The citadel of fear

CHAPTER I-2

“It’s Eden without the —” began Boots, when whir-r-r-r! came a sharp warning from the long grass that bordered the path. Boots bowed in mock salutation toward the sound. “Asking your pardon, Mr. Rattler! Eden, serpent and all, is what I’d meant to be saying.”

“Don’t c***k any of your fool jokes when we reach the house,” growled Kennedy. “Some of these Mexicans are as touchy as the devil.”

“Ah, now, you’d soon soothe ‘em down with a scowl or so,” laughed Boots. “But—well, don’t you admire the look o’ that, Mr. Kennedy? It’s no ranch-house they have, but a full-fledged hacienda no less!”

It was true. Instead of the common dobe-plastered casa of a small rancher, the thinning trees revealed an establishment far more imposing. Wide-spread, flat-roofed, its walls even yet showing only in patches through rioting rose-vines, here was such a residence as might be owned by any wealthy gentleman of Mexico. To find it in these hills, however, was as surprising as to discover a Fifth Avenue mansion at the heart of a Bornean jungle.

From one chimney, presumably over the kitchen, a thin curl of smoke was rising. This was the only visible sign of life within. And now it struck them that in the whole length of the ravine they had not seen so much as one peon at work among the plantations.

The hacienda seemed very silent. Behind the walls of its courtyard no dog barked nor c**k crowed. Save for the musical tumult of birds, they might, have wandered into a valley of magic stillness.

“Smoke spells fire and fire spells food,” asserted Boots. “The cook’s awake, and ‘tis shame if the rest be sleeping with the sun up these two hours. Will we walk in or knock, Mr. Kennedy? You’ve the better knowledge of what’s considered fitting in these parts.”

“Knocks,” came the curt advice of his companion. He was eying the hacienda suspiciously, but as suspicion was Kennedy’s normal attitude toward the world, Boots paid that no attention.

He boldly advanced toward the wooden outer gates that stood open, yielding a pleasant glimpse through two archways to the inner patio, with its palms, gay oleanders, and tinkling fountain. His fist smote loudly on a leaf of the open gates.

Almost immediately, the summons brought response. On pattering bare feet a child came flying out from among the palms, only to pull up abruptly when she perceived that the visitors were strangers. She was a pretty enough youngster, between three and four years old, with curling black hair, bright, solemn, dark eyes, and a skin surprisingly pink and white for a Mexican child. Her dress was a single slip of brown agave fiber, clean, however, and painstakingly embroidered.

“ Buenos dias, chiquita, ” greeted Boots, whose Spanish, though atrociously accented, generally served the purpose. “ Esta usted solo en la casa? ” (Are you alone in the house?)

The curly black head shook in solemn negation. Then the round face dimpled into laughter, and running straight to her giant questioner she put up chubby arms in an unmistakable plea. With an answering laugh the Irishman caught the baby up and set her on the towering height of his shoulder.

Kennedy frowned weary irritation.

“Are we to stand here all day?” he queried.

Leaning forward, the child peered down at him around the ruddy head of her swiftly chosen friend.

“Do ‘way,” she commanded calmly. “Red man nice—tum in. Black man do ‘way—‘way, ‘way off!” She emphasized the order in her unexpected baby English by a generous wave of her hand toward infinite outside spaces.

Boots’ shout of mirth at this summary choice and dismissal produced two results. Kennedy’s annoyance was increased, and a man came out from some door which the first archway concealed, and strode quickly toward them. Dressed in immaculate white, well-groomed and confident of bearing, here seemed the probable master of the hacienda.

“What is this? Put that child down, sir! Who are you, and how did you come here?”

The Irishman shrugged a trifle resentfully.

“The little maid’s in no danger,” he protested. “We’re seeking the common kindness of food and shelter; for the which we’ll gladly pay and get on our journey again.”

Without replying the man advanced, took the girl from her lofty perch and set her down. “Run in, the house, little daughter,” he commanded briefly.

But with a wail of rebellion she flung both short arms around the Irishman’s dusty boot. Foreseeing trouble for the young lady, he stooped and gently disengaged her.

“I’ve a little sister at home, colleen,” he said, “that’s the spit and image of yourself, save she’s the eyes like blue corn-flowers. Don’t you be crying, now. We’ll see each other again.”

As she still clung, her father stooped, lifted her and faced her about in the desired direction. “Go—in!” he commanded, with a gentle sternness that this time won obedience.

Boots looked at her regretfully, for he liked children. He was, indeed, to see her again, as he had promised; but not to know her—not though that recognition would have saved him terrible and bitter pain. But now she was to him only a small girl-child, who went at her father’s insistence, and going turned to wave a chubby and reluctant farewell.

Upon her disappearance the fathers manner relaxed.

