Tuesday's Serial: "Ubirajara: lenda tupy" by José de Alencar (in Portuguese) - III

 

CAPÍTULO V — SERVO DO AMOR

Jurandyr, conduzido pela virgem, caminhou ao encontro de Itaquê e disse:

— Grande chefe dos tocantins, Jurandyr não veiu á tua cabana para receber a hospitalidade; veiu para servir ao pai de Aracy, a formosa virgem, a quem escolheu para esposa. Permitte que elle a mereça por sua constancia no trabalho, e que a dispute aos outros guerreiros pela força de seu braço.

Itaquê respondeu:

— Aracy é filha de minha velhice. A velhice é a idade da prudencia e da sabedoria. O guerreiro que conquistar uma esposa como Aracy terá a gloria de gerar seu valor no seio da virtude. Itaquê não póde desejar para seu hospede maior alegria.

Desde esse momento, Jurandyr não foi mais estrangeiro na taba dos tocantins. Pertencia á oca de Itaquê, e devia, como servo do amor, trabalhar para o pai de sua noiva.

Os guerreiros, captivos da belleza de Aracy, conheceram que tinham de combater um adversário formidavel; mas seu amor cresceu com o receio de perder a filha de Itaquê.

Jurandyr tomou suas armas e desceu ao rio. Era a hora em que o Jacaré boia em cima das aguas como o tronco morto; e a jaçanan se balança no seio do nenuphar.

O manaty erguia a tromba, para pastar a relva na margem do rio. Ouvindo o rumor das folhas, mergulhou na corrente, mas já levava o arpéo do pescador, cravado no lombo.

Jurandyr não esperou que o peixe ferido desenrolasse toda a linha. Puxou-o para terra; e levou-o ainda vivo á cabana de Itaquê, onde tres guerreiros custaram a deital-o no giráo.

As mulheres cortaram as postas de carne e os guerreiros cavaram a terra para fazer as grelhas do biariby.

Jurandyr partiu de novo e entrou na floresta. Ao longe reboavam os gritos dos caçadores, que perseguiam a féra.

Pelo assobio o guerreiro conheceu que era um tapyr. O animal zombara dos caçadores e vinha rompendo a matta como a torrente do Xingú.

As arvores que seu peito encontrava caíam lascadas.

Jurandyr estendeu o braço. O velho tapyr, agarrado pelo pé, ficou suspenso na carreira, como o passarinho preso no laço.

Nunca até aquelle momento encontrára força maior que a sua.

Uma vez descera á lagôa para beber. A sucury, que espreitava a caça, mordeu-o na tromba. Elle fugia, esticando a serpente; e a serpente, encolhendo-se, o arrastava até á beira d'agua.

Assim tornou uma, duas, três vezes. Mas o tigre urrou de fome. O velho tapyr disparou pela floresta; e a sacury com a cau da presa á raiz da arvore arrebentou pelo meio.

O velho tapyr rompeu a serpente como se rompe uma corda de piassaba; mas não pôde abalar o braço de Jurandyr, mais firme do que o tronco do guaribú.

O estrangeiro tornou á cabana com a caça. Nenhum dos guerreiros da taba, nem mesmo o velho Itaquê, pôde aguentar com as duas mãos a fera bravia.

Então Jurandyr obrigou o animal a agachar-se aos pés de Aracy e disse:

— O braço de Jurandyr fará cair assim a teus pés o guerreiro que ouse disputar ao seu amor a tua formosura, estrella do dia.

 

Nunca a abundância reinára na cabana sempre farta do chefe dos tocantins, como depois que a ella chegára o estrangeiro.

Jurandyr era o maior caçador das florestas, e o primeiro pescador dos rios. Seu olhar seguro penetrava na espessura das brenhas, como na profundeza das aguas.

Nada escapava á destreza de sua mão. Onde ella não chegava, iam as unhas de suas flechas certeiras, que rasgavam o seio da victima, como as garras do jaguar.

O estrangeiro soubera de Aracy, qual era a caça que Itaquê preferia e qual o peixe que elle achava mais saboroso. Desde então nunca o velho chefe sentiu a falta do manjar predilecto.

Si não era a lua propria do peixe desejado, Jurandyr sabia onde podia encontral-o. Não tornava á cabana sem a provisão necessária para a refeição do dia.

Depois da caça e da pesca, Jurandyr trabalhava nas roças de Itaquê. Fazia no taboleiro os matumbos, para que Jacamim enterrasse as estacas da maniva e semeasse o feijão, o milho e o fumo.

Entre os filhos das florestas, a plantação devia ser feita pela mão da mulher, que era a mãi de muitos filhos; porque ella transmittia á terra sua fecundidade.

A semente que a mão da virgem depositava no seio da terra dava flôr: mas da flôr não saía fructo. E si era um guerreiro que plantava, a aypim endurecia como o pau de arco.

Nas vasantes do rio, Jurandyr capinava a terra coberta de relva e outras plantas e só deixava crescer o arroz, o inhame e as bananeiras.

Quando o estrangeiro partia pela manhã, Aracy o acompanhava de longe pela floresta. Sua vontade a levava apoz elle.

O costume da taba não consentia que a virgem desejada pelos servos de seu amor preferisse um guerreiro, antes de saber si elle a obteria por esposa.

A filha de Itaquê não queria pertencer a outro guerreiro. Mas lembrava-se que a virgem deve merecer o esposo por sua paciencia; assim como o guerreiro merece a esposa por sua constancia e fortaleza.

Então voltava ao terreiro: emquanto os outros guerreiros espreitavam sua vontade, ella tecia as franjas para a rêde do casamento.

Sua mão subtil urdia com o alvo fio do crauatá a fina penugem escarlate. Os noivos cuidavam que era a do peito do tocano; mas ella sabia que era do peito da arára e que tinha as côres de seu guerreiro.

Quando o sol chegava ao cimo dos montes, ouvia-se o canto de Jurandyr que voltava da caça. A virgem seguida pelos guerreiros ia ao encontro do estrangeiro.

Então desciam ao rio. Era a hora do banho. Aracy cortava as ondas mais linda que a garça côr de rosa; e os guerreiros a seguiam de perto, como um bando de galleirões.

Mas nenhum, nem mesmo Jurandyr, que nadava como um boto, podia alcançar a formosa virgem. Ella parecia a flor do mururê que se desprendeu da haste e passa levada pela corrente.

Uma vez a filha das aguas soltou um grito e desappareceu no seio das ondas. Jacamim cuidou que o Jacaré tinha arrebatado a filha de seu seio. Os guerreiros mergulharam para salval-a; mas não a encontraram.

Todos a julgavam perdida, quando appareceu Jurandyr que trazia nos braços o corpo da virgem formosa. Pisando em terra, ella correu para a cabana, onde foi esconder sua alegria.

Desde então era no banho que Aracy recebia o abraço de Jurandyr, sem que os outros guerreiros suspeitassem da preferencia dada ao estrangeiro. No seio das ondas ninguem a adivinhava a não ser o ouvido subtil de Jurandyr, a quem ella chamava com o doce murmúrio do irerê.

Encontravam-se no fundo do rio, emquanto durava a respiração. Depois desprendiam-se do abraço e surgiam longe um do outro.

 

Á tarde, voltando da caça, Jurandyr viu na floresta um rasto, que elle conhecia.

Chegado á cabana, entregou a Jacamim o veado que matara e sahiu para visitar os arredores. Nada encontrou de suspeito; o rasto, que o inquietava, não chegára até ali.

No outro dia, ao romper da alvorada, logo depois do banho, os guerreiros partiram para a caça e para a pesca. Só ficaram na cabana Jacamim e as mulheres de Itaquê.

Aracy tomou o arco e entrou na floresta. A imagem do guerreiro amado fugia naquelle instante de seus olhos; elles buscaram entre as folhas o signal de seus passos e não o descobriram. Lembrou-se a virgem que Jurandyr gostava da polpa do guaranan adoçada com o mel da abelha; e colheu os fructos encarnados que pendiam dos ramos da trepadeira.

Nesse momento a arára cantou no olho do périjá. Aracy precisava de suas plumas vermelhas, para o cocar que ella tecia em segredo.

Era o cocar do amor, com que desejava ornar a cabeça de seu guerreiro senhor, no dia em que elle a conquistasse por esposa.

A virgem armou o arco e seguiu a arára rompendo a folhagem. Quando ia disparar a setta, ouviu ao lado um rumor desusado.

Jurandyr estava perto delia e segurava o braço de uma mulher, que ainda tinha na mão a macana afiada.

Aracy conheceu a virgem araguaya, pela facha de algodão entretecida de pennas, que lhe apertava a curva da perna; e adivinhou que era Jandyra a noiva do guerreiro.

