Book: Rainbow\'s End

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RAINBOW'S END

By REX BEACH


Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.


Illustrated




CONTENTS

I. THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT

II. SPANISH GOLD

III. "THE O'REILLY"

IV. RETRIBUTION

V. A CRY FROM THE WILDERNESS

VI. THE QUEST BEGINS

VII. THE MAN WHO WOULD KNOW LIFE

VIII. THE SPANISH DOUBLOON

IX. MARAUDERS

X. O'REILLY TALKS HOG LATIN

XI. THE HAND OF THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL

XII. WHEN THE WORLD RAN BACKWARD

XIII. CAPITULATION

XIV. A WOMAN WITH A MISSION

XV. FILIBUSTERS

XVI. THE CITY AMONG THE LEAVES

XVII. THE CITY OF BEGGARS

XVIII. SPEAKING OF FOOD

XIX. THAT SICK MAN FROM SAN ANTONIO

XX. EL DEMONIO'S CHILD

XXI. TREASURE

XXII. THE TROCHA

XXIII. INTO THE CITY OF DEATH

XXIV. ROSA

XXV. THE HAUNTED GARDEN

XXVI. HOW COBO STOOD ON HIS HEAD

XXVII. MORIN, THE FISHERMAN

XXVIII. THREE TRAVELERS COME HOME

XXIX. WHAT HAPPENED AT SUNDOWN

XXX. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT




I

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT


In all probability your first view of the valley of the Yumuri
will be from the Hermitage of Montserrate, for it is there that
the cocheros drive you. Up the winding road they take you, with
the bay at your back and the gorge at your right, to the crest of
a narrow ridge where the chapel stands. Once there, you overlook
the fairest sight in all Christendom--"the loveliest valley in the
world," as Humboldt called it--for the Yumuri nestles right at
your feet, a vale of pure delight, a glimpse of Paradise that
bewilders the eye and fills the soul with ecstasy.

It is larger than it seems at first sight; through it meanders the
river, coiling and uncoiling, hidden here and there by jungle
growths, and seeking final outlet through a cleft in the wall not
unlike a crack in the side of a painted bowl. The place seems to
have been fashioned as a dwelling for dryads and hamadryads, for
nixies and pixies, and all the fabled spirits of forest and
stream. Fairy hands tinted its steep slopes and carpeted its level
floor with the richest of green brocades. Nowhere is there a clash
of color; nowhere does a naked hillside or monstrous jut of rock
obtrude to mar its placid beauty; nowhere can you see a crude,
disfiguring mark of man's handiwork--there are only fields, and
bowers, with an occasional thatched roof faded gray by the sun.

Royal palms, most perfect of trees, are scattered everywhere. They
stand alone or in stately groves, their lush fronds drooping like
gigantic ostrich plumes, their slim trunks as smooth and regular
and white as if turned in a giant lathe and then rubbed with pipe-
clay. In all Cuba, island of bewitching vistas, there is no other
Yumuri, and in all the wide world, perhaps, there is no valley of
moods and aspects so varying. You should see it at evening, all
warm and slumberous, all gold and green and purple; or at early
dawn, when the mists are fading like pale memories of dreams and
the tints are delicate; or again, during a tempest, when it is a
caldron of whirling vapors and when the palm-trees bend like
coryphees, tossing their arms to the galloping hurricane. But
whatever the time of day or the season of the year at which you
visit it, the Yumuri will render you wordless with delight, and
you will vow that it is the happiest valley men's eyes have ever
looked upon.

Standing there beside the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate, you
will see beyond the cleft through which the river emerges another
hill, La Cumbre, from which the view is almost as wonderful, and
your driver may tell you about the splendid homes that used to
grace its slopes in the golden days when Cuba had an aristocracy.
They were classic Roman villas, such as once lined the Via Appia--
little palaces, with mosaics and marbles and precious woods
imported from Europe, and furnished with the rarest treasures--for
in those days the Cuban planters were rich and spent their money
lavishly. Melancholy reminders of this splendor exist even now in
the shape of a crumbled ruin here and there, a lichened pillar, an
occasional porcelain urn in its place atop a vine-grown bit of
wall. Your cochero may point out a certain grove of orange-trees,
now little more than a rank tangle, and tell you about the quinta
of Don Esteban Varona, and its hidden treasure; about little
Esteban and Rosa, the twins; and about Sebastian, the giant slave,
who died in fury, taking with him the secret of the well.