“You took me by surprise,” he explained. “We are seldom favored with guests here, but I meant no inhospitality. You come from —”

“The desert.” Boots’ brevity was indignant. Did the fellow think him a child-eating ogre that he snatched away his daughter so anxiously?

But Kennedy was more voluble. He plunged into an instant and piteous account of their recent sufferings, or, to speak more correctly, of his own, and before the tale was half finished, their unwilling host’s last trace of hostility seemed to have completely vanished.

“Come in—come in!” he ejaculated. “You shan’t tell me that sort of story standing out here. Come in and I’ll find you something or other worth eating, though I can’t promise what it will be. My people —” He paused and seemed to hesitate rather strangely. “My servants are off for the day,” he at last concluded. “I’ll do my best, and ask you to put up with any lacks due to their absence.”

Both men offered willing though surprised assent.

“Off for the day!” thought Boots. “And where off to, I wonder? Does he give picnics to his peons? He’s a different master, then, to any I’ve met in this slave-driver’s country.”

Having seated them in a great, cool, high-ceilinged and galleried dining-room, their host disappeared to return presently bearing a piled trayful of plunder from his own deserted kitchen.

The food, which included chicken, the inevitable tortilla, sweet potatoes crystallised in sugar, bananas and other fruits, was as typically Mexican as the hacienda. Yet all signs failed if their host were of Spanish blood..

No Spanish-American speaks English as if it were quite native to his tongue, and moreover, though his eyes were dark, and his hair save where it was liberally shot with gray, almost black, there was something about his keen, clean-cut face which spoke of some more northern race. “You’re from the U.S.A.?” questioned Kennedy. The question was too blunt for courtesy, but the man nodded.

“Yes, I am an American. A Californian, though my parents were born on the Christiania Fiord.”

“Ah, a Norseman, is it?” Boots’ eyes lighted appreciatively. He had known a Norwegian or two, and thought them fine, upstanding, hard-hitting men of their hands. “I’m very glad to know you, Mr. —”

“My name is Svend Biornson!” The tone was so challengingly abrupt that his guests involuntarily stared. If he had expected, however, to amuse another sort of surprise, he was disappointed. He saw it instantly and laughed as if to cover some odd embarrassment.

“Pardon my not presenting myself earlier. One forgets civilized forms in this, out-of-the-way place. And now I fancy you’d welcome a chance to wash and change to fresh garments. Will you follow me, gentlemen?”

The cool, airy chamber to which he escorted them opened off one of the two galleries surrounding the dining-room. Its three windows overlooked the patio, and through them one could step out upon another long, open gallery. There were two beds, draped with elaborate lace work, furniture of woven grass and wicker, and a bathroom with great, porous jars of cool water.

In his first glance about, Kennedy’s eye was caught by a thing that stood on a bracket over one of the beds. Without apology he lifted the object down and examined it curiously.

It was an image, some ten inches high, done in brilliantly polished but unglazed porcelain. The face, though flat, bore a peculiarly genial and benignant expression. On the head was a sort of miter, adorned with black spots. A tunic, on which embroidery was simulated in red, blue and gilt enamel; a golden collar, gaiters spotted like the headdress, and dead-black sandals completed the costume.

On the left arm a round shield was carried. The right hand grasped a stag, terminating at the top in the curved neck and head of a snake, springing out of a collar or circlet of feathers.

It was a very beautiful piece of potter’s art, but Kennedy had another reason for appreciation and interest.

“Quetzalcoatl, eh?” he said. “From Cholula, or did you find it around these parts?”

Biornson, who had not observed Kennedy’s act, whirled like a flash. To the amazement of both men, his face had gone dead white, as if at receiving some intolerable shock.

“Quetzalcoatl!” he ejaculated in a quivering voice. “Sir, what do you know of Quetzalcoatl?”

Kennedy stared back in blank astonishment.

“Why—this.” He held up the image. “I didn’t suppose that one of these existed, outside the museum at Mexico City. Don’t you know its value?”

Slowly the pallor vanished from Biornison’s countenance, and his nervous hands unclenched. With another of those queer, embarrassed laughs, he took the porcelain godling from Kennedy’s hands.

“I had forgot the thing was in here,” he muttered. “It belongs to my wife. She would be greatly annoyed if it were broken. Lucky piece, you understand. Superstition, of course, but no worse than throwing salt over your shoulder, or not walking under a ladder—all that kind of nonsense. I’ll put it in her room if you don’t mind. Got everything you want? Then I’ll leave you. Better sleep out the day—nothing like siesta—dinner whenever you desire to have it —”

Still muttering detached phrases of hospitality, and with the image clutched firmly to his bosom, Biornson fairly escaped from the presence of his guests.

“What ails the poor man?” queried Boots. “Did they think we’d steal his china manikin, do you suppose?”

Kennedy scowled and shrugged.

