A Daughter of the Dons by William MacLeod Raine
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William MacLeod Raine >> A Daughter of the Dons
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14 [Illustration: Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the
current. Frontispiece. Page 30]
A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS
_A Story of New Mexico Today_
BY
WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE
AUTHOR OF
WYOMING, BUCKY O'CONNOR, MAVERICKS, A TEXAS RANGER, BRAND BLOTTERS,
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
D.C. HUTCHISON
[Illustration: Colophon.]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_A Daughter of the Dons._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF 5
II. THE TWO GRANTS 15
III. FISHERMAN'S LUCK 27
IV. AT THE YUSTE HACIENDA 42
V. "AN OPTIMISTIC GUY" 61
VI. JUANITA 76
VII. TWO MESSAGES 88
VIII. TAMING AN OUTLAW 101
IX. OF DON MANUEL AND MOONLIGHT 111
X. MR. AINSA DELIVERS A MESSAGE 123
XI. THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY AND THE TWENTIETH 137
XII. "I BELIEVE YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH HER TOO" 149
XIII. AMBUSHED 159
XIV. MANUEL TO THE RESCUE 173
XV. ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD 193
XVI. VALENCIA MAKES A PROMISE 201
XVII. AN OBSTINATE MAN 213
XVIII. MANUEL INTERFERES 230
XIX. VALENCIA ACCEPTS A RING 240
XX. DICK LIGHTS A CIGARETTE 246
XXI. WHEN THE WIRES WERE CUT 259
XXII. THE ATTACK 269
XXIII. THE TIN BOX 287
XXIV. DICK GORDON APOLOGIZES 298
XXV. THE PRINCE CONSORT 307
A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS
CHAPTER I
DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF
For hours Manuel Pesquiera had been rolling up the roof of the continent
in an observation-car of the "Short Line."
His train had wound in and out through a maze of bewildering scenery,
and was at last dipping down into the basin of the famous gold camp.
The alert black eyes of the young New Mexican wandered discontentedly
over the raw ugliness of the camp. Towns straggled here and there
untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky
"strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a network
of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the open tunnel
mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray Titan dump
beards.
The magic that had wonderfully brought all these manifold activities
into being had its talisman in the word "Gold"; but, since Pesquiera had
come neither as a prospector nor investor, he heard with only
half-concealed impatience the easy gossip of his fellow travelers about
the famous ore producers of the district.
It was not until his inattentive ears caught the name of Dick Gordon
that he found interest in the conversation.
"Pardon, sir! Are you acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon?" he asked, a
touch of the gentle Spanish accent in his voice.
The man to whom he had spoken, a grizzled, weather-beaten little fellow
in a corduroy suit and white, broad-brimmed felt hat, turned his steady
blue eyes on his questioner a moment before he answered:
"I ought to know him, seeing as I'm his partner."
"Then you can tell me where I may find him?"
"Yes, sir, I can do that. See that streak of red there on the hill--the
one above the big dump. That's the shafthouse of the Last Dollar. Drop
down it about nine hundred feet and strike an airline west by north for
about a quarter of a mile, and you'd be right close to him. He's down
there, tackling a mighty uncertain proposition. The shaft and the
workings of the Last Dollar are full of water. He's running a crosscut
from an upraise in the Radley drift, so as to tap the west tunnel of the
Last Dollar."
"It is dangerous, you inform me?"
"Dangerous ain't the word. It's suicide, the way I look at it. See here,
my friend. His drill goes through and lets loose about 'steen million
gallons of water. How is he going to get in out of the rain about that
time?"
The New Mexican showed a double row of pearly teeth in a bland smile.
"Pardon, sir. If you would explain a leetle more fully I would then
comprehend."
"Sure. Here's the way it is. Dick and his three men are plugging away at
the breast of the drift with air-drills. Every day he gits closeter to
that lake dammed up there. Right now there can't be more'n a few feet of
granite 'twixt him and it. He don't know how many any more'n a rabbit,
because he's going by old maps that ain't any too reliable. The question
is whether the wall will hold till he dynamites it through, or whether
the weight of water will crumple up that granite and come pouring out in
a flood."
"Your friend, then, is in peril, is it not so?"
"You've said it. He's shooting dice with death. That's the way I size it
up. If the wall holds till it's blown up, Dick has got to get back along
the crosscut, lower himself down the upraise, and travel nearly a mile
through tunnelings before he reaches a shaft to git out. That don't
leave them any too much time at the best. But if the water breaks
through on them, it's Heaven help Dick, and good-by to this world."