The Spanish Main is rich in tales of treasure-trove, for when the
Antilles were most affluent they were least secure, and men were
put to strange shifts to protect their fortunes. Certain hoards,
like jewels of tragic history, in time assumed a sort of evil
personality, not infrequently exercising a dire influence over the
lives of those who chanced to fall under their spells. It was as
if the money were accursed, for certainly the seekers often came
to evil. Of such a character was the Varona treasure. Don Esteban
himself was neither better nor worse than other men of his time,
and although part of the money he hid was wrung from the toil of
slaves and the traffic in their bodies, much of it was clean
enough, and in time the earth purified it all. Since his acts made
so deep an impress, and since the treasure he left played so big a
part in the destinies of those who came after him, it is well that
some account of these matters should be given.

The story, please remember, is an old one; it has been often told,
and in the telling and retelling it is but natural that a certain
glamour, a certain tropical extravagance, should attach to it,
therefore you should make allowance for some exaggeration, some
accretions due to the lapse of time. In the main, however, it is
well authenticated and runs parallel to fact.

Dona Rosa Varona lived barely long enough to learn that she had
given birth to twins. Don Esteban, whom people knew as a grim man,
took the blow of his sudden bereavement as became one of his
strong fiber. Leaving the priest upon his knees and the doctor
busied with the babies, he strode through the house and out into
the sunset, followed by the wails of the slave women. From the
negro quarters came the sound of other and even louder
lamentations, for Dona Rosa had been well loved and the news of
her passing had spread quickly.

Don Esteban was at heart a selfish man, and now, therefore, he
felt a sullen, fierce resentment mingled with his grief. What
trick was this? he asked himself. What had he done to merit such
misfortune? Had he not made rich gifts to the Church? Had he not
gone on foot to the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate with a
splendid votive offering--a pair of eardrops, a necklace, and a
crucifix, all of diamonds that quivered in the sunlight like drops
of purest water? Had he not knelt and prayed for his wife's safe
delivery and then hung his gifts upon the sacred image, as Loyola
had hung up his weapons before that other counterpart of Our Lady?
Don Esteban scowled at the memory, for those gems were of the
finest, and certainly of a value sufficient to recompense the
Virgin for any ordinary miracle. They were worth five thousand
pesos at least, he told himself; they represented the price of
five slaves--five of his finest girls, schooled in housekeeping
and of an age suitable for breeding. An extravagance, truly! Don
Esteban knew the value of money as well as anybody, and he swore
now that he would give no more to the Church.

He looked up from his unhappy musings to find a gigantic,
barefooted negro standing before him. The slave was middle-aged;
his kinky hair was growing gray; but he was of superb proportions,
and the muscles which showed through the rents in his cotton
garments were as smooth and supple as those of a stripling. His
black face was puckered with grief, as he began:

"Master, is it true that Dona Rosa--" The fellow choked.

"Yes," Esteban nodded, wearily, "she is dead, Sebastian."

Tears came to Sebastian's eyes and overflowed his cheeks; he stood
motionless, striving to voice his sympathy. At length he said:

"She was too good for this world. God was jealous and took her to
Paradise."

The widowed man cried out, angrily:

"Paradise! What is this but paradise?" He stared with resentful
eyes at the beauty round about him. "See! The Yumuri!" Don Esteban
flung a long arm outward. "Do you think there is a sight like that
in heaven? And yonder--" He turned to the harbor far below, with
its fleet of sailing-ships resting like a flock of gulls upon a
sea of quicksilver. Beyond the bay, twenty miles distant, a range
of hazy mountains hid the horizon. Facing to the south, Esteban
looked up the full length of the valley of the San Juan, clear to
the majestic Pan de Matanzas, a wonderful sight indeed; then his
eyes returned, as they always did, to the Yumuri, Valley of
Delight. "Paradise indeed!" he muttered. "I gave her everything.
She gained nothing by dying."

With a grave thoughtfulness which proved him superior to the
ordinary slave, Sebastian replied:

"True! She had all that any woman's heart could desire, but in
return for your goodness she gave you children. You have lost her,
but you have gained an heir, and a beautiful girl baby who will
grow to be another Dona Rosa. I grieved as you grieve, once upon a
time, for my woman died in childbirth, too. You remember? But my
daughter lives, and she has brought sunshine into my old age. That
is the purpose of children." He paused and shifted his weight
uncertainly, digging his stiff black toes into the dirt. After a
time he said, slowly: "Excellency! Now, about the--well--?"

"Yes. What about it?" Esteban lifted smoldering eyes.

"Did the Dona Rosa confide her share of the secret to any one?
Those priests and those doctors, you know--?"

