The Redemption of David Corson by Charles Frederic Goss

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This fierce and buccaneerish person summoned the dozing hostler in a
coarse, imperative voice, flung him the reins, sprang from his seat, and
assisted his companion to alight. She gave him her hand with an air of
utter indifference, bestowed upon him neither smile nor thanks, and
dropped to the ground with a light flutter like a bird. Turning
instantly toward the tavern, she ascended the steps of the porch under a
fusillade of glances of astonishment and admiration. Young and
beautiful, dressed in a picturesque and brilliant Spanish costume, she
carried herself with the ease and dignity of a princess, and looked
straight past, or rather through the staring crowd, fastened like
inverted brackets to the tavern wall. Her great, dreamy eyes did not
seem to note them.

When she and her companion had entered the hall and closed the door
behind them, every tilted chair came down to the floor with a bang, and
many voices exclaimed in concert, "Who the devil is she?" Curiosity was
satisfied at eight o'clock in the evening, for at that hour Doctor
Paracelsus Aesculapius, as he fantastically called himself, opened the
doors of his traveling apothecary shop and exposed his "universal
panacea" for sale, while at the same time, "Pepeeta, the Queen of
Fortune Tellers," entered her booth and spread out upon a table the
paraphernalia by which she undertook to discover the secrets of the
future.

When the evening's work was ended, Pepeeta at once retired; but the
doctor entered the bar-room, followed by a curious and admiring crowd.
He was in a happy and expansive frame of mind, for he had done a "land
office" business in this frontier village which he was now for the first
time visiting.

"Have a drink, b-b-boys?" he asked, looking over the crowd with an air
of superiority and waving his hand with an inclusive gesture. The motley
throng of loafers sidled up to the bar with a deprecatory and automatic
movement. They took their glasses, clinked them, nodded to their
entertainer, muttered incoherent toasts and drank his health. The
delighted landlord, feeling it incumbent upon him to break the silence,
offered the friendly observation: "S-s-see you s-s-stutter. S-s-stutter
a little m-m-my own self."

"Shake!" responded the doctor, who was in too complacent a mood to take
offence, and the worthies grasped hands.

"Don't know any w-w-way to s-s-stop it, do you?" asked the landlord.

"No, I d-d-don't; t-t-tried everything. Even my 'universal p-p-panacea'
won't do it, and what that can't do can't be d-d-done. Incurable
d-d-disease. Get along all right when I go slow like this; but when I
open the throttle, get all b-b-balled up. Bad thing for my business.
Give any man a thousand d-d-dollars that'll cure me," the quack replied,
slapping his trousers pocket as if there were millions in it.

"Co-co-couldn't go q-q-quite as high as that; but wouldn't mind a
hu-hu-hundred," responded the landlord cordially.

"Ever hear the story about the landlord's troubles in the Mexican war?"
asked one of the by-standers turning to the quack.

"Tell it," he responded laconically.

Several members of the group looked at each other and exchanged
significant winks as the narrator began his tale.

"They made him sergeant of a company, but had to reduce him to the
ranks, because when he was drilling the boys one day they all marched
into the river and got drowned before he could say h-h-halt."

The doctor laughed and the others joined him out of courtesy, for the
story was worn threadbare in the bar-room.

"Tell about his going on picket duty," suggested some one.

"Captain ordered him out on the line," said the first speaker, "and he
refused. 'T-t-tain't no use,' says he.

"'Why not?' says the captain.

"'C-c-cause,' says he, 'if some d-d-dirty Mexican g-g-greaser should
c-c-come along, he'd run me through the g-g-gizzard before I could ask
him for the c-c-countersign.'"

More tipsy laughter followed.

"Tell you what it is, b-b-boys," said the quack, growing communicative
under the influence of the liquor and the fellowship, "if it wasn't for
this b-b-blankety-blanketed impediment in my s-s-speech, I wouldn't
need to work more'n about another y-y-year!"

"How's that?" asked someone in the crowd.