"Then Mr. Gordon is what you call brave?"
"He's the gamest man that ever walked into this camp. There ain't an
inch of him that ain't clear grit through and through. Get into a tight
place, and he's your one best bet to tie to."
"Mr. Gordon is fortunate in his friend," bowed the New Mexican politely.
The little miner looked at him with shining eyes.
"Nothing like that. Me, I figure the luck's all on my side. Onct you
meet Dick you'll see why we boost for him. Hello, here's where we get
off at. If you're looking for Dick, stranger, you better follow me. I'm
going right up to the mine. Dick had ought to be coming up from below
any minute now."
Pesquiera checked his suitcase at the depot newsstand and walked up a
steep hill trail with his guide. The miner asked no questions of the New
Mexican as to his business with Gordon, nor did the latter volunteer any
information. They discussed instead the output of the camp for the
preceding year, comparing it with that of the other famous gold
districts of the world.
Just as they entered the shafthouse the cage shot to the surface. From
it stepped two men.
Several miners crowded toward them with eager greetings, but they moved
aside at sight of Pesquiera's companion, who made straight for those
from below.
"What's new, Tregarth?" he asked of one of them, a huge Cornishman.
"The drill have brook into the Last Dollar tunnel. The watter of un do
be leaking through, Measter Davis. The boss sent us oop while Tom and
him stayed to put the charges in the drill holes to blow oot the wall.
He wouldna coom and let me stay."
Davis thought a moment.
"I'll go down the shaft and wait at the foot of it. There'll be
something doing soon. Keep your eye peeled for signals, Smith, and when
you git the bell to raise, shoot her up sudden. If the water's coming,
we'll be in a hurry, and don't you forget it. Want to come down with me,
Tregarth?"
"I do that, sir." The man stepped into the cage and grinned. "We'll
bring the byes back all right. Bet un we do, lads."
The cage shot down, and the New Mexican sat on a bench to wait its
return. Beside him was a young doctor, who had come prepared for a
possible disaster. Such conversation as the men carried on was in low
tones, for all felt the strain of the long minutes. The engineer's eye
was glued to his machinery, his hand constantly on the lever.
It must have been an hour before the bell rang sharply in the silence
and the lever swept back instantly. A dozen men started to their feet
and waited tensely. Next moment there was a wild, exultant cheer.
For Tregarth had stepped from the cage with a limp figure in his arms,
and after him Davis, his arm around the shoulder of a drenched,
staggering youth, who had a bleeding cut across his cheek. Through all
the grime that covered the wounded miner the pallor of exhaustion showed
itself.
But beaten and buffeted as the man had plainly been in his fight for
life, the clean, supple strength and the invincible courage of him still
shone in his eye and trod in his bearing. It was even now the salient
thing about him, though he had but come, alive and no more, from a
wrestle with death itself.
He sank to a bench, and looked around on his friends with shining eyes.
"'Twas nip and tuck, boys. The water caught us in the tunnel, and I
thought we were gone. It swept us right to the cage," he panted.
"She didn't sweep Tom there, boss; ye went back after un," corrected the
Cornishman.
"Anyhow, we made it in the nick o' time. Tom all right, Doctor?"
The doctor looked up from his examination.
"No bones broken. He seems sound. If there are no internal injuries it
will be a matter of only a day or two in bed."
"Good. That's the way to talk. You got to make him good as new, Doctor.
You ought to have seen the way he stayed by that drill when the water
was pouring through the cracks in the granite. Have him taken to the
hospital, and send the bill to me."
Tregarth boomed out in a heavy bass:
"What's the matter with the boss? Both of un? They be all right. Bean't
they, lads?"
It was just after the answering chorus that Pesquiera came forward and
bowed magnificently to the young mine operator. The New Mexican's eyes
were blazing with admiration, for he was of Castilian blood and
cherished courage as the chief of virtues.
"I have the honor to salute a hero, _senor_" he cried enthusiastically.
"Your deed is of a most fine bravery. I, Manuel Pesquiera, say it. Have
I the right in thinking him of the name of Mr. Richard Gordon?"
Something that was almost disgust filmed the gray eyes of the young
miner. He had the Anglo-Saxon horror of heroics. What he had done was
all in the day's work, and he was the last man in the world to enjoy
having a fuss made over it.
"My name is Gordon," he said quietly.