— Filha de Magé, tua mão quiz matar a virgem que Jurandyr escolheu para esposa. Tu vais morrer.

— Desde que Ubirajara abandonou Jandyra, ella começou a morrer, como a baunilha que o vento arranca da arvore. Acaba de matal-a; para que sua alma te acompanhe de dia na sombra das florestas e te fale de noite na voz dos sonhos.

— A virgem araguaya ameaçou a vida de Aracy; ella lhe pertence; disse a filha de Itaquê.

Jurandyr cortou na floresta uma comprida rama de imbê e atou as mãos de Jandyra.

— Jandyra é tua escrava. Não lhe dês a liberdade. Ella tem a astúcia da serpente e seu veneno.

— Eu era a cobra d'agua, amiga do guerreiro, que habita sua cabana e a guarda contra o inimigo. Quem foi que me fez cascavel venenosa, que traz nos labios o sorriso da morte?

Jurandyr não respondeu. Nesse momento elle teve saudade de sua cabana e lembrou-se do tempo em que, joven caçador, seguia na floresta a formosa virgem araguaya.

 

As duas virgens ficaram sós no claro da floresta.

Já o rumor dos passos de Jurandyr se apagára ao longe e ainda tinham ambas os olhos captivos uma da outra.

Jandyra pensou que ella não podia dar a Ubirajara a formosura da filha de Itaquê. Aracy receiou que o amor do guerreiro se voltasse outra vez para a linda, virgem araguaya.

A filha de Magé preparou-se para morrer á mão de sua rival, mas ella preferia a morte ao supplicio de contemplar sua belleza.

Aracy, a estrella do dia, cantou:

— O amor do guerreiro é a alegria da virgem; quando elle foge, a virgem fica triste como a várzea que perdeu sua relva.

«Por isso Jandyra está triste: o amor do guerreiro fugiu della; e a deixou solitaria como a nambú, a quem o companheiro abandonou.

«Mas o amor do guerreiro é como o orvalho da noite. Quando o sol queima a varzea, elle desce do céo para cobril-a de verdura e de flôres.

«Aracy está alegre; porque o amor do guerreiro voltou-se para ella; e Jurandyr vai fazel-a companheira de sua gloria e mãi de seus filhos.

«Quando a esposa de Jurandyr não tiver mais belleza para dar a seu guerreiro, ella consentirá que Jandyra durma em sua rêde.

«E o orvalho da noite descerá do céo para cobrir a varzea de verdura e de flôres. E Jandyra achará outra vez seu sorriso de mel. »

Assim cantou Aracy, a estrella do dia; e a virgem araguaya respondeu:

— A arvore que morreu não soffre quando o fogo a queima. Jandyra prefere a morte á vergonha de ser tua serva e á tristeza de ver a cada instante a formosura da estrangeira que roubou seu amor.

«Aracy, a estrella do dia, é mais bella do que Jandyra, mas não sabe amar o guerreiro, que a escolheu para mãi de seus filhos.

«Nunca Jandyra offereceria sua rêde de esposa a outra mulher; e aquella que recebesse o amor de seu guerreiro morreria por sua mão.

«Ella amaria seu esposo tanto que sua graça nunca se retirasse della; pois saberia morrer quando não tivesse mais belleza para dar.

«A nação araguaya nunca levanta a taba do valle onde acampou, sinão quando a terra já não póde dar-lhe mais fructos.

«Assim é o guerreiro. Elle não retira seu amor da esposa que habita, sinão quando ella já não sabe alegrar sua alma. »

Tornou a virgem tocantim:

— A cajazeira depois que dá seu fructo perde a folha; o guerreiro busca a sombra de outra arvore para repousar.

«Mas vem a lua das aguas e a cajazeira outra vez se cobre de folhas; sua sombra é doce ao guerreiro.

«A esposa é como a cajazeira. Quando o guerreiro não acha alegria em seus braços, ella soffre que busque outra sombra e espera que lhe volte a flor para chamal-o de novo ao seio.

«Aracy ama seu guerreiro, como Jacamim ama Itaquê. A cabana do grande chefe dos tocantins está cheia de servas; mas seu amor nunca abandonou a esposa.

«As servas deram a Itaquê muitos filhos; mas os filhos da velhice, foi só Jacamim quem os deu ao grande chefe; porque o primeiro amor do guerreiro não morre nunca.

«Elle é como a grama que nunca mais deixa a terra onde nasceu: pódem arrancal-a que brota sempre.

«Aracy quer apagar a tristeza da tua alma e beber o teu sorriso de mel, para que o esposo ache mais doces seus lábios, quando os provar.

«Tu serás irmã de Aracy e lhe darás um filho de Jurandyr, tão valente, como os que seu amor ha de gerar no seio da esposa.

Jandyra afastou os olhos da virgem dos tocantins, para desviar della sua ira.

«Tua palavra dóe como o espinho da jussara, que tem o côco mais doce que o mel.

«As flechas do teu arco não matam mais do que os sorrisos que o amor do guerreiro derrama em teu rosto, estrella do dia.

«Ubirajara deixou-me por ti; mas foi a Jandyra que elle primeiro escolheu para esposa, quando ainda era joven caçador.

«Nos campos alegres, onde vão os guerreiros quando morrem, elle me chamará; e o guanumby virá buscar a minha alma no seio da flôr do manacá para leval-a a seu amor.

«Mata-me ou deixa que eu morra para não ver mais tua belleza e não ouvir o canto de tua alegria.

Aracy caminhou para Jandyfa e desatou-lhe os pulsos.

— O amor do guerreiro não pertence á mulher que seus olhos primeiro viram; mas áquella que elle escolheu.

«Apanha teu arco; e morra aquella que não souber defender seu amor e merecer o esposo.

Aracy disse, e tirou da uiraçaba uma setta. Jandyra ficou immovel, com os pulsos cruzados, como si ainda estivessem presos.

— A vontade de Ubirajara atou os braços de Jandyra; ella rejeita a liberdade dada por ti. Aracy póde ser preferida; porém, não será mais generosa do que a filha de Magé.

 

 

CAPÍTULO VI — O COMBATE NUPCIAL

Chegou o dia, em que os noivos de Aracy deviam disputar a posse da formosa virgem.

Era a hora em que o sol, transpondo a crista da montanha, estende pelo valle sua arassoia d'ouro.

A grande nação tocantim cerca a vasta campina. No centro estão os anciões, que formam o grande carbeto.

Em frente apparece Aracy, a estrella do dia, que ha de ser o premio da constância e fortaleza do mais dextro guerreiro.

Jacamim acompanha a filha; nesse momento remoça com a lembrança do dia em que Itaquê a conquistou, lutando com os mais feros mancebos tocantins.

De um e outro lado seguem pela ordem da idade os moacaras. Cada um cerca-se da esposa, das servas e das filhas, que vieram para assistir ao combate.

É a unica das festas guerreiras em que o rito de Tupan consente a presença das mulheres, porque se trata de sua gloria.

Contemplando o esforço heroico dos mais nobres guerreiros para conquistar a formosura de uma virgem, as outras virgens aprendem a presar a castidade e as esposas se ufanam de guardar a fé ao primeiro amor.

Itaquê, o grande chefe dos tocantins, preside ao combate, orgulhoso pela valente nação que dirige, como pela formosa virgem, de que é pai.

Quando seus olhos admiram a multidão de guerreiros, servos do amor de Aracy, que se preparam a disputar a esposa, o grande chefe ergue a fronte soberba como o velho ipé da floresta coroado de flôres.

Os noivos se distinguem dos outros guerreiros pelo bracelete de contas verdes, que o guerreiro cinge ao pulso da esposa, quando rompe a liga da virgindade.

Lá caminha Pirajá, o grande pescador, senhor dos peixes do rio, a quem obedece o manaty e o golphinho.

Junto delle ergue-se Uirassú, que tomou este nome do valente guerreiro dos ares, pelo impeto do assalto.

Vem depois Arariboia, a grande serpente das lagôas, Cauatá, o corredor das florestas, Cory, o altivo pinheiro e tantos outros ainda mancebos, e já guerreiros de fama.

Entre todos porém assoma Jurandyr. Sua fronte passa por cima da cabeça dos outros guerreiros, como o sol quando se ergue entre as cristas da serrania.

Os musicos fizeram retroar os borés, annunciando o começo da festa; e os servos do amor se estenderam em linha pelo meio da campina. Então os nhengaçaras levantaram o canto nupcial.

«A esposa é a alegria e a força do guerreiro. Ella acende em suas veias um fogo mais generoso que o do cauim e prepara, para seu corpo, o repouso da cabana.

«Por isso o primeiro desejo do mancebo, quando ganha o nome de guerra, é conquistar uma esposa.