"C-c-cause if I could talk as well as I c-c-can think, I could make a
fortune 'side of which old John Jacob Astor's would look like a
p-p-penny savings b-b-bank!"

"You could?"

"You bet your sweet life I c-c-could. And I'm just keeping my eyes open
for some young f-f-fellow to help me. For 'f I can find a man that can
do the t-talking (I mean real talk, you know; talk a crowd blind as
b-b-bats), I've got something better'n a California g-g-gold mine."

"Better get Dave Corson," said the village wag from the rear of the
crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter.

"Who's D-D-Dave Corson?" asked the doctor.

"Quaker preacher. Young feller 'bout twenty years old."

"Can he t-t-talk?"

"Talk! He kin talk a mule into a trottin' hoss in less'n three minutes."

"He's my man!" exclaimed the doctor, at which the crowd laughed again.

"What the d-d-deuce are you laughing at?" he asked, turning upon them
savagely, his loud voice and threatening manner frightening those who
stood nearest, so that they instinctively stepped back a pace or two.

"No offence, Doc," said one of them; "but you couldn't get him."

"Couldn't get him! Why couldn't I g-g-get him?"

"He's pious."

"Pious! What do _I_ care?"

"Well, these here pious Quakers are stiff in their notions. But you kin
jedge fer yourself 'bout his talkin', fer there's goin' ter be an
appinted Quaker meetin' to-morrow night, and he'll speak. You kin go an'
listen, if you want to."

"I'll be there, boys, and d-d-don't you forget it. I'll hook him! Never
saw anything I couldn't buy if I had a little of the p-p-proper stuff
about me. Drink to my l-l-luck, boys, and watch me!"

The landlord filled their glasses once more, and low gurglings,
smothered swallows, and loud smacking of lips filled the interim of
interrupted conversation.

"I say, Doc, that daughter of yours knows her biz when it comes to
telling fortunes," ventured a young dandy, whose head had been turned by
Pepeeta's beauty.

"D-d-daughter!" snapped the quack, turning sharply upon him; "she's not
my daughter, she's my wife!"

"Wife! Gosh! You don't say?" exclaimed the crestfallen dandy.

"Yes, wife! And I'll j-j-just warn any of you young f-f-fellers that if
I catch you trying to p-p-plow with my heifer, you'll be food for
buzzards before sun-up!"

He swept his eyes savagely round the circle as he spoke, and the subject
dropped.

The conversation turned into other channels, and flowed in a maudlin,
sluggish manner far into the night. Every member of the bibulous party
was as happy as he knew how to be. The landlord's till was full of
money, the loafers were full of liquor, and the doctor's heart was full
of vanity and trust in himself.

CHAPTER III.

THE EGYPTIANS

"Steal! to be sure they may; and egad, serve your best thoughts as
gypsies do stolen children,--disfigure them to make them pass for
their own."

--Sheridan.

In order to comprehend the relationship of this strangely mated pair, we
must go back five or six years to a certain day when this same Doctor
Aesculapius rode slowly down the main street of a small city in Western
Pennsylvania, and then out along a rugged country highway. A couple of
miles brought him to the camp of a band of gypsies.

A thin column of smoke ascending from a fire which seemed almost too
lazy to burn, curled slowly into the air.

Around this campfire was a picturesque group of persons, all of whom,
with a single exception, vanished like a covey of quail at the approach
of the stranger. The man who stood his ground was a truly sinister
being. He was tall, thin and angular; his clothing was scant and ragged,
his face bronzed with exposure to the sun. A thin moustache of
straggling hairs served rather to exaggerate than to conceal the vicious
expression of a hare-lipped mouth. He stood with his elbow in the palm
of one hand and his chin in the other, while around his legs a pack of
wolf-like dogs crawled and growled as the traveler drew near. Throwing
himself lightly to the ground the intruder kicked the curs who sprang
at him, and as the terrified pack went howling into the door of the
tent, said cheerily.

"Good-morning, Baltasar."

The gypsy acknowledged his salutation with a frown.