"She died without speaking."

"Then it rests between you and me?"

"It does, unless you have babbled."

"Master!" Sebastian drew himself up and there was real dignity in
his black face.

"Understand, my whole fortune is there--everything, even to the
deeds of patent for the plantations. If I thought there was danger
of your betraying me I would have your tongue pulled out and your
eyes torn from their sockets."

The black man spoke with a simplicity that carried conviction.
"You have seen me tested. You know I am faithful. But, master,
this secret is a great burden for my old shoulders, and I have
been thinking--Times are unsettled, Don Esteban, and death comes
without warning. You are known to be the richest man in this
province and these government officials are robbers. Suppose--I
should be left alone? What then?"

The planter considered for a moment. "They are my countrymen, but
a curse on them," he said, finally. "Well, when my children are
old enough to hold their tongues they will have to be told. If I'm
gone, you shall be the one to tell them. Now leave me; this is no
time to speak of such things."

Sebastian went as noiselessly as he had come. On his way back to
his quarters he took the path to the well--the place where most of
his time was ordinarily spent. Sebastian had dug this well, and
with his own hands he had beautified its surroundings until they
were the loveliest on the Varona grounds. The rock for the
building of the quinta had been quarried here, and in the center
of the resulting depression, grass-grown and flowering now, was
the well itself. Its waters seeped from subterranean caverns and
filtered, pure and cool, through the porous country rock.
Plantain, palm, orange, and tamarind trees bordered the hollow;
over the rocky walls ran a riot of vines and ferns and ornamental
plants. It was Sebastian's task to keep this place green, and
thither he took his way, from force of habit.

Through the twilight came Pancho Cueto, the manager, a youngish
man, with a narrow face and bold, close-set eyes. Spying
Sebastian, he began:

"So Don Esteban has an heir at last?"

The slave rubbed his eyes with the heel of his huge yellow palm
and answered, respectfully:

"Yes, Don Pancho. Two little angels, a boy and a girl." His gray
brows drew together in a painful frown. "Dona Rosa was a saint. No
doubt there is great rejoicing in heaven at her coming. Eh? What
do you think?"

"Um-m! Possibly. Don Esteban will miss her for a time and then, I
dare say, he will remarry." At the negro's exclamation Cueto
cried: "So! And why not? Everybody knows how rich he is. From
Oriente to Pinar del Rio the women have heard about his treasure."

"What treasure?" asked Sebastian, after an instant's pause.

Cueto's dark eyes gleamed resentfully at this show of ignorance,
but he laughed.

"Ho! There's a careful fellow for you! No wonder he trusts you.
But do you think I have neither eyes nor ears? My good Sebastian,
you know all about that treasure; in fact, you know far more about
many things than Don Esteban would care to have you tell. Come
now, don't you?"

Sebastian's face was like a mask carved from ebony. "Of what does
this treasure consist?" he inquired. "I have never heard about
it."

"Of gold, of jewels, of silver bars and precious ornaments."
Cueto's head was thrust forward, his nostrils were dilated, his
teeth gleamed. "Oh, it is somewhere about, as you very well know!
Bah! Don't deny it. I'm no fool. What becomes of the money from
the slave girls, eh? And the sugar crops, too? Does it go to buy
arms and ammunition for the rebels? No. Don Esteban hides it, and
you help him. Come," he cried, disregarding Sebastian's murmurs of
protest, "did you ever think how fabulous that fortune must be by
this time? Did you ever think that one little gem, one bag of
gold, would buy your freedom?"

"Don Esteban has promised to buy my freedom and the freedom of my
girl."

"So?" The manager was plainly surprised. "I didn't know that."
After a moment he began to laugh. "And yet you pretend to know
nothing about that treasure? Ha! You're a good boy, Sebastian, and
so I am. I admire you. We're both loyal to our master, eh? But now
about Evangelina." Cueto's face took on a craftier expression.
"She is a likely girl, and when she grows up she will be worth
more than you, her father. Don't forget that Don Esteban is before
all else a business man. Be careful that some one doesn't make him
so good an offer for your girl that he will forget his promise
and--sell her."

Sebastian uttered a hoarse, animal cry and the whites of his eyes
showed through the gloom. "He would never sell Evangelina!"

Cueto laughed aloud once more. "Of course! He would not dare, eh?
I am only teasing you. But see! You have given yourself away.
Everything you tell me proves that you know all about that
treasure."

"I know but one thing," the slave declared, stiffening himself
slowly, "and that is to be faithful to Don Esteban." He turned and
departed, leaving Pancho Cueto staring after him meditatively.