«Não basta ser valente guerreiro para merecer a virgem formosa, filha de um grande chefe; é preciso a paciência para soffrer e a perseverança no trabalho.

«Aracy, a estrella do dia, filha de Itaquê, será a alegria e a gloria do mais forte e do mais valente.

«Os filhos que ella gerar em seu seio, onde corre o sangue do grande chefe, serão os maiores guerreiros das nações.»

 

Itaquê deu o signal; o combate começou. Pirajá foi o primeiro que saiu a campo e clamou, esgrimindo o tacape:

— Aracy, estrella do dia, tu serás esposa do guerreiro Pirajá que te vae conquistar pela força de seu braço.

Avançou Uirassú, e disse:

— A virgem formosa ama ao guerreiro Uirassú e ha de pertencer-lhe.

A noiva cantou:

«Aracy ama o mais forte e mais valente. Ella pertencerá ao vencedor, que vencer a bravura dos outros guerreiros, como venceu a vontade da esposa.»

A voz maviosa da virgem affagou a esperança de todos os campeões; mas seus olhos ternos só viam o nobre semblante de Jurandyr, o escolhido de sua alma.

Os dois guerreiros travaram a pugna; os tacapes girando nos ares encontravam-se como dois madeiros arrojados pelo remoinho da cachoeira.

Afinal Pirajá, ameaçado pelo bote do adversario, recuou um passo do logar em que se postara. Pela lei do combate estava vencido, e teve de deixar o campo.

Arariboia tomou o seu logar; e o combate proseguiu com varia fortuna, até Gory que, expellindo o vencedor, manteve-se firme contra todos que vieram disputal-o.

Faltava Jurandyr. O estrangeiro avançou gravemente, como convinha a um grande guerreiro da nação araguaya.

Elle queria dar ao vencedor de tantos combates, o tempo preciso para descansar.

A mão do guerreiro arrastava pelo chão o tacape, que desdenhava erguer para um combate sem gloria.

Quando Jurandyr achou-se em face do vencedor, levantou a voz e disse:

— Para merecer Aracy, a estrella do dia, Jurandyr queria vencer a cem guerreiros e não combater um guerreiro fatigado.

«Tu empunhas um tacape; toma outro; habituado a vencer, elle restituirá a teu braço a força que perdeu. Basta a Jurandyr esta mão, para te arrebatar todas as tuas victorias.»

Disse e arremessou a arma aos pés do adversario.

Cory pensando que seu rival o atacava, desfechou-lhe o golpe. Mas Jurandyr aparou-o na mão firme e arrebatando o tacape que o ameaçava arrancou o guerreiro do chão.

Assim o pinheiro que o tufão arrebata, antes de partir o tronco, desprende a raiz da terra, onde nada o abalava. Jurandyr ficou no campo. Mas todos os noivos se haviam mostrado valentes guerreiros; talvez nas outras provas saíssem vencedores.

 

Os musicos tocaram os borés; e os jovens caçadores trouxeram para o meio do campo a figura da noiva.

Era um grosso toro de madeira, no qual a mão destra de um pagé entalhára, com o dente da cotia, a cabeça de uma mulher.

Três caçadores vergavam com o peso da carga e foram precisos dez para trazel-o desde a cabana do pagé até o campo, onde ficou semelhante a uma mulher sentada.

Na vespera o pagé burnira de novo com a folha da sambaiba o toro de madeira e o esfregára com a banha do teú para que elle escorregasse da mão do guerreiro como o lagarto da mão do caçador.

Depois os mancebos guerreiros espalharam pelo campo troncos de arvores cortadas com as ramas e as folhas; e ficaram cercas de estacas entre os barrancos da várzea que ia morrer á margem do rio.

Itaquê deu o signal; e os guerreiros começaram a nova prova, mais difficil que a primeira.

Era preciso que o guerreiro á disparada levantasse do chão, sem parar, o toro de madeira; e se defendesse dos rivaes que o assaltavam para tomal-o.

Esse jogo era o emblema da agilidade e robustez, que o marido devia possuir, para disputar a esposa e protegel-a contra os que ouzassem desejal-a.

Na primeira corrida foi Jurandyr quem mais rapido chegou. Como o condor que, rebatendo o vôo, leva nas garras a tartaruga adormecida; assim o veloz guerreiro suspendeu a figura da esposa, e com ella aremessou-se pela campina.

Os outros o seguiam ardendo em impetos de roubar-lhe a presa. Na planicie aberta seria vão intento porque nenhum corria como o estrangeiro.

Mas Jurandyr achava diante de si, para tolher-lhe o passo, as arvores derrubadas, os barrancos profundos e outros obstáculos de proposito accumulados.

Não hesitou, porém, o destimido mancebo. Salvou as corcovas, galgou as caiçaras, e subiu pelos galhos que estrepavam o chão.

Uma vez os guerreiros approximaram-se tanto que Jurandyr sentiu nos cabellos o sopro da respiração offegante. Em frente, erguia-se a alta estacada.

Si tentasse subir carregado como estava, os guerreiros com certeza o alcançariam a tempo de arrancar-lhe a presa.

Então arremessou pelos ares o toro de madeira, como si fosse o tacape de um joven caçador; e seguiu apoz.

Sempre vencedor dos assaltos dos rivaes, Jurandyr percorreu a vasta campina e foi collocar a figura da esposa no meio do carbeto dos anciões.

Alli era o termo da correria. O guerreiro que chegava a esse ponto com a sua carga, saía triumphante da prova.

Elle mostrava como arrebataria a esposa do meio dos inimigos e a defenderia contra seus ataques até recolhel-a em um asylo seguro.

De todos os guerreiros só Cory e Uirassú conseguiram ganhar a prova; mas nenhum com a galhardia de Jurandyr.

Cory por vezes foi alcançado e só á confusão dos outros deveu escapar-se. Uirassú recuperou a presa já perdida, porque Pirajá, que a havia empolgado, falseou na corrida e tombou.

Os tres vencedores entram de novo em campo para decidir entre si. O triumpho não se demorou. Jurandyr o arrebatou, como o gavião arrebata a presa que disputam duas serpes.

Soaram os borês; e ao som do canto de triumpho entoado pelos nhengacaras, os chefes e os guerreiros saudaram o vencedor dos vencedores.

 

Quando voltou o silencio, Ogib, o grande pagé dos tocantins, estava em pé no meio do campo.

Junto delle uma das velhas mãis dos guerreiros, segurava o camucim da constancia, que tinha o bojo pintado de vermelho.

O pagé disse:

— Não basta que o guerreiro seja forte e valente, para merecer a esposa.

«É preciso que tenha a constancia do varão, e não se perturbe com o soffrimento.

«É preciso que elle tenha a paciência do tatú e supporte sereno as mortificações das mulheres, e as importunações das creanças.

«O guerreiro que não tem constancia e paciencia, depressa gasta suas forças.

«O rio que se derrama pela varzea, nunca verá suas margens cobertas de grandes florestas.

«Assim é o guerreiro que não sabe soffrer e derrama sua alma em lamentações.

«Nunca elle será pai de uma geração forte e gloriosa nem verá sua cabana povoar-se dos guerreiros de seu sangue.

«Si queres merecer a filha de Itaquê mostra, Jurandyr, que és varão ainda maior do que o famoso guerreiro que todos admiram.»

O grande pagé levantou o tampo do camucim e descobriu uma abertura, bastante para caber o punho do mais robusto guerreiro.

Jurandyr metteu a mão no vaso. O semblante sempre grave do guerreiro cobriu-se de um sorriso doce como a luz da alvorada; e seus olhos, mais contentes que dois sahis, pousaram no rosto de Aracy.

O camucim da constancia continha um formigueiro de saúvas, que o pagé havia fechado alli na ultima lua.

Açuladas pela fome de tantos dias, as formigas vorazes se preparam para dilacerar a primeira victima que lhes cahisse nas garras.

A dentada da saúva, que anda solta no campo, dóe como uma braza; quando são muitas e com fome, queimam como a fogueira.

Todas as vistas se fitaram no semblante do guerreiro para lhe espreitar o minimo gesto de soffrimento.

Mas Jurandyr sorria; e seus labios ternos soltaram o canto do amor. De proposito o guerreiro adoçou a voz, para não parecer que disfarçava o gemido com o rumor do grito guerreiro.

Assim cantou elle:

«A dôr é que fortalece o varão, assim como o fogo é que enrija o tronco da crauba, da qual o guerreiro fabrica o arco e o tacape.

«A Jussara tem settas agudas: mas Aracy, quando atravessa a floresta, colhe o côco de mel, embora a palmeira lhe espinhe a mão.

«O ferrão da saúva dóe mais do que o espinho da jussara; mas Jurandyr acha o mel dos labios de Aracy mais doce do que o côco da palmeira.