"I wish to sell this horse," the traveler added, without appearing to
notice his cold reception.

The gypsy swept his eye over the animal and shook his head.

"If you will not buy, perhaps you will trade," the traveler said.

"Come," was the laconic response, and so saying, the gypsy turned
towards the forest which lay just beyond the camp. The "doctor" obeyed,
and the dogs sneaked after him, still growling, but keeping a respectful
distance. A moment later he found himself in a sequestered spot where
there was an improvised stable; and a dozen or more horses glancing up
from their feed whinnied a welcome.

"Look zem over," said the gypsy, again putting his elbow in his left
hand and his chin in his right--a posture into which he always fell when
in repose.

The quack, moving among the animals with an easy, familiarity, glanced
them over quickly but carefully, and shook his head.

"What!" exclaimed the gypsy with well feigned surprise; "ze senor doez
not zee ze horse he wanz?"

"Horses!" exclaimed the quack; "these are not horses. These are
boneyards. Every one of them is as much worse than mine as mine is than
the black stallion you stole in Pittsburg on the twenty-first day of
last October."

"Worze zan yourz! It eez impozzeeble!" answered the gypsy, as if he had
not heard the accusation. "Ziz horze ov yourz eez what you call a
crow-zcare! Zhe eez two hunner year ol'. Her teeth are fell oud. Zhe haz
ze zpavins. Zhe haz ze ringa bonze. But, senor," growing suddenly
respectful, and spreading out his hands in open and persuasive gestures,
"ere eez a horze zat eez a horze. Ee knowz more zan a man! Ee gan work
een ze arnez, ee gan work een ze zaddle; ee gan drot; ee can gallop; ee
gan bead ze winz!"

The gypsy had played his part well and concealed with consummate art
whatever surprise he might have felt at the charge of theft. His
attitude was free, his look was bold and his manner full of confidence.

The demeanor of the quack suddenly altered. From that of an easy
nonchalance, it turned to savage determination.

"Baltasar," he said, his face white and hard; "let us stop our acting.
Where is that stallion?"

"Whad ztallion?" asked the imperturbable gypsy, with an expression of
child-like innocence.

"I will not even take time to tell you, but if you do not take me to him
this instant there will be a dead gypsy in these woods," said the quack
fiercely.

"Ze zdranger jesz!" the gypsy answered blandly, showing his teeth and
spreading out the palms of his hands.

The quack reached into his bosom, drew forth a pistol, pointed it at the
right eye of the gypsy, and said: "Look into the mouth of that and tell
me whether you see a bullet lying in its throat!"

"I zink zat ze senor an' heez piztol are boz lying in zeir zroats," he
answered with easy irony.

"Good! But I am not here to match wits with you. I want that horse, and
lie or no lie, I will have it. Take me to it, or I swear I will blow out
your brains as sure as they are made of bacon and baby flesh!"

The gypsy vouchsafed no reply, but turned on his heel and led the way
into the forest.

After a walk of a hundred yards or more they came to a booth of boughs,
through the loose sides of which could be seen a black stallion.

"Lead him out," said the doctor imperatively; and the gypsy obeyed.

The magnificent animal came forth snorting, pawing the ground and
tossing his head in the air.

The eye of the quack kindled, and after regarding the noble creature for
a moment in silent admiration he turned to the gypsy and said,
"Baltasar, do not misunderstand me, I am neither an officer of the law
nor in any other way a minister of justice. I have as few scruples as
you as to how I get a horse; but we differ from each other in this, that
if you were in my place you would take the horse without giving an
equivalent. Now I am a man of mercy, and if you will ask a fair price
you shall have it. But mark me! Do not overreach yourself and kill the
goose that is about to lay the golden egg."

"Wat muz be, muz be," the gypsy answered, shrugging his shoulders as if
in the presence of an inexorable fate, and added: "Ze brice iz zwo
hunner and viftee dollars, wiz ze mare drown een."

