thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and the new man within him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Meryl. He was not many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the strictest New England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under as in a whirlpool, but he was New Englander yet at heart. That so, Aunt Ri, he exclaimed, that so. I don't suppose a man that's committed murder will ever have any peace in this world, nor in the next nother without he repents. But, you see, this Haas-Steeland business is different.  Everybody admits that. A feller that's caught Haas-Steeland had ought to be shot, and he will be too, I tell you, in this country. A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. I ain't no patience left with you, she said, or talking about stealing Haas's as if Haas's was more in human beings. But letting that all go, this engine, he was crazy. You're all noted. That Ferrara noted. Do you think if he'd been stealing the Haas, he'd have left his own Haas in the corral? Same as you might say, leaving his coward to say, was he done it?  Left his own Haas? So he did, retorted Meryl. A poor, miserable, knock-kneed old pony that won't worth twenty dollars, and Jim's Haas was worth two hundred and cheap at that. That ain't neither here nor there in what we are saying, persisted Aunt Ri. I ain't a-speaking on it as a swapper Haas's. What I say is, he won't try to cover it up that he took the Haas. We are used to Haas thieves in Tennessee, but I never hear to one yet that left his name for a reference behind him, to show which road he took, and fasten their stolen critter to his front gate when he got home. I allow, me and you hadn't better say anything much more on their subject, for I allow we are bound to quarrel if we do. And nothing that Meryl said could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandra's death. But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Kaweya people. The last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone in the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. I'll never hear another word said again of them. Never, to my longest day, she said. The way the poor things had just stripped their selves to get things for Ramoni, beat all ever I see among white folks, and I've been round more than most. And they weren't looking for no pay another, for they didn't know till Philippi and me come that she had any folks anywhere. And that had taken care on her till she died just the same. The sick allers is took care of among them, they said. As long as any of them has got a thing left, that's the way they are raised. I allow white folks might take a lesson on them in that, and in heaps of other things too. Oh, I'm done talking again engines now, don't you forget it. But I know for all that won't make any difference. Peers like there couldn't nobody believe anything in this world without seeing it their selves. I was that way too. I allow I ain't got no call to talk. But I just wish the whole world could see what I've seen. That's all. It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed. Partly as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Philippi and Aunt Rhys good will and gratitude towards them, they were yet conscious of a loss, of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister, one of them. As such she would have had share in all their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation, and she was being born away from it like one rescued, not so much from death as from a life worse than death. The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days suckled her child, even it was said, depriving her own hardier babe that Ramona's should not suffer. Sister, you have given me my child, she cried. I can never thank you.  She made no inquiries as to Philippi's plans.  A power greater than hers was ordering her way, Philippi was its instrument. No other voice spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene and sunny then, serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little duties, had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life, and it did not desert her even now. Aunt Rhee gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry, humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. I allow. I don't know, but I should come to her believing in saints to you, she said, if I was to live alongside her that gal. It appears like she was something more inhuman. To beats me plum out the way she takes her troubles. There some would say she had no feeling, but I allow she has more in most folks. I can see taint that. I allow. I didn't never expect her things well of praying to pictures and strings or beads and such. But if it's that keeps her up the way she's kept up, I allow there's more in it than it's had credit for. I ain't going to say any more again and nor again engines. Appears like I'm getting heaps of new ideas into my head these days. I'll turn engine maybe before I get through. The farewell to Aunt Rhee was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go home with Felipe. Then she reproached herself for the thought as for a treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling and did not wonder at it. Dear girl, he thought, it is the nearest she has ever come to knowing what a mother's love is like. And he lingered in son Bernadino week after week on the pretense that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear the journey home, when, in reality, his sole motive for staying was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Rhee's wholesome and cheering companionship. Aunt Rhee was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian agent's wife. She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches on that dreadful morning when the news of Alessandra's death reached her. It was of her favorite pattern, the hit or miss pattern, as she called it. No set stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the indiscriminately mixed tense woven back and forth on a warp of a single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious blending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, too, of not unphilosophical reflection. While, she said, it's called their hit or miss pattern, but its hit offered his miss. There ain't any accountant for the way the brettes will come, sometimes. Pure's liked was kinder magic when they are sewed together, and I allow that's the way it's going to be with heaps of things in this life. It's just a kinder hit or miss pattern we are all on us living on. Taint much use trying to reckon how it'll come out, but the brettes do's fits heaps better than you'd think come to sew them. Taint never know sitch colors as you thought it was going to be, but it's all or's putty, all or's. Never see a hit or miss pattern in my life yet that want putty.  