The Quest of the Four. Joseph A. Altsheler
the stranger was not without a certain distinction, an air as of one who did not belong there in an inn. Something in the blue eyes told of wild freedom and great spaces. He interested Phil more than anybody else in the room. He felt that here was another man whom he could like.
The talk about them drifted quite naturally upon the subject of the West, what Texas was going to do, what Mexico was going to do, the great trail toward the Pacific, and the prospect of trouble between the United States and Mexico. The shabby man raised his head and showed interest. His eyes began to glow. He was not more than three feet away, and Phil, prompted by a sort of instinct, spoke to him.
"It seems that all eyes turn toward the West now," he said.
"Yes," replied the stranger, "and they're right. It's out there that the great things lie."
He moved his hand with a slight but significant gesture toward the setting sun.
"I've been there once," he said, "and I want to go back."
"A man takes his life in his hands when he travels that way," said Phil.
"I know," replied the stranger, "but I'm willing to risk it. I must go back there. I want to look for something, something very particular."
Phil started. Here was a fourth who sought some darling wish of his heart in that far mysterious West. He felt a strange influence. It seemed to him a sign, or rather a command that must be obeyed. He glanced at Middleton and Arenberg, who had been listening, and, understanding him perfectly, they nodded.
"We three are going into the West, also, on errands of our own," said Phil. "Why not join us? Three are good, but four are better."
"It iss a fair proposition," added Arenberg. "No harm iss done where none iss meant."
"We make the offer," said Middleton, "because on such a journey one needs friends. If you do not think you can trust us, as our acquaintance is so short, say so."
The man examined them keenly, one by one. Phil, looking with equal keenness at him, saw that, despite shabbiness of dress and despondency of manner, he was not a common man. In truth, as he looked, the depression seemed to be passing away. The stranger raised his head, threw back his shoulders, and the blue eyes began to glow.
"You look all right to me," he said. "A man has got to make friends, and if you trust me I don't see why I can't trust you. Besides, I'm terribly anxious to go back out there, and my reason is mighty good."
"Then shall we consider it a bargain?" said Middleton.
"You may count me one of the band as long as you will have me," said the stranger with hearty emphasis, "and I suppose I oughtn't to come in as an unknown. My name is Breakstone, William Breakstone, though I am always called Bill Breakstone by those who know me. Bill Breakstone seems to run off smoother."
He smiled in the most ingratiating manner. The sudden acquisition of friends seemed to have clothed him about with sunlight. All the others felt that they had made no mistake.
"I'm a rover," said Bill Breakstone in round, cheerful tones. "I've been roaming all my life, though I'm bound to say it hasn't been to much purpose. As you see me now, I haven't got nearly enough to buy either a rifle or a horse for this big trip on which you're asking me to go, and on which I'm wanting to go terrible bad."
"Never mind, Mr. Breakstone--" began Middleton, but he was interrupted.
"I'm Breakstone or Bill to those that feed with me," said the new man, "and I'm Mr. Breakstone to those that don't like me or suspect me."
"All right," said Middleton with a laugh, "it's Breakstone for the present. By and by we may call you Bill. I was going to tell you, Breakstone, that we four go in together. We furnish you what you need, and later on you pay us back if you can. It's the usual thing in the West."
"You're right, my lord," said Bill Breakstone, "and I accept. It gives me pleasure to be enrolled in your most gallant company, and, by my troth, I will serve you right well."
Middleton looked at him in amazement, and Bill Breakstone broke into a mellow, infectious laugh.
"I don't talk that way all the time," he said. "It merely bursts out in spots. You may not believe it, when you look at me, but I studied for the stage once, and I've been an actor. Now and then the old scraps come to the end of my tongue. All's well that end's well, and may that be the fate of our expedition."
"Come," said Middleton, after telling his own name and that of his friends to Breakstone, "we'll go to our quarters and make a place for you. Phil and Arenberg are in a room together, and you shall share mine."
"Lead on!" said Bill Breakstone.
The four left the inn. Bill Breakstone was as poor as he described himself to be. He owned only the worn suit of clothes in which he stood, a pistol, and a pair of saddle bags, seeming to contain some linen, of which he took good care.
"Prithee, young sir," he said to Phil, "I would fain guard well the little that I have, because if I lose the little that I have, then what I have shall be nothing. Do I argue well, Sir Ivanhoe?"
"It's conclusive," said Phil. He took greatly to this man who had become in an hour the life of their little band, a constant source of cheerful patter that invigorated them all. Middleton bought him a new suit of clothes, gave him some money, which he promised earnestly to return a hundredfold, and then they went forth to inquire further into the matter of the trading expedition for Santa Fé. But their attention was diverted by the arrival of a large steamboat that had come all the way from Pittsburgh loaded with passengers. A particular group among the arrivals soon became the center of their interest.
The members of the group were Mexicans, and they were evidently people of distinction, or, at least, position. The first among them was middle-aged, fat, and yellow, and dressed in garments much brighter in color than Americans wear. Indeed, as a wind somewhat chill swept over the river, he threw around his shoulders a red serape with a magnificent border of gold fringe. But a young man who walked by his side made no acknowledgment to the wind. It was he whom Phil watched most. Some people inspire us at once with hostility, and Phil had this feeling about the stranger, who bore himself in a manner that had more than a tinge of sneering arrogance.
The young man was obviously of the Spanish race, although his blood might run back to Northern Spain, as he was tall and very strongly built, and his complexion inclined to fairness, but Phil believed him to be of Mexican birth, as he showed the shade of change that the New World always made in the old. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Mexican army. Mexican uniforms were not popular in the States, but he bore himself as if he preferred the hostility of the crowd to its friendship. His insolent gaze met Phil's for an instant, and the boy gave it back with interest. For a few moments these two who had never met before, who did not know the names of each other, and who might never meet again, stared with immediate hostility. Eye plumbed the depths of eye, but it was the Mexican who looked away first, although he let his lips curl slightly into a gesture with which he meant to convey contempt.
Middleton had observed this silent drama of a few moments, and he said quietly:
"You do not know, Philip, who these men are?"
"No," replied the boy, "but I should like to know."
"The stout, elderly man is Don August Xavier Hernando Zucorra y Palite, who is at the head of a special Mexican embassy that has been at Washington to treat with our government about the boundary of Texas--you know there has been trouble between the States and Mexico over the Texan boundary--and the younger is Pedro de Armijo, his nephew, and the nephew, also, of Armijo, the governor of New Mexico, where we are planning to go."
"I fancied from his manner," said Bill Breakstone, "that young Armijo was the President of Old Mexico and New Mexico both. I have called you Sir Knight, and My Lord Phil, but our young Mexican is both His Grace and His Royal Highness. By my halidome, we are indeed proud and far above that vile herd, the populace."
"Well, he will not bother us," said Arenberg. "If you run after trouble you will find it coming to