«Quando Jurandyr era joven caçador gostava de tirar a cotia da toca, embora o seu dente agudo lhe sarjasse a carne.

«O ferrão da saúva não dóe como o dente afiado; e Jurandyr sabe que o pêlo dourado da cotia não é tão macio como o collo de Aracy.

«Jurandyr despreza a dor. Seus olhos estão bebendo o sorriso da virgem, mais suave que o leite do sapoty. Sua mão está sentindo o roçar dos cabellos da virgem formosa.»

Os anciãos deram signal para concluir a prova da constancia; mas o guerreiro continuou seu canto de amor.

«A cumary arde no lábio do guerreiro; mas torna mais gostosa a carne do veado assada no moquem.

«O cauim queima a bocca do guerreiro; mas derrama a alegria dentro d'alma.

«A saúva arde como a cumary e queima como o cauim; porém torna os beijos de Aracy mais saborosos: e o amor de Jurandyr espuma como o vinho generoso.

«Aracy ha de sorrir de felicidade, quando o filho de seu guerreiro lhe rasgar o seio.

«Jurandyr não tem corpo para soffrer, quando o sorriso de Aracy lhe enche a alma de amor.»

Foi preciso quebrar o camucim para que o guerreiro pudesse retirar a mão, de inflammada que ficara.

O grande pagé esfregou na pelle vermelha o succo de uma herva delle conhecida; e logo desappareceu a inchação.

 

Faltava a ultima prova, chamada a prova da virgem.

As outras serviam para conhecer o valor, a destreza e robustez do guerreiro, assim como a forca de seu amor.

Nesta era que a virgem podia mostrar seu agrado pelo seu vencedor; ou livrar-se de um esposo, que não soubera ganhar-lhe o affecto.

Os cantores disseram:

«Tupan deu azas á nambu para que ella escape ás garras do carcará.

«Tupan deu ligeireza á virgem, para que fuja do guerreiro que não quer por esposo.

«Mas a nambú, quando ouve o canto do companheiro, espera que elle chegue para fabricar seu ninho.

«A virgem, quando a segue o guerreiro que ella prefere, pensa na cabana do esposo e corre de vagar para chegar depressa.»

Aracy deixou a mãie avançou até o meio do campo.

O grande pagé collocou Jurandyr na distancia de uma mussurana, que cinge dez vezes a cintura do guerreiro.

Estrella do dia lançou para as espaduas as longas tranças negras que voaram ao sopro da brisa.

Arqueou os braços mimosos, vestidos com franjas de pennas, como as azas brilhantes do arirama, e, quando soou o signal, desferiu a corrida.

Jurandyr seguiu-a. Elle conhecia a velocidade do pé gentil de Aracy, que zombava do salto do jaguar.

Nem que pudesse alcançal-a, o guerreiro o tentaria; depois de vencedor, queria dever a esposa ao amor della e não a seu esforço.

Disputaria Aracy não só a todos os guerreiros das nações, como a todas as nações das florestas; só á vontade da própria virgem não a disputaria, pois a queria rendida e não vencida.

Mas sua gloria mandava que elle, o chefe de uma nação, se mostrasse digno da formosa virgem, que o acceitasse por esposo.

Aracy voava pela campina. Ás vezes trançava a corrida como o colibry que adeja de flôr em flôr, outras vezes fugia mais rapida do que a setta emplumada de seu arco.

Quando mostrou a todos que Jurandyr não a alcançaria nunca, si ella quizesse fugir-lhe, reclinou a cabeça para esconder o rubor.

Jurandyr abriu os braços e recebeu a esposa que se entregava a seu amor.

O guerreiro suspendeu a virgem formosa ao collo; e levou-a á cabana do amor que elle construira á margem do rio.

 

As ramas de jasmineiro e do craviri vestiam a cabana e matisavani o chão de flôres.

Aracy foi buscar a rêde nupcial, que ella tecera de pennas de tocano e arára; e Jurandyr conduziu os utensilios da cabana.

Então o estrangeiro sentou-se com a virgem no terreiro, e, antes de passar a soleira da porta, revelou a Aracy quem era o guerreiro que ella acceitára por esposo.

— Aracy pertence ao grande chefe da nação araguaya. Ella teve a gloria de vencer ao maior guerreiro das florestas. Ella será mãi dos filhos de Ubirajara; e terá por servas as virgens mais bellas, filhas dos chefes poderosos.

«A palmeira é formosa quando se cobre de flôres e o vento agita as suas folhas verdes que murmuram; mais formosa, porém, é quando as flôres se mudam em fructos e ella se enfeita com os seus cachos vermelhos.

«Aracy também ficará mais formosa quando de seu sorriso saírem os fructos do amor: e quando o leite encher seus peitos mimosos, para que ella suspenda ao collo os filhos de Ubirajara.»

Aracy ouviu as palavras do guerreiro, palpitante como a corça; e ornou a fronte do esposo com o cocar de plumas vermelhas, que tecera em segredo.

Depois sentindo os olhos de Ubirajara, que bebiam sua formosura, ella vestiu o aimará mais alvo do que a penna da garça.

A tunica de algodão entretecida de pennas de beija flôr desce das espaduas até á curva da perna, cingida pela liga da virgindade.

Quando Aracy passava entre os guerreiros que admiravam sua belleza, ella não corava, porque sua castidade a vestia, como a flôr á sapucaia.

Mas agora, em presença do guerreiro a quem ama e para quem guardou sua virgindade, tem pejo e esconde sua formosura ás vistas de Ubirajara.

— Os olhos do esposo são como o sol, disse o guerreiro: elles queimam a flôr do corpo de Aracy.

— Aracy tem medo que os olhos do esposo não a achem digna de seu amor; e vestiu seus enfeites.

— Aracy queria ser como a jurity e ter no corpo uma pennugem macia, que só a deixasse ver em sua formosura.

«Foi por isso que tua esposa se cobriu com o seu aimará. Os olhos de Ubirajara não lhe queimarão mais a flôr de seu corpo.

O guerreiro respondeu:

— A flor do Iguapé é mais formosa quando abre e se tinge de vermelho aos beijos do sol, do que fechada em botão e coberta de folhas verdes.

Ubirajara tomou nos braços a esposa e pôz o pé na soleira da porta.

Nesse momento soou um clamor; chegaram os guerreiros que vinham chamar o vencedor á presença de Itaquê.

O carbeto dos anciões tinha decidido que o vencedor, antes de receber a esposa, devia declarar quem era; pois fôra recebido como estrangeiro e ninguém na taba o conhecia.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Red Mask of the Rio Grande" by Gardner Fox (in English)

 art by Frank Bolle - Tim Holt vol.2 #20 - Magazine Enterprises, November 1950.

 

 

Good Reading; "Astarte" by E. Hoffmann Price (in English)

Your lips half part in a painted smile,
Hiding your thoughts, revealing but your guile;
Your dark-veiled, dusky, Saracenic eyes
Look down, and look but to despise
The fools who bend to kiss your dainty feet;
Your scornful, mocking lips are poison-sweet
As hasheesh mingled with Shirazi wine. . . .
And yet your lovers gather at your shrine,
Pale simulacrum wreathed in mystery:
Infatuated by your sorcery,
Lured by flame and shadow alternate,
They worship you who neither love nor hate.

Friday's Sung Word: "Vai Para a Casa Depressa" or "Cara ou Coroa" by Noel Rosa and Francisco Mattoso (in Portuguese)

Vai para casa depressa
Vai prevenir teu senhor
Que vou cumprir a promessa
Que fiz, de possuir teu amor.
Não quero ser um covarde
Volta depressa pra teu barracão
Antes que seja bem tarde
Para salvar a tua reputação

Quando a mulher desequilibra
Dois malandros que têm fibra
Só há uma solução:
Para que brigar a toa?
Basta tirar cara ou coroa,
Com um níquel de tostão.

Se não bastar tirar a sorte
E o amor falar mais forte
Sou o dono da questão;
E ao teu antigo dono
Tu vais dar teu abandono
Dando a mim teu coração.

 

You can listen "Vai Para a Casa Depressa" or "Cara ou Coroa" sung by Marília Baptista here.

Thursday's Serial: “The Light of Western Stars” by Zane Grey (in English) - X

XIII. Cowboy Golf

In the whirl of the succeeding days it was a mooted question whether Madeline's guests or her cowboys or herself got the keenest enjoyment out of the flying time. Considering the sameness of the cowboys' ordinary life, she was inclined to think they made the most of the present. Stillwell and Stewart, however, had found the situation trying. The work of the ranch had to go on, and some of it got sadly neglected. Stillwell could not resist the ladies any more than he could resist the fun in the extraordinary goings-on of the cowboys. Stewart alone kept the business of cattle-raising from a serious setback. Early and late he was in the saddle, driving the lazy Mexicans whom he had hired to relieve the cowboys.