In the days following the birth of his children and the death of
his wife, Don Esteban Varona, as had been his custom, steered a
middle course in politics, in that way managing to avoid a clash
with the Spanish officials who ruled the island, or an open break
with his Cuban neighbors, who rebelled beneath their wrongs. This
was no easy thing to do, for the agents of the crown were
uniformly corrupt and quite ruthless, while most of the native-
born were either openly or secretly in sympathy with the
revolution in the Orient. But Esteban dealt diplomatically with
both factions and went on raising slaves and sugar to his own
great profit. Owing to the impossibility of importing negroes, the
market steadily improved, and Esteban reaped a handsome profit
from those he had on hand, especially when his crop of young girls
matured. His sugar-plantations prospered, too, and Pancho Cueto,
who managed them, continued to wonder where the money went.

The twins, Esteban and Rosa, developed into healthy children and
became the pride of Sebastian and his daughter, into whose care
they had been given. As for Evangelina, the young negress, she
grew tall and strong and handsome, until she was the finest slave
girl in the neighborhood. Whenever Sebastian looked at her he
thanked God for his happy circumstances.

Then, one day, Don Esteban Varona remarried, and the Dona Isabel,
who had been a famous Habana beauty, came to live at the quinta.
The daughter of impoverished parents, she had heard and thought
much about the mysterious treasure of La Cumbre.

There followed a period of feasting and entertainment, of music
and merrymaking. Spanish officials, prominent civilians of
Matanzas and the countryside, drove up the hill to welcome Don
Esteban's bride. But before the first fervor of his honeymoon
cooled the groom began to fear that he had made a serious mistake.
Dona Isabel, he discovered, was both vain and selfish. Not only
did she crave luxury and display, but with singular persistence
she demanded to know all about her husband's financial affairs.

Now Don Esteban was no longer young; age had soured him with
suspicion, and when once he saw himself as the victim of a
mercenary marriage he turned bitterly against his wife. Her
curiosity he sullenly resented, and he unblushingly denied his
possession of any considerable wealth. In fact, he tried with
malicious ingenuity to make her believe him a poor man. But Isabel
was not of the sort to be readily deceived. Finding her arts and
coquetries of no avail, she flew into a rage, and a furious
quarrel ensued--the first of many. For the lady could not rest
without knowing all there was to know about the treasure.
Avaricious to her finger-tips, she itched to weigh those bags of
precious metal and yearned to see those jewels burning upon her
bosom. Her mercenary mind magnified their value many times, and
her anger at Don Esteban's obstinacy deepened to a smoldering
hatred.

She searched the quinta, of course, whenever she had a chance, but
she discovered nothing--with the result that the mystery began to
engross her whole thought. She pried into the obscurest corners,
she questioned the slaves, she lay awake at night listening to
Esteban's breathing, in the hope of surprising his secret from his
dreams. Naturally such a life was trying to the husband, but as
his wife's obsession grew his determination to foil her only
strengthened. Outwardly, of course, the pair maintained a show of
harmony, for they were proud and they occupied a position of some
consequence in the community. But their private relations went
from bad to worse. At length a time came when they lived in frank
enmity; when Isabel never spoke to Esteban except in reproach or
anger, and when Esteban unlocked his lips only to taunt his wife
with the fact that she had been thwarted despite her cunning.

In most quarters, as time went on, the story of the Varona
treasure was forgotten, or at least put down as legendary. Only
Isabel, who, in spite of her husband's secretiveness, learned
much, and Pancho Cueto, who kept his own account of the annual
income from the business, held the matter in serious remembrance.
The overseer was a patient man; he watched with interest the
growing discord at the quinta and planned to profit by it, should
occasion offer.

It was only natural under such conditions that Dona Isabel should
learn to dislike her stepchildren--Esteban had told her frankly
that they would inherit whatever fortune he possessed. The thought
that, after all, she might never share in the treasure for which
she had sacrificed her youth and beauty was like to drive the
woman mad, and, as may be imagined, she found ways to vent her
spite upon the twins. She widened her hatred so as to include old
Sebastian and his daughter, and even went so far as to persecute
Evangelina's sweetheart, a slave named Asensio.

It had not taken Dona Isabel long to guess the reason of
Sebastian's many privileges, and one of her first efforts had been
to win the old man's confidence. It was in vain, however, that she
flattered and cajoled, or stormed and threatened; Sebastian
withstood her as a towering ceiba withstands the summer heat and
the winter hurricane.

His firmness made her vindictive, and so in time she laid a scheme
to estrange him from his master.