Putting his pistol back into his pocket with an air of triumph, the
doctor said: "There seems to be persuasive power in cold lead. Stretch
forth your palm and I will cross it for you."

The gypsy did so, and into that tiger-like paw he counted the golden
coin; at the musical clink of each piece the eye of the gypsy
brightened, and when he closed his hand upon them and thrust them into
his pocket his hair-lip curled with a cynical smile.

The stranger took the bridle and saddle from his mare, placed them on
the stallion and mounted.

As they moved forward through the silent forest the gypsy sang softly to
himself:

"The Romany chal to his horse did cry
As he placed the bit in his jaw,
Kosko gry, Romany gry,
Muk, man, kuster, tute knaw."

He was still humming this weird tune when they emerged into the open
fields, and there the traveler experienced a surprise.

A little rivulet lay across their path, and up from the margin of it
where she had been gathering water cresses there sprang a young girl,
who cast a startled glance at him, then bounded swiftly toward the tent
and vanished through the opening.

Now it happened that this keen admirer of horses was equally susceptible
to the charms of female beauty, and the loveliness of this young girl
made his blood tingle. In her hand she carried a bunch of cresses still
dripping with the water of the brook. A black bodice was drawn close to
a figure which was just unfolding into womanhood. The color of this
garment formed a striking contrast to a scarlet skirt which fell only a
little below her knees. On her feet were low-cut shoes, fastened with
rude silver buckles. A red kerchief had become untied and let loose a
wave of black hair, which fell over her half bare shoulders. Her face
was oval, her complexion olive, her eyes large, eager and lustrous.

All this the man who admired women even more than he admired horses, saw
in the single instant before the girl dashed toward the tent and
disappeared. So swift an apparition would have bewildered rather than
illumined the mind of an ordinary man. But the quack was not an ordinary
man. He was endowed with a certain rude power of divination which
enabled him to see in a single instant, by swift intuition, more than
the average man discovers by an hour of reasoning. By this natural
clairvoyance he saw at a glance that this face of exquisite delicacy
could no more have been coined in a gypsy camp than a fine cameo could
be cut in an Indian wigwam. He knew that all gypsies were thieves, and
that these were Spanish gypsies. What was more natural than that he
should conclude with inevitable logic that this child had been stolen
from people of good if not of noble blood!

He who had coveted the horse with desire, hungered for the maiden with
passion; and with him, to feel an appetite, was to rush toward its
gratification, as fire rushes upon tow.

"Baltasar!" he said.

The gypsy turned.

"You are a girl-thief as well as a horse-thief."

If the gypsy had felt astonished before, he was now terrified in the
presence of a man who seemed to read his inmost thoughts; and for the
first time in his life acknowledged to himself that he had met his
master in cunning.

Bewildered as he was by this new charge, he still remembered that if
speech was silver, silence was golden, and answered not a word.

"Baltasar," continued the strange man on horseback, rightly judging from
the gypsy's confusion that he had hit the mark and determining to take
another chance shot; "you stole this girl from the family of a Spanish
nobleman. I am the representative of this family and have followed your
trail for years. You thought I had come to get the horse. You were
mistaken; it was the girl!"

"Perdita!" exclaimed the gypsy, taken completely off his guard.

"Lost indeed," responded the quack, scarcely able to conceal his pride
in his own astuteness. And then he added slowly: "She must be a burden
to you, Baltasar. You evidently never have been able or never have dared
to take her back and claim the ransom which you expected. I will pay you
for her and take her from your hands. It is the child I want and not
vengeance."

"Ze Caballero muz be a Duquende (spirit)," gasped the gypsy.

"At any rate I want the child. You were reasonable about the horse. Be
reasonable about her, and all will be well."

"Ze Caballero muz be made of gol'."

The horseman drew a silver coin from his pocket and flipped it into the
waters of the brook.

The gypsy's face gleamed with avarice and springing into the water he
began to scrape among the stones where it had fallen.

The stranger watched him for awhile with an expression of mingled
amusement and contempt, and finally said: "Baltasar, I am in haste. You
can search for that trifle after I am gone. Let us finish our business.
What will you take for the girl?"