One morning in June Madeline was sitting on the porch with her merry friends when Stillwell appeared on the corral path. He had not come to consult Madeline for several days—an omission so unusual as to be remarked.

“Here comes Bill—in trouble,” laughed Florence.

Indeed, he bore some faint resemblance to a thundercloud as he approached the porch; but the greetings he got from Madeline's party, especially from Helen and Dorothy, chased away the blackness from his face and brought the wonderful wrinkling smile.

“Miss Majesty, sure I'm a sad demoralized old cattleman,” he said, presently. “An' I'm in need of a heap of help.”

“What's wrong now?” asked Madeline, with her encouraging smile.

“Wal, it's so amazin' strange what cowboys will do. I jest am about to give up. Why, you might say my cowboys were all on strike for vacations. What do you think of that? We've changed the shifts, shortened hours, let one an' another off duty, hired Greasers, an', in fact, done everythin' that could be thought of. But this vacation idee growed worse. When Stewart set his foot down, then the boys begin to get sick. Never in my born days as a cattleman have I heerd of so many diseases. An' you ought to see how lame an' crippled an' weak many of the boys have got all of a sudden. The idee of a cowboy comin' to me with a sore finger an' askin' to be let off for a day! There's Booly. Now I've knowed a hoss to fall all over him, an' onct he rolled down a canyon. Never bothered him at all. He's got a blister on his heel, a ridin' blister, an' he says it's goin' to blood-poisonin' if he doesn't rest. There's Jim Bell. He's developed what he says is spinal mengalootis, or some such like. There's Frankie Slade. He swore he had scarlet fever because his face burnt so red, I guess, an' when I hollered that scarlet fever was contagious an' he must be put away somewhere, he up an' says he guessed it wasn't that. But he was sure awful sick an' needed to loaf around an' be amused. Why, even Nels doesn't want to work these days. If it wasn't for Stewart, who's had Greasers with the cattle, I don't know what I'd do.”

“Why all this sudden illness and idleness?” asked Madeline.

“Wal, you see, the truth is every blamed cowboy on the range except Stewart thinks it's his bounden duty to entertain the ladies.”

“I think that is just fine!” exclaimed Dorothy Coombs; and she joined in the general laugh.

“Stewart, then, doesn't care to help entertain us?” inquired Helen, in curious interest. “Wal, Miss Helen, Stewart is sure different from the other cowboys,” replied Stillwell. “Yet he used to be like them. There never was a cowboy fuller of the devil than Gene. But he's changed. He's foreman here, an' that must be it. All the responsibility rests on him. He sure has no time for amusin' the ladies.”

“I imagine that is our loss,” said Edith Wayne, in her earnest way. “I admire him.”

“Stillwell, you need not be so distressed with what is only gallantry in the boys, even if it does make a temporary confusion in the work,” said Madeline.

“Miss Majesty, all I said is not the half, nor the quarter, nor nuthin' of what's troublin' me,” answered he, sadly.

“Very well; unburden yourself.”

“Wal, the cowboys, exceptin' Gene, have gone plumb batty, jest plain crazy over this heah game of gol-lof.”

A merry peal of mirth greeted Stillwell's solemn assertion.

“Oh, Stillwell, you are in fun,” replied Madeline.

“I hope to die if I'm not in daid earnest,” declared the cattleman. “It's an amazin' strange fact. Ask Flo. She'll tell you. She knows cowboys, an' how if they ever start on somethin' they ride it as they ride a hoss.”

Florence being appealed to, and evidently feeling all eyes upon her, modestly replied that Stillwell had scarcely misstated the situation.

“Cowboys play like they work or fight,” she added. “They give their whole souls to it. They are great big simple boys.”

“Indeed they are,” said Madeline. “Oh, I'm glad if they like the game of golf. They have so little play.”

“Wal, somethin's got to be did if we're to go on raisin' cattle at Her Majesty's Rancho,” replied Stillwell. He appeared both deliberate and resigned.

Madeline remembered that despite Stillwell's simplicity he was as deep as any of his cowboys, and there was absolutely no gaging him where possibilities of fun were concerned. Madeline fancied that his exaggerated talk about the cowboys' sudden craze for golf was in line with certain other remarkable tales that had lately emanated from him. Some very strange things had occurred of late, and it was impossible to tell whether or not they were accidents, mere coincidents, or deep-laid, skilfully worked-out designs of the fun-loving cowboys. Certainly there had been great fun, and at the expense of her guests, particularly Castleton. So Madeline was at a loss to know what to think about Stillwell's latest elaboration. From mere force of habit she sympathized with him and found difficulty in doubting his apparent sincerity.

“To go back a ways,” went on Stillwell, as Madeline looked up expectantly, “you recollect what pride the boys took in fixin' up that gol-lof course out on the mesa? Wal, they worked on that job, an' though I never seen any other course, I'll gamble yours can't be beat. The boys was sure curious about that game. You recollect also how they all wanted to see you an' your brother play, an' be caddies for you? Wal, whenever you'd quit they'd go to work tryin' to play the game. Monty Price, he was the leadin' spirit. Old as I am, Miss Majesty, an' used as I am to cowboy excentrikities, I nearly dropped daid when I heered that little hobble-footed, burned-up Montana cow-puncher say there wasn't any game too swell for him, an' gol-lof was just his speed. Serious as a preacher, mind you, he was. An' he was always practisin'. When Stewart gave him charge of the course an' the club-house an' all them funny sticks, why, Monty was tickled to death. You see, Monty is sensitive that he ain't much good any more for cowboy work. He was glad to have a job that he didn't feel he was hangin' to by kindness. Wal, he practised the game, an' he read the books in the club-house, an' he got the boys to doin' the same. That wasn't very hard, I reckon. They played early an' late an' in the moonlight. For a while Monty was coach, an' the boys stood it. But pretty soon Frankie Slade got puffed on his game, an' he had to have it out with Monty. Wal, Monty beat him bad. Then one after another the other boys tackled Monty. He beat them all. After that they split up an' begin to play matches, two on a side. For a spell this worked fine. But cowboys can't never be satisfied long onless they win all the time. Monty an' Link Stevens, both cripples, you might say, joined forces an' elected to beat all comers. Wal, they did, an' that's the trouble. Long an' patient the other cowboys tried to beat them two game legs, an' hevn't done it. Mebbe if Monty an' Link was perfectly sound in their legs like the other cowboys there wouldn't hev been such a holler. But no sound cowboys'll ever stand for a disgrace like that. Why, down at the bunks in the evenin's it's some mortifyin' the way Monty an' Link crow over the rest of the outfit. They've taken on superior airs. You couldn't reach up to Monty with a trimmed spruce pole. An' Link—wal, he's just amazin' scornful.

“'It's a swell game, ain't it?' says Link, powerful sarcastic. 'Wal, what's hurtin' you low-down common cowmen? You keep harpin' on Monty's game leg an' on my game leg. If we hed good legs we'd beat you all the wuss. It's brains that wins in gol-lof. Brains an' airstoocratik blood, which of the same you fellers sure hev little.'

“An' then Monty he blows smoke powerful careless an' superior, an' he says:

“'Sure it's a swell game. You cow-headed gents think beef an' brawn ought to hev the call over skill an' gray matter. You'll all hev to back up an' get down. Go out an' learn the game. You don't know a baffy from a Chinee sandwich. All you can do is waggle with a club an' fozzle the ball.'

“Whenever Monty gets to usin' them queer names the boys go round kind of dotty. Monty an' Link hev got the books an' directions of the game, an' they won't let the other boys see them. They show the rules, but that's all. An', of course, every game ends in a row almost before it's started. The boys are all turrible in earnest about this gol-lof. An' I want to say, for the good of ranchin', not to mention a possible fight, that Monty an' Link hev got to be beat. There'll be no peace round this ranch till that's done.”

Madeline's guests were much amused. As for herself, in spite of her scarcely considered doubt, Stillwell's tale of woe occasioned her anxiety. However, she could hardly control her mirth.

“What in the world can I do?”

“Wal, I reckon I couldn't say. I only come to you for advice. It seems that a queer kind of game has locoed my cowboys, an' for the time bein' ranchin' is at a standstill. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but cowboys are as strange as wild cattle. All I'm sure of is that the conceit has got to be taken out of Monty an' Link. Onct, just onct, will square it, an' then we can resoome our work.”

“Stillwell, listen,” said Madeline, brightly. “We'll arrange a match game, a foursome, between Monty and Link and your best picked team. Castleton, who is an expert golfer, will umpire. My sister, and friends, and I will take turns as caddies for your team. That will be fair, considering yours is the weaker. Caddies may coach, and perhaps expert advice is all that is necessary for your team to defeat Monty's.”

