A Daughter of the Dons by William MacLeod Raine

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A message flashed back to a little town in Kentucky that afternoon. It
was of the regulation ten-words length, and this was the body of it:

Send immediately, by express, little brown leather trunk in garret.

The signature at the bottom of it was "Richard Gordon."

CHAPTER III

FISHERMAN'S LUCK

A fisherman was whipping the stream of the Rio Chama.

In his creel were a dozen trout, for the speckled beauties had been
rising to the fly that skipped across the top of the riffles as
naturally as life. He wore waders, gray flannel shirt, and khaki coat.
As he worked up the stream he was oftener in its swirling waters than on
the shore. But just now the fish were no longer striking.

"Time to grub, anyhow. I'll give them a rest for a while. They'll likely
be on the job again soon," he told himself as he waded ashore.

A draw here ran down to the river, and its sunny hillside tempted him to
eat his lunch farther up.

Into the little basin in which he found himself the sun had poured
shafts of glory to make a very paradise of color. Down by the riverside
the willows were hesitating between green and bronze. Russet and brown
and red peppered the slopes, but shades of yellow predominated in the
gulch itself.

The angler ate his sandwiches leisurely, and stretched his lithe body
luxuriantly on the ground for a _siesta_. When he resumed his occupation
the sun had considerably declined from the meridian. The fish were again
biting, and he landed two in as many minutes.

The bed of the river had been growing steeper, and at the upper entrance
of the little park he came to the first waterfall he had seen. Above
this, on the opposite side, was a hole that looked inviting. He decided
that a dead tree lying across the river would, at a pinch, serve for a
bridge, and he ventured upon it. Beneath his feet the rotting bark gave
way. He found himself falling, tried desperately to balance himself, and
plunged head first into the river.

Coming to the surface, he caught at a rock which jutted from the
channel. At this point the water was deep and the current swift. Were he
to let loose of the boulder he must be swept over the fall before he
could reach the shore. Nor could he long maintain his position against
the rush of the ice-cold waters fresh from the mountain snow fields.

He had almost made up his mind to take his chances with the fall, when a
clear cry came ringing to him:

"_No suelte!_"

A figure was flying down the slope toward him--the slim, graceful form
of a woman. As she ran she caught up a stick from the ground. This she
held out to him from the bank.

He shook his head.

"I would only drag you in."

She put her fingers to her mouth and gave a clear whistle. Far up on the
slope a pony lifted its head and nickered. