The Devotion of Enriquez Page #6

"The Devotion of Enriquez" is a short story by Bret Harte, set in the rugged landscapes of California's Gold Rush era. The narrative centers on the character Enriquez, a loyal and devoted Mexican servant who navigates themes of love, sacrifice, and cultural tensions. Through his unwavering dedication to a wealthy American family, the story explores the complexities of loyalty across social and racial divides, ultimately revealing profound insights into human relationships and the moral dilemmas faced by individuals in a rapidly changing society. Harte's vivid storytelling and rich characterizations offer a poignant reflection on honor and devotion in an era marked by both opportunity and conflict.

• Short story

								

to a front seat. I recognized the geologist with some surprise, and the
lady he was leading with still greater astonishment. For it was Miss
Mannersley, in her precise, well-fitting walking-costume--a monotone of
sober color among the parti-colored audience.

However, I was perhaps less surprised than the audience, for I was not
only becoming as accustomed to the young girl's vagaries as I had been
to Enriquez' extravagance, but I was also satisfied that her uncle
might have given her permission to come, as a recognition of the Sunday
concession of the management, as well as to conciliate his supposed
Catholic friends. I watched her sitting there until the first bull
had entered, and, after a rather brief play with the picadors and
banderilleros, was dispatched. At the moment when the matador approached
the bull with his lethal weapon I was not sorry for an excuse to glance
at Miss Mannersley. Her hands were in her lap, her head slightly bent
forward over her knees. I fancied that she, too, had dropped her
eyes before the brutal situation; to my horror, I saw that she had a
drawing-book in her hand and was actually sketching it. I turned my eyes
in preference to the dying bull.

The second animal led out for this ingenious slaughter was, however,
more sullen, uncertain, and discomposing to his butchers. He accepted
the irony of a trial with gloomy, suspicious eyes, and he declined
the challenge of whirling and insulting picadors. He bristled with
banderillas like a hedgehog, but remained with his haunches backed
against the barrier, at times almost hidden in the fine dust raised by
the monotonous stroke of his sullenly pawing hoof--his one dull, heavy
protest. A vague uneasiness had infected his adversaries; the picadors
held aloof, the banderilleros skirmished at a safe distance. The
audience resented only the indecision of the bull. Galling epithets
were flung at him, followed by cries of "ESPADA!" and, curving his elbow
under his short cloak, the matador, with his flashing blade in hand,
advanced and--stopped. The bull remained motionless.

For at that moment a heavier gust of wind than usual swept down upon
the arena, lifted a suffocating cloud of dust, and whirled it around the
tiers of benches and the balcony, and for a moment seemed to stop the
performance. I heard an exclamation from the geologist, who had risen to
his feet. I fancied I heard even a faint cry from Miss Mannersley; but
the next moment, as the dust was slowly settling, we saw a sheet
of paper in the air, that had been caught up in this brief cyclone,
dropping, dipping from side to side on uncertain wings, until it slowly
descended in the very middle of the arena. It was a leaf from Miss
Mannersley's sketchbook, the one on which she had been sketching.

In the pause that followed it seemed to be the one object that at last
excited the bull's growing but tardy ire. He glanced at it with murky,
distended eyes; he snorted at it with vague yet troubled fury. Whether
he detected his own presentment in Miss Mannersley's sketch, or
whether he recognized it as an unknown and unfamiliar treachery in his
surroundings, I could not conjecture; for the next moment the matador,
taking advantage of the bull's concentration, with a complacent leer at
the audience, advanced toward the paper. But at that instant a young
man cleared the barrier into the arena with a single bound, shoved the
matador to one side, caught up the paper, turned toward the balcony
and Miss Mannersley with a gesture of apology, dropped gaily before the
bull, knelt down before him with an exaggerated humility, and held up
the drawing as if for his inspection. A roar of applause broke from the
audience, a cry of warning and exasperation from the attendants, as the
goaded bull suddenly charged the stranger. But he sprang to one side
with great dexterity, made a courteous gesture to the matador as if
passing the bull over to him, and still holding the paper in his hand,
re-leaped the barrier, and rejoined the audience in safety. I did not
wait to see the deadly, dominant thrust with which the matador received
the charging bull; my eyes were following the figure now bounding up the
steps to the balcony, where with an exaggerated salutation he laid the
drawing in Miss Mannersley's lap and vanished. There was no mistaking
that thin lithe form, the narrow black mustache, and gravely dancing
eyes. The audacity of conception, the extravagance of execution, the
quaint irony of the sequel, could belong to no one but Enriquez.

I hurried up to her as the six yoked mules dragged the carcass of the
bull away. She was placidly putting up her book, the unmoved focus of
a hundred eager and curious eyes. She smiled slightly as she saw me. "I
was just telling Mr. Briggs what an extraordinary creature it was, and
how you knew him. He must have had great experience to do that sort of
thing so cleverly and safely. Does he do it often? Of course, not just
that. But does he pick up cigars and things that I see they throw to the
matador? Does he belong to the management? Mr. Briggs thinks the whole
thing was a feint to distract the bull," she added, with a wicked glance
at the geologist, who, I fancied, looked disturbed.

"I am afraid," I said dryly, "that his act was as unpremeditated and
genuine as it was unusual."

"Why afraid?"

It was a matter-of-fact question, but I instantly saw my mistake. What
right had I to assume that Enriquez' attentions were any more genuine
than her own easy indifference; and if I suspected that they were, was
it fair in me to give my friend away to this heartless coquette?
"You are not very gallant," she said, with a slight laugh, as I was
hesitating, and turned away with her escort before I could frame a
reply. But at least Enriquez was now accessible, and I should gain some
information from him. I knew where to find him, unless he were still
lounging about the building, intent upon more extravagance; but I
waited until I saw Miss Mannersley and Briggs depart without further
interruption.

The hacienda of Ramon Saltillo, Enriquez' cousin, was on the outskirts
of the village. When I arrived there I found Enriquez' pinto mustang
steaming in the corral, and although I was momentarily delayed by the
servants at the gateway, I was surprised to find Enriquez himself lying
languidly on his back in a hammock in the patio. His arms were hanging
down listlessly on each side as if in the greatest prostration, yet I
could not resist the impression that the rascal had only just got into
the hammock when he heard of my arrival.

"You have arrived, friend Pancho, in time," he said, in accents of
exaggerated weakness. "I am absolutely exhaust. I am bursted, caved in,
kerflummoxed. I have behold you, my friend, at the barrier. I speak not,
I make no sign at the first, because I was on fire; I speak not at the
feenish--for I am exhaust."

"I see; the bull made it lively for you."
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