“A grand idee,” declared Stillwell, with instant decision. “When can we have this match game?”

“Why, to-day—this afternoon. We'll all ride out to the links.”

“Wal, I reckon I'll be some indebted to you, Miss Majesty, an' all your guests,” replied Stillwell, warmly. He rose with sombrero in hand, and a twinkle in his eye that again prompted Madeline to wonder. “An' now I'll be goin' to fix up for the game of cowboy gol-lof. Adios.”

The idea was as enthusiastically received by Madeline's guests as it had been by Stillwell. They were highly amused and speculative to the point of taking sides and making wagers on their choice. Moreover, this situation so frankly revealed by Stillwell had completed their deep mystification. They were now absolutely nonplussed by the singular character of American cowboys. Madeline was pleased to note how seriously they had taken the old cattleman's story. She had a little throb of wild expectancy that made her both fear and delight in the afternoon's prospect.

The June days had set in warm; in fact, hot during the noon hours: and this had inculcated in her insatiable visitors a tendency to profit by the experience of those used to the Southwest. They indulged in the restful siesta during the heated term of the day.

Madeline was awakened by Majesty's well-known whistle and pounding on the gravel. Then she heard the other horses. When she went out she found her party assembled in gala golf attire, and with spirits to match their costumes. Castleton, especially, appeared resplendent in a golf coat that beggared description. Madeline had faint misgivings when she reflected on what Monty and Nels and Nick might do under the influence of that blazing garment.

“Oh. Majesty,” cried Helen, as Madeline went up to her horse, “don't make him kneel! Try that flying mount. We all want to see it. It's so stunning.”

“But that way, too, I must have him kneel,” said Madeline, “or I can't reach the stirrup. He's so tremendously high.”

Madeline had to yield to the laughing insistence of her friends, and after all of them except Florence were up she made Majesty go down on one knee. Then she stood on his left side, facing back, and took a good firm grip on the bridle and pommel and his mane. After she had slipped the toe of her boot firmly into the stirrup she called to Majesty. He jumped and swung her up into the saddle.

“Now just to see how it ought to be done watch Florence,” said Madeline.

The Western girl was at her best in riding-habit and with her horse. It was beautiful to see the ease and grace with which she accomplished the cowboys' flying mount. Then she led the party down the slope and across the flat to climb the mesa.

Madeline never saw a group of her cowboys without looking them over, almost unconsciously, for her foreman, Gene Stewart. This afternoon, as usual, he was not present. However, she now had a sense—of which she was wholly conscious—that she was both disappointed and irritated. He had really not been attentive to her guests, and he, of all her cowboys, was the one of whom they wanted most to see something. Helen, particularly, had asked to have him attend the match. But Stewart was with the cattle. Madeline thought of his faithfulness, and was ashamed of her momentary lapse into that old imperious habit of desiring things irrespective of reason.

Stewart, however, immediately slipped out of her mind as she surveyed the group of cowboys on the links. By actual count there were sixteen, not including Stillwell. And the same number of splendid horses, all shiny and clean, grazed on the rim in the care of Mexican lads. The cowboys were on dress-parade, looking very different in Madeline's eyes, at least, from the way cowboys usually appeared. But they were real and natural to her guests; and they were so picturesque that they might have been stage cowboys instead of real ones. Sombreros with silver buckles and horsehair bands were in evidence; and bright silk scarfs, embroidered vests, fringed and ornamented chaps, huge swinging guns, and clinking silver spurs lent a festive appearance.

Madeline and her party were at once eagerly surrounded by the cowboys, and she found it difficult to repress a smile. If these cowboys were still remarkable to her, what must they be to her guests?

“Wal, you-all raced over, I seen,” said Stillwell, taking Madeline's bridle. “Get down—get down. We're sure amazin' glad an' proud. An', Miss Majesty, I'm offerin' to beg pawdin for the way the boys are packin' guns. Mebbe it ain't polite. But it's Stewart's orders.”

“Stewart's orders!” echoed Madeline. Her friends were suddenly silent.

“I reckon he won't take no chances on the boys bein' surprised sudden by raiders. An' there's raiders operatin' in from the Guadalupes. That's all. Nothin' to worry over. I was just explainin'.”

Madeline, with several of her party, expressed relief, but Helen showed excitement and then disappointment.

“Oh, I want something to happen!” she cried.

Sixteen pairs of keen cowboy eyes fastened intently upon her pretty, petulant face; and Madeline divined, if Helen did not, that the desired consummation was not far off.

“So do I,” said Dot Coombs. “It would be perfectly lovely to have a real adventure.”

The gaze of the sixteen cowboys shifted and sought the demure face of this other discontented girl. Madeline laughed, and Stillwell wore his strange, moving smile.

“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won't have to go home unhappy,” he said. “Why, as boss of this heah outfit I'd feel myself disgraced forever if you didn't have your wish. Just wait. An' now, ladies, the matter on hand may not be amusin' or excitin' to you; but to this heah cowboy outfit it's powerful important. An' all the help you can give us will sure be thankfully received. Take a look across the links. Do you-all see them two apologies for human bein's prancin' like a couple of hobbled broncs? Wal, you're gazin' at Monty Price an' Link Stevens, who have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their old bunkies. They're practisin' for the toornament. They don't want my boys to see how they handle them crooked clubs.”

“Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline.

Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, and showed something of confusion and perplexity.

“I've sixteen boys, an' they all want to play,” he replied. “Pickin' the team ain't goin' to be an easy job. Mebbe it won't be healthy, either. There's Nels and Nick. They just stated cheerful-like that if they didn't play we won't have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an' Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of them crooked clubs.”

“I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee and choose the two who drive the farthest,” said Madeline.

Stillwell's perplexed face lighted up.

“Wal, that's a plumb good idee. The boys'll stand for that.”

Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys round the ladies.

“Grap a rope—I mean a club—all you cow-punchers, an' march over hyar an' take a swipe at this little white bean.”

The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was considerable difficulty over the choice of clubs and who should try first. The latter question had to be adjusted by lot. However, after Frankie Slade made several ineffectual attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last to send it only a few yards, the other players were not so eager to follow. Stillwell had to push Booly forward, and Booly executed a most miserable shot and retired to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme difficulty of making a good drive.

“Wal, Nick, it's your turn,” said Stillwell.

“Bill, I ain't so all-fired particular about playin',” replied Nick.

“Why? You was roarin' about it a little while ago. Afraid to show how bad you'll play?”

“Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cow-punchers,” answered Nick, with spirit. “I'm appreciatin' how bad they play, an' I'm not mean enough to show them up.”

“Wal, you've got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I know you never seen a gol-lof stick in your life. What's more, I'll bet you can't hit that little ball square—not in a dozen cracks at it.”

“Bill, I'm also too much of a gent to take your money. But you know I'm from Missouri. Gimme a club.”

Nick's angry confidence seemed to evaporate as one after another he took up and handled the clubs. It was plain that he had never before wielded one. But, also, it was plain that he was not the kind of a man to give in. Finally he selected a driver, looked doubtfully at the small knob, and then stepped into position on the teeing-ground.

Nick Steele stood six feet four inches in height. He had the rider's wiry slenderness, yet he was broad of shoulder. His arms were long. Manifestly he was an exceedingly powerful man. He swung the driver aloft and whirled it down with a tremendous swing. Crack! The white ball disappeared, and from where it had been rose a tiny cloud of dust.

Madeline's quick sight caught the ball as it lined somewhat to the right. It was shooting low and level with the speed of a bullet. It went up and up in swift, beautiful flight, then lost its speed and began to sail, to curve, to drop; and it fell out of sight beyond the rim of the mesa. Madeline had never seen a drive that approached this one. It was magnificent, beyond belief except for actual evidence of her own eyes.

The yelling of the cowboys probably brought Nick Steele out of the astounding spell with which he beheld his shot. Then Nick, suddenly alive to the situation, recovered from his trance and, resting nonchalantly upon his club, he surveyed Stillwell and the boys. After their first surprised outburst they were dumb.

“You-all seen thet?” Nick grandly waved his hand. “Thaught I was joshin', didn't you? Why, I used to go to St. Louis an' Kansas City to play this here game. There was some talk of the golf clubs takin' me down East to play the champions. But I never cared fer the game. Too easy fer me! Them fellers back in Missouri were a lot of cheap dubs, anyhow, always kickin' because whenever I hit a ball hard I always lost it. Why, I hed to hit sort of left-handed to let 'em stay in my class. Now you-all can go ahead an' play Monty an' Link. I could beat 'em both, playin' with one hand, if I wanted to. But I ain't interested. I jest hit thet ball off the mesa to show you. I sure wouldn't be seen playin' on your team.”