The Spaniard bowed again.
"I have the honor to be your servant to command, Don Manuel Pesquiera. I
believe myself to be, sir, a messenger of fortune to you--a Mercury from
the favoring gods, with news of good import. I, therefore, ask the honor
of an audience at your convenience."
Dick flung the wet hat from his curly head and took a look at the card
which the Spaniard had presented him. From it his humorous gaze went
back to the posturing owner of the pasteboard. Suppressing a grin, he
answered with perfect gravity.
"If you will happen round to the palace about noon to-morrow, _Senor_
Pesquiera, you will be admitted to the presence by the court flunkies.
When you're inquiring for the whereabouts of the palace, better call it
room 14, Gold Nugget Rooming-House."
He excused himself and stepped lightly across to his companion in the
adventure, who had by this time recovered consciousness.
"How goes it, Tom? Feel as if you'd been run through a sausage-grinder?"
he asked cheerily.
The man smiled faintly. "I'm all right, boss. The boys tell me you went
back and saved me."
"Sho! I just grabbed you and slung you in the cage. No trick at all,
Tom. Now, don't you worry, boy. Just lie there in the hospital and rest
easy. We're settling the bill, and there's a hundred plunks waiting you
when you get well."
Tom's hand pressed his feebly.
"I always knew you were white, boss."
The doctor laughed as he came forward with a basin of water and
bandages.
"I'm afraid he'll be whiter than he need be if I don't stop that
bleeding. I think we're ready for it now, Mr. Gordon."
"All right. It's only a scratch," answered Gordon indifferently.
Pesquiera, feeling that he was out of the picture, departed in search of
a hotel for the night. He was conscious of a strong admiration for this
fair brown-faced Anglo-Saxon who faced death so lightly for one of his
men. Whatever else he might prove to be, Richard Gordon was a man.
The New Mexican had an uneasy prescience that his mission was foredoomed
to failure and that it might start currents destined to affect potently
the lives of many in the Rio Chama Valley.
CHAPTER II
THE TWO GRANTS
The clock in the depot tower registered just twelve, and the noon
whistles were blowing when Pesquiera knocked at apartment 14, of the
Gold Nugget Rooming-House.
In answer to an invitation to "Come in," he entered an apartment which
seemed to be a combination office and living-room. A door opened into
what the New Mexican assumed to be a sleeping chamber, adjoining which
was evidently a bath, judging from the sound of splashing water.
"With you in a minute," a voice from within assured the guest.
The splashing ceased. There was the sound of a towel in vigorous motion.
This was followed by the rustling of garments as the bather dressed. In
an astonishingly short time the owner of the rooms appeared in the
doorway.
He was a well-set-up youth, broad of shoulder and compact of muscle. The
ruddy bloom that beat through the tanned cheeks and the elasticity of
his tread hinted at an age not great, but there was no suggestion of
immaturity in the cool steadiness of the gaze or in the quiet poise of
the attitude.
He indicated a chair, after relieving his visitor of hat and cane.
Pesquiera glanced at the bandage round the head.
"I trust, _senor_, your experience of yesterday has not given you a
wakeful night?"
"Slept like a top. Fact is, I'm just getting up. You heard this morning
yet how Tom is?"
"The morning newspaper says he is doing very well indeed."
"That's good hearing. He's a first-rate boy, and I'd hate to hear worse
of him. But I mustn't take your time over our affairs. I think you
mentioned business, sir?"
The Castilian leaned forward and fixed his black, piercing eyes on the
other. Straight into his business he plunged.
"Senor Gordon, have you ever heard of the Valdes grant?"
"Not to remember it. What kind of a grant is it?"
"It is a land grant, made by Governor Facundo Megares, of New Mexico,
which territory was then a province of Spain, to Don Fernando Valdes, in
consideration of services rendered the Spanish crown against the
Indians."
Dick shook his head. "You've got me, sir. If I ever heard of it the
thing has plumb slipped my mind. Ought I to know about it?"
"Have you ever heard of the Moreno grant?"
Somewhere in the back of the young man's mind a faint memory stirred. He
seemed to see an old man seated at a table in a big room with a carved
fireplace. The table was littered with papers, and the old gentleman was
explaining them to a woman. She was his daughter, Dick's mother. A slip
of a youngster was playing about the room with two puppies. That little
five-year-old was the young mine operator.
"I have," he answered calmly.
"You know, then, that a later governor of the territory, Manuel Armijo,
illegally carved half a million acres out of the former grant and gave
it to Jose Moreno, from whom your grandfather bought it."
The miner's face froze to impassivity. He was learning news. The very
existence of such a grant was a surprise to him. His grandfather and his
mother had been dead fifteen years. Somewhere in an old trunk back in
Kentucky there was a tin box full of papers that might tell a story. But
for the present he preferred to assume that he knew what information
they contained.
"I object to the word illegal, Don Manuel," he answered curtly, not at
all sure his objection had any foundation of law.
Pesquiera shrugged. "Very well, _senor_. The courts, I feel sure, will
sustain my words."
"Perhaps, and perhaps not."
"The law is an expensive arbiter, Senor Gordon. Your claim is slight.
The title has never been perfected by you. In fifteen years you have
paid no taxes. Still your claim, though worthless in itself, operates as
a cloud upon the title of my client, the Valdes heir."
Dick looked at him steadily and nodded. He began to see the purpose of
this visit. He waited silently, his mind very alert.
"_Senor_, I am here to ask of you a relinquishment. You are brave; no
doubt, chivalrous----"
"I'm a business man, Don Manuel," interrupted Gordon. "I don't see what
chivalry has got to do with it."
"Senorita Valdes is a woman, young and beautiful. This little estate is
her sole possession. To fight for it in court is a hardship that Senor
Gordon will not force upon her."
"So she's young and beautiful, is she?"
"The fairest daughter of Spain in all New Mexico," soared Don Manuel.
"You don't say. A regular case of beauty and the beast, ain't it?"
"As one of her friends, I ask of you not to oppose her lawful possession
of this little vineyard."
"In the grape business, is she?"
"I speak, _senor_, in metaphor. The land is barren, of no value except
for sheep grazing."
"Are you asking me to sell my title or give it?"
"It is a bagatelle--a mere nothing. The title is but waste paper, I do
assure. Yet we would purchase--for a nominal figure--merely to save
court expenses."
"I see," Dick laughed softly. "Just to save court expenses--because
you'd rather I'd have the money than the lawyers. That's right good of
you."
Pesquiera talked with his hands and shoulders, sparkling into animation.
"Mr. Gordon distrusts me. So? Am I not right? He perhaps mistakes me for
what you call a--a pettifogger, is it not? I do assure to the contrary.
The blood of the Pesquieras is of the bluest Castilian."
"Fine! I'll take your word for it, Don Manuel. And I don't distrust you
at all. But here's the point. I'm a plain American business man. I don't
buy and I don't sell without first investigating a proposition submitted
to me. I'm from Missouri."
"Oh, indeed! From St. Louis perhaps. I went to school there when I was a
boy."
Gordon laughed. "I was speaking in metaphor, Don Manuel. What I mean is
that I'll have to be shown. No pig-in-a-poke business for me."
"Exactly. Most precisely. Have I not traveled from New Mexico up this
steep roof of the continent merely to explain how matters stand?
Valencia Valdes is the true and rightful heiress of the valley. She is
everywhere so recognize' and accept' by the peons."
The miner's indolent eye rested casually upon his guest. "Married?"
"I have not that felicitation," replied the Spaniard.
"It was the lady I meant."
"Pardon. No man has yet been so fortunate to win the _senorita_"
"I reckon it's not for want of trying, since the heiress is so
beautiful. There's always plenty of willing lads to take over the job of
prince regent under such circumstances."
The spine of the New Mexican stiffened ever so slightly. "Senorita
Valdes is princess of the Rio Chama valley. Her dependents understan'
she is of a differen' caste, a descendant of the great and renowned Don
Alvaro of Castile."
"Don't think I know the gentleman. Who was he?" asked Gordon genially,
offering his guest a cigar.
Pesquiera threw up his neat little hands in despair. "But of a certainty
Mr. Gordon has read of Don Alvaro de Valdes y Castillo, lord of demesnes
without number, conqueror of the Moors and of the fierce island English
who then infested Spain in swarms. His retinue was as that of a king. At
his many manors fed daily thirty thousand men at arms. In all Europe no
knight so brave, so chivalrous, so skillful with lance and sword. To the
nobles his word was law. Young men worshiped him, the old admired, the
poor blessed. The queen, it is said, love' him madly. She was of
exceeding beauty, but Don Alvaro remember his vows of knighthood and
turn his back upon madness. Then the king, jealous for that his great
noble was better, braver and more popular than he, send for de Valdes to
come to court."
"I reckon Don Alvaro ought to have been sick a-bed that day and unable
to make the journey," suggested Dick.
"So say his wife and his men, but Don Alvaro scorn to believe his king a
traitor. He kiss his wife and babies good-bye, ride into the trap
prepare' for him, and die like a soldier. God rest his valiant soul."
"Some man. I'd like to have met him," Gordon commented.
"Senorita Valencia is of the same blood, of the same fine courage. She,
too, is the idol of her people. Will Mr. Gordon, who is himself of the
brave heart, make trouble for an unprotected child without father or
mother?"
"Unprotected isn't quite the word so long as Don Manuel Pesquiera is her
friend," the Coloradoan answered with a smile.
The dark young man flushed, but his eyes met those of Dick steadily.
"You are right, sir. I stand between her and trouble if I can."
"Good. Glad you do."
"So I make you an offer. I ask you to relinquish your shadowy claim to
the illegal Moreno grant."
"Well, I can't tell you offhand just what I'll do, Don Manuel. Make your
proposition to me in writing, and one month from to-day I'll let you
know whether it's yes or no."
"But the _senorita_ wants to make improvements--to build, to fence.
Delay is a hardship. Let us say a thousand dollars and make an end."
"Not if the court knows itself. You say she's young. A month's wait
won't hurt her any. I want to look into it. Maybe you're offering me too
much. A fifth of a cent an acre is a mighty high price for land. I don't
want any fairest daughter of Spain to rob herself for me, you know," he
grinned.
"I exceed my instructions. I offer two thousand, Mr. Gordon."
"If you said two hundred thousand, I'd still say no till I had looked it
up. I'm not doing business to-day at any price, thank you."
"You are perhaps of an impression that this land is valuable. On the
contrary, I offer an assurance. And our need of your shadowy claim----"
"I ain't burdened with impressions, except one, that I don't care to
dispose of my ghost-title. We'll talk business a month from to-day, if
you like. No sooner. Have a smoke, Don Manuel?"
Pesquiera declined the proffered cigar with an impatient gesture. He
rose, reclaimed his hat and cane, and clicked his heels together in a
stiff bow.
He was a slight, dark, graceful man, with small, neat hands and feet,
trimly gloved and shod. He had a small black mustache pointing upward in
parallels to his smooth, olive cheeks. The effect was almost foppish,
but the fire in the snapping eyes contradicted any suggestion of
effeminacy. His gaze yielded nothing even to the searching one of
Gordon.
"It is, then, war between us, Senor Gordon?" he asked haughtily.
Dick laughed.
"Sho! It's just business. Maybe I'll take your offer. Maybe I won't. I
might want to run down and look at the no-'count land," he said with a
laugh.
"I think it fair to inform you, sir, that the feeling of the country
down there is in favor of the Valdes grant. The peons are hot-tempered,
and are likely to resent any attempt to change the existing conditions.
Your presence, _senor_, would be a danger."
"Much obliged, Don Manuel. Tell 'em from me that I got a bad habit of
wearing a six-gun, and that if they get to resenting too arduous it's
likely to ventilate their enthusiasm."
Once more the New Mexican bowed stiffly before he retired.
Pesquiera had overplayed his hand. He had stirred in the miner an
interest born of curiosity and a sense of romantic possibilities. Dick
wanted to see this daughter of Castile who was still to the
simple-hearted shepherds of the valley a princess of the blood royal.
Don Manuel was very evidently her lover. Perhaps it was his imagination
that had mixed the magic potion that lent an atmosphere of old-world
pastoral charm to the story of the Valdes grant. Likely enough the girl
would prove commonplace in a proud half-educated fashion that would be
intolerable for a stranger.
But even without the help of the New Mexican the situation was one which
called for a thorough personal investigation. Gordon was a hard-headed
American business man, though he held within him the generous and
hare-brained potentialities of a soldier of fortune. He meant to find
out just what the Moreno grant was worth. After he had investigated his
legal standing he would look over the valley of the Chama himself. He
took no stock in Don Manuel's assurance that the land was worthless, any
more than he gave weight to his warning that a personal visit to the
scene would be dangerous if the settlers believed he came to interfere
with their rights. For many turbulent years Dick Gordon had held his own
in a frontier community where untamed enemies had passed him daily with
hate in their hearts. He was not going to let the sulky resentment of a
few shepherds interfere with his course now.
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