Still standing in the water, which he seemed reluctant to leave, he
shrugged his shoulders and replied: "We muz azk Chicarona. Zhe eez my
vife."

"And master?" asked the quack, smiling sardonically.

The gypsy did not answer, but, stepping from the brook and looking
backward, reluctantly led the way to the tent.

"Chicarona! Chicarona!" he cried as they approached it.

The flap of the tent was thrown suddenly backward, and three figures
emerged--a tall and stately woman, a little elfish child; and an old
hag, wrinkled, toothless and bent with the weight of unrecorded years.
The woman was the mother of the little child and the daughter of the old
hag.

"Chicarona," said the gypsy, "ze Gacho az byed ze ztallion for zwo
hunner an' viftee dollars, an' now he wanz to buy Pepeeta."

"Wad vor?" she asked.

"Berhabs he zinkz zhe eez a prinzez, I dunno," he answered, digging the
toe of his bare foot nervously into the sand.

"Zen dell 'im zat he zhold not look vor ztrawberries in ze zea, nor red
herring in ze wood," she said with a look of scorn.

The eyes of the stranger and the gypsy met. They confronted each other
like two savage beasts who have met on a narrow path and are about to
fight for its possession. It was not an unequal match. The man's eyes
regarded the woman with a proud and masterful determination. The woman's
seemed to burn their way into the inmost secrets of the man's soul.

Chicarona was a remarkable character. In her majestic personality, the
virtues and the vices of the Spanish Gypsy fortune-teller were
incarnate. The vices were legion; the virtues were two--the love of
kindred, and physical chastity--the chastity of the soul itself being
unknown.

"We are wasting time gazing at each other like two sheep in a pasture.
Will you sell the girl?" the horseman asked, impatiently.

"I will nod!" she answered, with proud defiance.

"Then I will take her by force!"

"Ah! What could nod ze monkey do, if he were alzo ze lion!"

"I am the lion, and therefore I must have this lamb!"

"Muz? Say muz to ze clouds; to ze winz; to ze lightningz; but not to
Chicarona!"

"If you do not agree to accept a fair offer for this girl, you will be
in jail for kidnapping her in less than one hour!"

At this threat, the brilliant black eyes emitted a shower of angry
sparks, and she exclaimed in derision, "Ze Buzno will dake us do brizon,
ha! ha! ha!"

"Ze Buzno will dake us do brizon, hee! hee! hee!" giggled the little
impish child who tugged at her skirts.

The old woman pressed forward and mumbled, "'Ol' oud your 'an', my
pretty fellow. Crozz ze ol' gypsy's palm, and zhe will dell your
fortune."

With every new refusal, the resolute stranger became still more
determined. "Pearls are not to be had without a plunge," he murmured to
himself, and dismounted.

Throwing the bridle of his horse over the limb of a tree, he approached
the woman with a threatening gesture.

As he did so, the three female figures began to revolve around him in a
circle, pointing their fingers at him and hissing like vipers. As the
old woman passed before his face she threw a handful of snuff in his
eyes--an act which has been, from time immemorial, the female gypsy's
last resort.

Had he been less agile than he was, it would have proved a finishing
stroke, but there are some animals that can never be caught asleep, or
even napping, and he was one. He winked and dodged, and, quicker than a
flash, brought the old crone a sharp cut across her knuckles with his
riding whip.

As he did so, Baltasar sprang at his throat, but he once more drew his
pistol and leveled it at the gypsy's head. His patience had been
exhausted.

"Fool!" he cried, "Bring this woman to reason. This is a wild country,
and a family of gypsies would be missed as little as a litter of blind
puppies! Bring her to reason, I say, or I will murder every one of you!"

Once more shrugging those expressive shoulders which seemed to have a
language of their own, the gypsy said "Chicarona, you do not luf ze
leedle pindarri. Zell 'er to ze Buzno. Ee eez made of gol'."