With that Nick sauntered away toward the horses. Stillwell appeared crushed. And not a scornful word was hurled after Nick, which fact proved the nature of his victory. Then Nels strode into the limelight. As far as it was possible for this iron-faced cowboy to be so, he was bland and suave. He remarked to Stillwell and the other cowboys that sometimes it was painful for them to judge of the gifts of superior cowboys such as belonged to Nick and himself. He picked up the club Nick had used and called for a new ball. Stillwell carefully built up a little mound of sand and, placing the ball upon it, squared away to watch. He looked grim and expectant.

Nels was not so large a man as Nick, and did not look so formidable as he waved his club at the gaping cowboys. Still he was lithe, tough, strong. Briskly, with a debonair manner, he stepped up and then delivered a mighty swing at the ball. He missed. The power and momentum of his swing flung him off his feet, and he actually turned upside down and spun round on his head. The cowboys howled. Stillwell's stentorian laugh rolled across the mesa. Madeline and her guests found it impossible to restrain their mirth. And when Nels got up he cast a reproachful glance at Madeline. His feelings were hurt.

His second attempt, not by any means so violent, resulted in as clean a miss as the first, and brought jeers from the cowboys. Nels's red face flamed redder. Angrily he swung again. The mound of sand spread over the teeing-ground and the exasperating little ball rolled a few inches. This time he had to build up the sand mound and replace the ball himself. Stillwell stood scornfully by, and the boys addressed remarks to Nels.

“Take off them blinders,” said one.

“Nels, your eyes are shore bad,” said another.

“You don't hit where you look.”

“Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp.”

“Why, you dog-goned old fule, you cain't hit thet bawl.”

Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure. Then carefully he gathered himself together, gaged distance, balanced the club, swung cautiously. And the head of the club made a beautiful curve round the ball.

“Shore it's jest thet crooked club,” he declared.

He changed clubs and made another signal failure. Rage suddenly possessing him, he began to swing wildly. Always, it appeared, the illusive little ball was not where he aimed. Stillwell hunched his huge bulk, leaned hands on knees, and roared his riotous mirth. The cowboys leaped up and down in glee.

“You cain't hit thet bawl,” sang out one of the noisiest. A few more whirling, desperate lunges on the part of Nels, all as futile as if the ball had been thin air, finally brought to the dogged cowboy a realization that golf was beyond him.

Stillwell bawled: “Oh, haw, haw, haw! Nels, you're—too old—eyes no good!”

Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened up with the red leaving his face, then the real pride and fire of the man showed. Deliberately he stepped off ten paces and turned toward the little mound upon which rested the ball. His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand like a claw.

“Aw, Nels, this is fun!” yelled Stillwell.

But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and the report came with the action. Chips flew from the golf-ball as it tumbled from the mound. Nels had hit it without raising the dust. Then he dropped the gun back in its sheath and faced the cowboys.

“Mebbe my eyes ain't so orful bad,” he said, coolly, and started to walk off.

“But look ah-heah, Nels,” yelled Stillwell, “we come out to play gol-lof! We can't let you knock the ball around with your gun. What'd you want to get mad for? It's only fun. Now you an' Nick hang round heah an' be sociable. We ain't depreciatin' your company none, nor your usefulness on occasions. An' if you just hain't got inborn politeness sufficient to do the gallant before the ladies, why, remember Stewart's orders.”

“Stewart's orders?” queried Nels, coming to a sudden halt.

“That's what I said,” replied Stillwell, with asperity. “His orders. Are you forgettin' orders? Wal, you're a fine cowboy. You an' Nick an' Monty, 'specially, are to obey orders.”

Nels took off his sombrero and scratched his head. “Bill, I reckon I'm some forgetful. But I was mad. I'd 'a' remembered pretty soon, an' mebbe my manners.”

“Sure you would,” replied Stillwell. “Wal, now, we don't seem to be proceedin' much with my gol-lof team. Next ambitious player step up.”

In Ambrose, who showed some skill in driving, Stillwell found one of his team. The succeeding players, however, were so poor and so evenly matched that the earnest Stillwell was in despair. He lost his temper just as speedily as Nels had. Finally Ed Linton's wife appeared riding up with Ambrose's wife, and perhaps this helped, for Ed suddenly disclosed ability that made Stillwell single him out.

“Let me coach you a little,” said Bill.

“Sure, if you like,” replied Ed. “But I know more about this game than you do.”

“Wal, then, let's see you hit a ball straight. Seems to me you got good all-fired quick. It's amazin' strange.” ere Bill looked around to discover the two young wives modestly casting eyes of admiration upon their husbands. “Haw, haw! It ain't so darned strange. Mebbe that'll help some. Now, Ed, stand up and don't sling your club as if you was ropin' a steer. Come round easy-like an' hit straight.”

Ed made several attempts which, although better than those of his predecessors, were rather discouraging to the exacting coach. Presently, after a particularly atrocious shot, Stillwell strode in distress here and there, and finally stopped a dozen paces or more in front of the teeing-ground. Ed, who for a cowboy was somewhat phlegmatic, calmly made ready for another attempt.

“Fore!” he called.

Stillwell stared.

“Fore!” yelled Ed.

“Why're you hollerin' that way at me?” demanded Bill.

“I mean for you to lope off the horizon. Get back from in front.”

“Oh, that was one of them durned crazy words Monty is always hollerin'. Wal, I reckon I'm safe enough hyar. You couldn't hit me in a million years.”

“Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed.

“Didn't I say you couldn't hit me? What am I coachin' you for? It's because you hit crooked, ain't it? Wal, go ahaid an' break your back.”

Ed Linton was a short, heavy man, and his stocky build gave evidence of considerable strength. His former strokes had not been made at the expense of exertion, but now he got ready for a supreme effort. A sudden silence clamped down upon the exuberant cowboys. It was one of those fateful moments when the air was charged with disaster. As Ed swung the club it fairly whistled.

Crack! Instantly came a thump. But no one saw the ball until it dropped from Stillwell's shrinking body. His big hands went spasmodically to the place that hurt, and a terrible groan rumbled from him.

Then the cowboys broke into a frenzy of mirth that seemed to find adequate expression only in dancing and rolling accompaniment to their howls. Stillwell recovered his dignity as soon as he caught his breath, and he advanced with a rueful face.

“Wal, boys, it's on Bill,” he said. “I'm a livin' proof of the pig-headedness of mankind. Ed, you win. You're captain of the team. You hit straight, an' if I hadn't been obstructin' the general atmosphere that ball would sure have gone clear to the Chiricahuas.”

Then making a megaphone of his huge hands, he yelled a loud blast of defiance at Monty and Link.

“Hey, you swell gol-lofers! We're waitin'. Come on if you ain't scared.”

Instantly Monty and Link quit practising, and like two emperors came stalking across the links.

“Guess my bluff didn't work much,” said Stillwell. Then he turned to Madeline and her friends. “Sure I hope, Miss Majesty, that you-all won't weaken an' go over to the enemy. Monty is some eloquent, an', besides, he has a way of gettin' people to agree with him. He'll be plumb wild when he heahs what he an' Link are up against. But it's a square deal, because he wouldn't help us or lend the book that shows how to play. An', besides, it's policy for us to beat him. Now, if you'll elect who's to be caddies an' umpire I'll be powerful obliged.”

Madeline's friends were hugely amused over the prospective match; but, except for Dorothy and Castleton, they disclaimed any ambition for active participation. Accordingly, Madeline appointed Castleton to judge the play, Dorothy to act as caddie for Ed Linton, and she herself to be caddie for Ambrose. While Stillwell beamingly announced this momentous news to his team and supporters Monty and Link were striding up.

Both were diminutive in size, bow-legged, lame in one foot, and altogether unprepossessing. Link was young, and Monty's years, more than twice Link's, had left their mark. But it would have been impossible to tell Monty's age. As Stillwell said, Monty was burned to the color and hardness of a cinder. He never minded the heat, and always wore heavy sheepskin chaps with the wool outside. This made him look broader than he was long. Link, partial to leather, had, since he became Madeline's chauffeur, taken to leather altogether. He carried no weapon, but Monty wore a huge gun-sheath and gun. Link smoked a cigarette and looked coolly impudent. Monty was dark-faced, swaggering, for all the world like a barbarian chief.

“That Monty makes my flesh creep,” said Helen, low-voiced. “Really, Mr. Stillwell, is he so bad—desperate—as I've heard? Did he ever kill anybody?”

“Sure. 'Most as many as Nels,” replied Stillwell, cheerfully.

“Oh! And is that nice Mr. Nels a desperado, too? I wouldn't have thought so. He's so kind and old-fashioned and soft-voiced.”

“Nels is sure an example of the dooplicity of men, Miss Helen. Don't you listen to his soft voice. He's really as bad as a side-winder rattlesnake.”