“I suppose,” he retorted, “that this Biornson, if that’s his real name, is a rather queer sort, and that while w are in this house his eccentricities will bear watching.”

Weary though both were, they did not find it easy to fall asleep. There was something oppressive about this vast, silent hacienda. The mystery of its emptiness, the mystery of its very existence, combined with the odd manners of their host to fill their brains with riddles. They lay silent, uneasy, while outside the drowsy heat increased and even, the vociferous bird-life ceased its clamor.

Out of the silence, however, rest was born at last, and it was late in the afternoon when they woke.

“By the way, Mr. Kennedy,” Boots said, “if you’ll forgive changing the subject to something more recent, what was the bit of bric-a-brac that Biornson snatched out of your hand? Quetz-Quetz- what was the name of it?”

“Quetzalcoatl. A piece of old Aztec work. Down in Yucatan one can pick up all sorts of stone and terra-cotta images among the ruins, but not like that.”

“And this Quetz—what’s-his-name—who was he? One o’ the poor heathens idols, maybe?”

“The lord of the air. The fathered serpent.” Kennedy was generally willing to talk, when he could air some superior knowledge. “By tradition he was a man, a priest, who was afterward deified for his beneficent acts and character. It is said that he ruled Mexico in its Golden Age—Anahuac they called it then—and when he left his people he promised to return at the head of a race of men as white as himself.

“He was a white god, you must understand. For that reason, when the Spaniards first landed the natives believed the lost god’s promise had been kept. Images of him are common enough, but not in porcelain of that quality. Biornson surprised me into giving away its real value, like a fool, but at that I could pay him a good price for the thing and still make a profit. It would bring almost any sum from a New York collector.”

“Don’t deceive yourself that he didn’t know its value! You could see in his eye that he did.”

“What do you think of Biornson, anyway?”

“A fine, soft-spoken man—after the first minute.”

“Did you notice how he boggled over his name? Svend Biornson! I dare swear he has another, and one he has reason to conceal.”

But the other’s retort was cold and to the point.

“We Irish do hate an informer. Are you ready yet to go down?”

Save for a look of black resentment, Kennedy made no reply. However, as their briefest discussions generally ended in a clash, Boots ignored the glance and passed out to the dining-room gallery. There was yet no sound of life in the house, but on descending and finding their way out into the patio, they discovered Biornson there and he was not alone.

Seated on a stone bench by the fountain was a woman. She was a tall, slender person, of unusual beauty, and Boots thought her dark eyes and hair and peculiarly roselike complexion reminiscent of the child who had first greeted them. She was dressed in a simple gown of some silky, leaf-green material, and as she talked with Biornson her hand fondled the long, soft ears of a white hound, whose head rested on her knee.

None of the three seemed at first aware of the guests’ approach, but as they came nearer the woman’s face lifted with a quick, startled attention. She sprang to her feet, and the dog, as if in imitation, reared up beside her. On its hind legs the brute stood nearly as tall as she; and an ominous rumble issued from its throat.

“Quiet!” cried Biornson sharply. He laid a hand on beast’s neck, pushing it downward. “Gentlemen, I had hardly expected you to awaken so early.”

He had grasped the hound by its silky white fur, for it wore no collar, and under that insecure hold the animal surged disobediently forward. Its eyes flamed in a menace more savage than the bared fangs beneath; and as the dog seemed about to spring, Biornson flung his arms about its neck. In a flash it turned and tried to reach his face with snapping jaws.

At that the woman, whose dark, startled eyes had been fixed on the strangers, seemed for the first time to become aware of her pet’s misbehavior. She spoke to it in a murmur of soft, indistinguishable syllables, and the hound, which had so resented Biornson’s interference, subsided instantly. A moment later it was flat on the ground at her feet.

“That’s a fine dog,” approved Boots, “and you’ve a finer command over him, madam. May I ask what breed he is?”

Before the woman could reply, Biornson intervened.

“Just a hound of the hills,” he said quickly. “Astrid, these gentlemen are those of whom I told you.” He presented them more formally and, as Boots had expected, introduced the lady as his wife.

The name “Astrid” had a Scandinavian sound, and her beauty might well be as Norse as her husband’s ancestry, but they had little time to study her. After murmuring a few shy words of welcome, she excused herself and left the guests to Biornson’s entertainment.

As her green-clad form, with the white hound pressing close beside, receded into the inner shadows, the eyes of one man followed with a gleam of interest not aroused by her beauty.

Her accent was the thing that troubled Archer Kennedy. That it was neither American, Norwegian, nor Spanish he was ready to take oath. Her appearance, too, had a vague hint of something different from any white woman he had ever seen. Yet surely no dark blood flowed in those pink-nailed hands, nor behind such rose-leaf cheeks.

Dismissing the problem as immaterial, he returned to his host.