Bells of San Juan

Jackson Gregory

Description

A seemingly bucolic town in California is poised on the brink of a hopeful new era, but behind-the-scenes drama and intrigue threaten to hamper the community's prospects. Will the Bells of San Juan ever ring in celebration of the defeat of the nefarious elements that lurk within?

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 novembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775561316
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE BELLS OF SAN JUAN
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JACKSON GREGORY
 
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The Bells of San Juan First published in 1919 ISBN 978-1-77556-131-6 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Foreword - The Bells Chapter I - The Bells Ring Chapter II - The Sheriff of San Juan Chapter III - A Man's Boots Chapter IV - At the Banker's Home Chapter V - In the Darkness of the Patio Chapter VI - A Ride through the Night Chapter VII - In the Home of Cliff-Dwellers Chapter VIII - Jim Galloway's Game Chapter IX - Young Page Comes to Town Chapter X - A Bribe and a Threat Chapter XI - The Fight at la Casa Blanca Chapter XII - Wavering in the Balance Chapter XIII - Concealment Chapter XIV - A Free Man Chapter XV - The King's Palace Chapter XVI - The Mexican from Mexico Chapter XVII - A Stack of Gold Pieces Chapter XVIII - Desire Outweighs Discretion Chapter XIX - Deadlock Chapter XX - Fluff and Black Bill Chapter XXI - A Crisis Chapter XXII - The Beginning of the End Chapter XXIII - The Strong Hand of Galloway Chapter XXIV - In the Open Chapter XXV - The Battle in the Arroyo Chapter XXVI - The Bells Ring
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To
RODERICK NORTON GREGORY
Foreword - The Bells
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He who has not heard the bells of San Juan has a journey yet to make.He who has not set foot upon the dusty road which is the one street ofSan Juan, at times the most silent and deserted of thoroughfares, atother times a mad and turbulent lane between sun-dried adobe walls, mayyet learn something of man and his hopes, desires, fears and ruderpassions from a pin-point upon the great southwestern map.
The street runs due north and south, pointing like a compass to theflat gray desert in the one direction, and in the other to the brokenhills swept up into the San Juan mountains. At the northern end, thatis toward the more inviting mountains, is the old Mission. To rightand left of the whitewashed corridors in a straggling garden ofpear-trees and olives and yellow roses are two rude arches made ofseasoned cedar. From the top cross-beam of each hang three bells.
They have their history, these bells of San Juan, and the biggest withits deep, mellow voice, the smallest with its golden chimes, seem to bechanting it when they ring. Each swinging tongue has its tale to tell,a tale of old Spain, of Spanish galleons and Spanish gentlemenadventurers, of gentle-voiced priests and sombre-eyed Indians, ofconquest, revolt, intrigue, and sudden death. When a baby is born inSan Juan, a rarer occurrence than a strong man's death, the littlest ofthe bells upon the western arch laughs while it calls to all tohearken; when a man is killed, the angry-toned bell pendant from theeastern arch shouts out the word to go billowing across the stretchesof sage and greasewood and gama-grass; if one of the later-day framebuildings bursts into flame, Ignacio Chavez warns the town with astrident clamor, tugging frantically; be it wedding or discovery ofgold or returns from the county elections, the bell-ringer cunninglymakes the bells talk.
Out on the desert a man might stop and listen, forming his surmise asthe sounds surged to meet him through the heat and silence. He mightsmile, if he knew San Juan, as he caught the jubilant message tappedswiftly out of the bronze bell which had come, men said, with Coronado;he might sigh at the lugubrious, slow-swelling voice of the big bellwhich had come hitherward long ago with the retinue of Marco de Niza,wondering what old friend or enemy, perchance, had at last closed hisears to all of Ignacio Chavez's music. Or, at a sudden fury ofclanging, the man far out on the desert might hurry on, goading hisburro impatiently, to know what great event had occurred in the oldadobe town of San Juan.
It is three hundred and fifty years and more since the six bells of SanJuan came into the new world to toll across that land of quiet mysterywhich is the southwest. It is a hundred years since anall-but-forgotten priest, Francisco Calderón, found them in variousdevastated mission churches, assembled them, and set them chiming inthe old garden. There, among the pear-trees and olives and yellowroses, they still cast their shadows in sun and moonlight, in silence,and in echoing chimes.
Chapter I - The Bells Ring