At this juncture Monty and Link reached the teeing-ground, and Stillwell went out to meet them. The other cowboys pressed forward to surround the trio. Madeline heard Stillwell's voice, and evidently he was explaining that his team was to have skilled advice during the play. Suddenly there came from the center of the group a loud, angry roar that broke off as suddenly. Then followed excited voices all mingled together. Presently Monty appeared, breaking away from restraining hands, and he strode toward Madeline.

Monty Price was a type of cowboy who had never been known to speak to a woman unless he was first addressed, and then he answered in blunt, awkward shyness. Upon this great occasion, however, it appeared that he meant to protest or plead with Madeline, for he showed stress of emotion. Madeline had never gotten acquainted with Monty. She was a little in awe, if not in fear, of him, and now she found it imperative for her to keep in mind that more than any other of the wild fellows on her ranch this one should be dealt with as if he were a big boy.

Monty removed his sombrero—something he had never done before—and the single instant when it was off was long enough to show his head entirely bald. This was one of the hall-marks of that terrible Montana prairie fire through which he had fought to save the life of a child. Madeline did not forget it, and all at once she wanted to take Monty's side. Remembering Stillwell's wisdom, however, she forebore yielding to sentiment, and called upon her wits.

“Miss—Miss Hammond,” began Monty, stammering, “I'm extendin' admirin' greetin's to you an' your friends. Link an' me are right down proud to play the match game with you watchin'. But Bill says you're goin' to caddie for his team an' coach 'em on the fine points. An' I want to ask, all respectful, if thet's fair an' square?”

“Monty, that is for you to say,” replied Madeline. “It was my suggestion. But if you object in the least, of course we shall withdraw. It seems fair to me, because you have learned the game; you are expert, and I understand the other boys have no chance with you. Then you have coached Link. I think it would be sportsmanlike of you to accept the handicap.”

“Aw, a handicap! Thet was what Bill was drivin' at. Why didn't he say so? Every time Bill comes to a word thet's pie to us old golfers he jest stumbles. Miss Majesty, you've made it all clear as print. An' I may say with becomin' modesty thet you wasn't mistaken none about me bein' sportsmanlike. Me an' Link was born thet way. An' we accept the handicap. Lackin' thet handicap, I reckon Link an' me would have no ambish to play our most be-ootiful game. An' thankin' you, Miss Majesty, an' all your friends, I want to add thet if Bill's outfit couldn't beat us before, they've got a swell chanct now, with you ladies a-watchin' me an' Link.”

Monty had seemed to expand with pride as he delivered this speech, and at the end he bowed low and turned away. He joined the group round Stillwell. Once more there was animated discussion and argument and expostulation. One of the cowboys came for Castleton and led him away to exploit upon ground rules.

It seemed to Madeline that the game never would begin. She strolled on the rim of the mesa, arm in arm with Edith Wayne, and while Edith talked she looked out over the gray valley leading to the rugged black mountains and the vast red wastes. In the foreground on the gray slope she saw cattle in movement and cowboys riding to and fro. She thought of Stewart. Then Boyd Harvey came for them, saying all details had been arranged. Stillwell met them half-way, and this cool, dry, old cattleman, whose face and manner scarcely changed at the announcement of a cattle-raid, now showed extreme agitation.

“Wal, Miss Majesty, we've gone an' made a foozle right at the start,” he said, dejectedly.

“A foozle? But the game has not yet begun,” replied Madeline.

“A bad start, I mean. It's amazin' bad, an' we're licked already.”

“What in the world is wrong?”

She wanted to laugh, but Stillwell's distress restrained her.

“Wal, it's this way. That darn Monty is as cute an' slick as a fox. After he got done declaimin' about the handicap he an' Link was so happy to take, he got Castleton over hyar an' drove us all dotty with his crazy gol-lof names. Then he borrowed Castleton's gol-lof coat. I reckon borrowed is some kind word. He just about took that blazin' coat off the Englishman. Though I ain't sayin' but that Casleton was agreeable when he tumbled to Monty's meanin'. Which was nothin' more 'n to break Ambrose's heart. That coat dazzles Ambrose. You know how vain Ambrose is. Why, he'd die to get to wear that Englishman's gol-lof coat. An' Monty forestalled him. It's plumb pitiful to see the look in Ambrose's eyes. He won't be able to play much. Then what do you think? Monty fixed Ed Linton, all right. Usually Ed is easy-goin' an' cool. But now he's on the rampage. Wal, mebbe it's news to you to learn that Ed's wife is powerful, turrible jealous of him. Ed was somethin' of a devil with the wimmen. Monty goes over an' tells Beulah—that's Ed's wife—that Ed is goin' to have for caddie the lovely Miss Dorothy with the goo-goo eyes. I reckon this was some disrespectful, but with all doo respect to Miss Dorothy she has got a pair of unbridled eyes. Mebbe it's just natural for her to look at a feller like that. Oh, it's all right; I'm not sayin' any-thin'! I know it's all proper an' regular for girls back East to use their eyes. But out hyar it's bound to result disastrous. All the boys talk about among themselves is Miss Dot's eyes, an' all they brag about is which feller is the luckiest. Anyway, sure Ed's wife knows it. An' Monty up an' told her that it was fine for her to come out an' see how swell Ed was prancin' round under the light of Miss Dot's brown eyes. Beulah calls over Ed, figgertively speakin', ropes him for a minnit. Ed comes back huggin' a grouch as big as a hill. Oh, it was funny! He was goin' to punch Monty's haid off. An' Monty stands there an' laughs. Says Monty, sarcastic as alkali water: 'Ed, we-all knowed you was a heap married man, but you're some locoed to give yourself away.' That settled Ed. He's some touchy about the way Beulah henpecks him. He lost his spirit. An' now he couldn't play marbles, let alone gol-lof. Nope, Monty was too smart. An' I reckon he was right about brains bein' what wins.”

The game began. At first Madeline and Dorothy essayed to direct the endeavors of their respective players. But all they said and did only made their team play the worse. At the third hole they were far behind and hopelessly bewildered. What with Monty's borrowed coat, with its dazzling effect upon Ambrose, and Link's oft-repeated allusion to Ed's matrimonial state, and Stillwell's vociferated disgust, and the clamoring good intention and pursuit of the cowboy supporters, and the embarrassing presence of the ladies, Ambrose and Ed wore through all manner of strange play until it became ridiculous.

“Hey, Link,” came Monty's voice booming over the links, “our esteemed rivals are playin' shinny.”

Madeline and Dorothy gave up, presently, when the game became a rout, and they sat down with their followers to watch the fun. Whether by hook or crook, Ed and Ambrose forged ahead to come close upon Monty and Link. Castleton disappeared in a mass of gesticulating, shouting cowboys. When that compact mass disintegrated Castleton came forth rather hurriedly, it appeared, to stalk back toward his hostess and friends.

“Look!” exclaimed Helen, in delight. “Castleton is actually excited. Whatever did they do to him? Oh, this is immense!”

Castleton was excited, indeed, and also somewhat disheveled.

“By Jove! that was a rum go,” he said, as he came up. “Never saw such blooming golf! I resigned my office as umpire.”

Only upon considerable pressure did he reveal the reason. “It was like this, don't you know. They were all together over there, watching each other. Monty Price's ball dropped into a hazard, and he moved it to improve the lie. By Jove! they've all been doing that. But over there the game was waxing hot. Stillwell and his cowboys saw Monty move the ball, and there was a row. They appealed to me. I corrected the play, showed the rules. Monty agreed he was in the wrong. However, when it came to moving his ball back to its former lie in the hazard there was more blooming trouble. Monty placed the ball to suit him, and then he transfixed me with an evil eye.

“'Dook,' he said. I wish the bloody cowboy would not call me that. 'Dook, mebbe this game ain't as important as international politics or some other things relatin', but there's some health an' peace dependin' on it. Savvy? For some space our opponents have been dead to honor an' sportsmanlike conduct. I calculate the game depends on my next drive. I'm placin' my ball as near to where it was as human eyesight could. You seen where it was same as I seen it. You're the umpire, an', Dook, I take you as a honorable man. Moreover, never in my born days has my word been doubted without sorrow. So I'm askin' you, wasn't my ball layin' just about here?'

“The bloody little desperado smiled cheerfully, and he dropped his right hand down to the butt of his gun. By Jove, he did! Then I had to tell a blooming lie!”

Castleton even caught the tone of Monty's voice, but it was plain that he had not the least conception that Monty had been fooling. Madeline and her friends divined it, however; and, there being no need of reserve, they let loose the fountains of mirth.

Excellent Readings: Sonnet CI by William Shakespeare (in English)

O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixed'?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
   Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
   To make him seem, long hence, as he shows now.