As Baltasar uttered these words, he approached his wife and whispered
something in her ear at which she started. Turning with a sudden motion
to the stranger, she fixed her piercing eyes upon him and exclaimed,
"You zay you know ze parenz of zis chil'?"

"I do."

"You lie!"

"How, then, did I know that you had stolen her?"

"You guezz zat! Any vool gan guezz zat! I zdole 'er, but who I zdole 'er
vrom, you do not know any more zan you know why ze frogs zdop zinging
when ze light zhines."

"Ah! You did steal her, did you? Why do gypsies steal children when they
have so many of their own, and it is so easy to raise more, Chicarona?"

"Azk ze tiger why it zpringz, or ze lightning why it zdrikes! I will
alzo azk ze Caballero a queztion. What doez he wan' wiz zis leedle
gurrl?"

"To be a father to her!" he answered, with a sly wink at Baltasar.

"Alzo' I am dressed in wool, I am no sheep! Tell me," she cried,
stamping her foot.

"Why should I tell secrets to one who can read the future?" he asked
banteringly.

Chicarona's mood was changing. It was evident from her looks, either
that she was defeated in the contest by this wily and resistless
combatant or that she had succumbed to the temptation of his money.

"How much will you gif vor zis chil'?" she asked.

"One hundred dollars," he replied.

"One hunner dollars! You paid more zan twize as much vor ze horze! Eez
nod a woman worth more zan a horze?"

"She will be, when she is a woman. She is a child now."

"Let me zee ze color of your money!"

He drew a leather wallet from his pocket and held it tantalizingly
before her eyes.

Its influence was decisive upon her avaricious soul, and she clutched at
it wildly.

"Put it into my han'!" she cried.

"Put Pepeeta into mine," he said.

"Pepeeta! Pepeeta!" she called.

"Pepeeta! Pepeeta!" shrilled the old crone.

Out of the door of the tent she came, her eyes fixed upon the ground,
and her fingers picking nervously at the tinsel strings which fastened
her bodice.

"Gif me ze money and take her," said Chicarona.

He counted out the gold, and then approached the child. For the first
time in his life he experienced an emotion of reverence. There was
something about her beauty, her helplessness and his responsibility that
made a new appeal to his heart.

Yielding to the gentle pressure of his hand, she permitted herself to be
led away. Not a goodbye was said. Chicarona's feeling toward her had
been fast developing from jealousy into hatred as the child's beauty
began to increase and attract attention. The others loved her, but dared
not show it. Not a sign of regret was exhibited, except by the old
crone, who approached her, gave her a stealthy caress, and secretly
placed a crumpled parchment in her hand.

The Doctor lifted the child upon the horse's back and climbed into the
saddle. As they turned into the highway, he heard Chicarona say, "Bring
me my pajunda, Baltasar, and I will sing a grachalpa."

The beautiful child trembled, for the words were those of hatred and
triumph. She trembled, but she also wept. She was parting from those
whose lives were base and cruel; but they were the only human beings
that she knew. She was leaving a wagon and a tent, but it was the only
home that she could remember. In a vague and childish way, she felt
herself to be the sport of mysterious powers, a little shuttlecock
between the battledores of Fortune. Whatever her destiny was to be,
there was no use in struggling, and so she sobbed softly and yielded to
the inevitable. Her little hands were folded across her heart in an
instinctive attitude of submission. Folded hands are not always resigned
hands; but Pepeeta's were. She submitted thus quietly not because she
was weak, but because she was strong, not because she was contemptible,
but because she was noble. In proportion to the majesty of things, is
the completeness of their obedience to the powers that are above them.
Gravitation is obeyed less quietly by a grain of dust than by the rivers
and planets. Those half-suppressed sobs and hardly restrained sighs
would have softened a harder heart than that of this young man of thirty
years. He was rude and unscrupulous, but he was not unkind. His breast
was the abiding place of all other passions and it was not strange that
the gentlest of all should reside within it, nor that it should have
been so quickly aroused at the sight of such loveliness and such
helplessness.

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