Dona Isabel was crafty. She began to complain about Evangelina,
but it was only after many months that she ventured to suggest to
her husband that he sell the girl. Esteban, of course, refused
point-blank; he was too fond of Sebastian's daughter, he declared,
to think of such a thing.

"So, that is it," sneered Dona Isabel. "Well, she is young and
shapely and handsome, as wenches go. I rather suspected you were
fond of her--"

With difficulty Esteban restrained an oath. "You mistake my
meaning," he said, stiffly. "Sebastian has served me faithfully,
and Evangelina plays with my children. She is good to them; she is
more of a mother to them than you have ever been."

"Is that why you dress her like a lady? Bah! A likely story!"
Isabel tossed her fine, dark head. "I'm not blind; I see what goes
on about me. This will make a pretty scandal among your friends--
she as black as the pit, and you--"

"WOMAN!" shouted the planter, "you have a sting like a scorpion."

"I won't have that wench in my house," Isabel flared out at him.

Goaded to fury by his wife's senseless accusation, Esteban cried:
"YOUR house? By what license do you call it yours?"

"Am I not married to you?"

"Damnation! Yes--as a leech is married to its victim. You suck my
blood."

"Your blood!" The woman laughed shrilly. "You have no blood; your
veins run vinegar. You are a miser."

"Miser! Miser! I grow sick of the word. It is all you find to
taunt me with. Confess that you married me for my money," he
roared.

"Of course I did! Do you think a woman of my beauty would marry
you for anything else? But a fine bargain I made!"

"Vampire!"

"Wife or vampire, I intend to rule this house, and I refuse to be
shamed by a thick-lipped African. Her airs tell her story. She is
insolent to me, but--I sha'n't endure it. She laughs at me. Well,
your friends shall laugh at you."

"Silence!" commanded Esteban.

"Sell her."

"No."

"Sell her, or--"

Without waiting to hear her threat Esteban tossed his arms above
his head and fled from the room. Flinging himself into the saddle,
he spurred down the hill and through the town to the Casino de
Espanol, where he spent the night at cards with the Spanish
officials. But he did not sell Evangelina.

In the days that followed many similar scenes occurred, and as
Esteban's home life grew more unhappy his dissipations increased.
He drank and gambled heavily; he brought his friends to the quinta
with him, and strove to forget domestic unpleasantness in
boisterous revelry.

His wife, however, found opportunities enough to weary and
exasperate him with reproaches regarding the slave girl.




II

SPANISH GOLD


The twins were seven years old when Dona Isabel's schemes bore
their first bitter fruit, and the occasion was a particularly
uproarious night when Don Esteban entertained a crowd of his
Castilian friends. Little Rosa was awakened at a late hour by the
laughter and shouts of her father's guests. She was afraid, for
there was something strange about the voices, some quality to them
which was foreign to the child's experience. Creeping into her
brother's room, she awoke him, and together they listened.

Don Mario de Castano was singing a song, the words of which were
lost, but which brought a yell of approval from his companions.
The twins distinguished the voice of Don Pablo Peza, too--Don
Pablo, whose magnificent black beard had so often excited their
admiration. Yes, and there was Col. Mendoza y Linares, doubtless
in his splendid uniform. These gentlemen were well and favorably
known to the boy and girl, yet Rosa began to whimper, and when
Esteban tried to reassure her his own voice was thin and reedy
from fright.

In the midst of their agitation they heard some one weeping; there
came a rush of feet down the hallway, and the next instant
Evangelina flung herself into the room. A summer moon flooded the
chamber with radiance and enabled her to see the two small white
figures sitting up in the middle of the bed.

Evangelina fell upon her knees before them. "Little master! Little
mistress!" she sobbed. "You will save me, won't you? We love each
other, eh? See then, what a crime this is! Say that you will save
me!" She was beside herself, and her voice was hoarse and cracked
from grief. She wrung her hands, she rocked herself from side to
side, she kissed the twins' nightgowns, tugging at them
convulsively.

The children were frightened, but they managed to quaver: "What
has happened? Who has harmed you?"

"Don Pablo Peza," wept the negress. "Your father has sold me to
him--lost me at cards. Oh, I shall die! Sebastian won't believe
it. He is praying. And Asensio--O God! But what can they do to
help me? You alone can save me. You won't let Don Pablo take me
away? It would kill me."

"Wait!" Esteban scrambled out of bed and stood beside his dusky
nurse and playmate. "Don't cry any more. I'll tell papa that you
don't like Don Pablo."

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