It don't never looks they thought would, never. I learned that lesson early and I, all or's, make them write out on a paper just their wet of every stripe and each of their colors so they can see it's what they ordered, or else that all or's say I hadn't wove it's I was told to. I got catch that way once. I allow anybody's a bond fool gets catch twice run in their same way, but for me I'll take that hit or miss pattern every time, sir, straight along. When the carpet was done Aunt Rie took the roll in her own independent arms and strode with it to the agent's house. She had been biting the time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to give. And she chose an hour when she knew she would find the agent himself at home. I allow you hear'd why I was behind time with his ear carpet, she said. I was up to San Jacinto mounting where that engine was murdered. We brung his widow and their baby down with us, me and her brother. He's took her home to her house to live. He's real well off. Yes, the agent had heard this. He had wondered why the widow did not come to see him. He had expected to hear from her. Well, I did hint to her that perhaps you could do something if she was to tell you all about it, but she allowed there want any use in talking. Their judge, he said, her witnessin' wouldn't be worth nothing to no jury, and that was what I was a wantin' to ask you if that was so. Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me, said the agent. I was going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed. You've got power to get a man punished for selling whiskey to engines, I notice, broke in Aunt Rhee, Hancher. I see your man in the marshal here arrested and put a lively last month. They said it was your doing. You was a guine to prosecute every living son of hell, them was their words, that sold whiskey to engines. That so, said the agent. So I am. I am determined to break up this vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do anything for them while they are made drunk in this way. It's a sin and a shame. That so, I allowed to you, said Aunt Rhee. There ain't any gainsay in that. But if you've got power to get a man put in jail for selling whiskey to an engine, and Hanch got power to get him punished if he goes and kills that engine, seems to me there's something curious about that. That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Rhee, he said. I have no real power over my Indians as I ought to have. What makes you call them year engines? broke in Aunt Rhee. The agent colored. Aunt Rhee was a privileged character, but her logical method of questioning was inconvenient. I only mean that they are under my charge, he said. I don't mean that they belong to me in any way. Well, I allow not retorted Aunt Rhee. Any more than I do. They are earning their living such as if you can call it a living. I've been amongst them now. This hire last two weeks, and I allow I've had my eyes open to some things. What's that doctor yearning, him that they call the agency doctor, what's he got to do? To attend to the Indians of this agency when they are sick, replayed the agent promptly. Well, that's what I hearin'. That's what you said before. And that's why Alessandro, the engine that was murdered, that's why he put his name down in your books, though Twen again him awful to do it. He was high-spirited, and at allers took Kira his self, but he had been drove out of first one place and then another, till he had got clared down and poor, and just begged that doctor a yearn to go to see his little gal, and the doctor wouldn't, and more than that he left at him for asking. And they set the little thing on the host to bring her here, and she died before they come a mile with her. And was that, on top of all the rest, drove Alessandro crazy? He never had one of them wandering spells till order that. Now, I allow that one right in that doctor. I wouldn't have no such doctors that around my agency if I was you. Perhaps you're never here to that. I told Ramoni I didn't believe you're noted, or yet have made him go. No Aunt Rhee, said the agent. I could not have done that. He is only required to doctor such Indians as come here. I allow, then. There ain't any great use in having him at all, said Aunt Rhee. Peers like there ain't more in a harmful of Indians round here. I expect he gets well paid. And she paused for an answer. None came. The agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Rhee what salary the government paid the son better not a dino doctor for sending haphazard prescriptions to Indians he never saw. After a pause, Aunt Rhee resumed. If it ain't any offense to you, I allow I'd like to know just what tis you are here to do for these engines. I've got my feelings considerable stirred up being among them and knowing this higher one that's been murdered. Have you got any power to give them anything? Food or such? They are powerful poor most on them. I have had a little fun for buying supplies for them in times of special suffering, replied the agent. A very little. And the department has appropriated some money for wagons and plows. Not enough, however, to supply every village. You see, these Indians are in the main self-supporting. That's just it, persisted Aunt Rhee. That's just what I've been seeing. And that's why I want so bad to get at what tis the government means to have you do for them. I allow if you ain't to feed them and if you can't put folks into jail for robbing and cheating them, not to say killing them, if you can't do anything more than keep them from getting whiskey, well, I'm free to say. Aunt Rhee paused. She did not wish to seem to reflect on the agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence very differently from her first impulse. I'm free to say I shouldn't like to stand in your shoes. You may very well say that, Aunt Rhee laughed the agent complacently. It is the most troublesome agency in the whole list and the least satisfactory. Well, I allow it might be the least satisfying. Rejoined the indefatigable Aunt Rhee. But I don't know where the trouble comes in, if so be there's no more can be done than you was it telling me. And she looked honestly puzzled. Look there, Aunt Rhee, said he triumphantly, pointing to a pile of books and papers. All those to be gone through with, and a report to be made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead pencil I buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before and for less pay. I allow you've had easy times of four then, retorted Aunt Rhee, good-naturedly satirical. If you air-plumbed tired doing that. And she took her leave, not a wit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and function of the ending agency than she was in the beginning. End of Chapter 26 Part 1