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Ignacio Chavez, Mexican that he styled himself, Indian that thecommunity deemed him, or "breed" of badly mixed blood that he probablywas, made his loitering way along the street toward the Mission. Athin, yellowish-brown cigarita dangling from his lips, his wide,dilapidated conical hat tilted to the left side of his head in alistless sort of concession to the westering sun, he was, as wascustomary with him, utterly at peace. Ten minutes ago he had hadtwenty cents; two minutes after the acquisition of his elusive wealthhe had exchanged the two dimes for whiskey at the Casa Blanca; theremaining eight minutes of the ten he required to make his way, as henaively put it, "between hell and heaven."
For from a corner of the peaceful old Mission garden at one end of thelong street one might catch a glimpse of the Casa Blanca at the otherend sprawling in the sun; between the two sturdy walled buildings hadthe town strung itself as it grew. As old a relic as the church itselfwas La Casa Blanca, and since San Juan could remember, in all mattersantipodal to the religious calm of the padres' monument. Deep-shadeddoorways let into the three-feet-thick earthen walls, waxed floors,green tables, and bar and cool looking-glasses . . . a place whichinvited, lured, held, and frequently enough finally damned.
San Juan, in the languid philosophy of Ignacio Chavez, was what youwill. It epitomized the universe. You had everything here which thesoul of man might covet. Never having dwelt elsewhere since his motherbore him here upon the rim of the desert and with the San Juanmountains so near that, Ignacio Chavez pridefully knew, a man standingupon the Mesa Alta might hear the ringing of his bells, he experienceda pitying contempt for all those other spots in the world which were soplainly less favored. What do you wish, señor? Fine warm days? Youhave them here. Nice cool nights for sound slumber? Right here in SanJuan, amigo mío . A desert across which the eye may run withoutstopping until it be tired, a wonderful desert whereon at dawn and duskGod weaves all of the alluring soft mists of mystery? Shaded cañons atnoonday with water and birds and flowers? Behold the mountains.Everything desirable, in short. That there might be men who desiredthe splash of waves, the sheen of wet beaches, the boom of surf, didnot suggest itself to one who had never seen the ocean. So, then, SanJuan was "what you will." A man may fix his eye upon the littleMission cross which is always pointing to heaven and God; or he maypass through the shaded doors of the Casa Blanca, which, men say, givepathway into hell the shortest way.
Ignacio, having meditatively enjoyed his whiskey and listened smilinglyto the tinkle of a mandolin in the patio under a grape-vine arbor,had rolled his cigarette and turned his back square upon thedevil . . . of whom he had no longer anything to ask. As he went outhe stopped in the doorway long enough to rub his back against a cornerof the wall and to strike a match. Then, almost inaudibly humming themandolin air, he slouched out into the burning street.
For twenty years he had striven with the weeds in the Mission garden,and no man during that time dared say which had had the best of it,Ignacio Chavez or the interloping alfileria and purslane. In thematters of a vast leisureliness and tumbling along the easiest way theyresembled each other, these two avowed enemies. For twenty years hehad looked upon the bells as his own, had filled his eye with them dayafter day, had thought the first thing in the morning to see that theywere there, regarding them as solicitously in the rare rainy weather ashis old mother regarded her few mongrel chicks. Twenty full years, andyet Ignacio Chavez was not more than thirty years old, or thirty-five,perhaps. He did not know, no one cared.
He was on his way to attack with his bare brown hands some of the weedswhich were spilling over into the walk which led through the garden andto the priest's house. As a matter of fact he had awakened with thispurpose in mind, had gone his lazy way all day fully purposing to giveit his attention, and had at last arrived upon the scene. The frontgate had finally broken, the upper hinge worn out; Ignacio carefullyset the ramshackly wooden affair back against the fence, thinking howone of these days he would repair it. Then he went between the biggerpear-tree and the lluvia de oro which his own hands had plantedhere, and stood with legs well apart considering the three bells uponthe easterly arch.
" Que hay, amigos ?" he greeted them. "Do you know what I am going todo for you some fine day? I will build a little roof over you thatruns down both ways to shut out the water when it rains. It will makeyou hoarse, too much wet."
That was one of the few dreams of Ignacio's life; one day he was goingto make a little roof over each arch. But to-day he merely regardedaffectionately the Captain . . . that was the biggest of thebells . . . the Dancer, second in size, and Lolita, the smallest uponthis arch. Then he sighed and turned toward the other arch across thegarden to see how it was with the Little One, La Golondrina, andIgnacio Chavez. For it was only fair that at least one of the sixshould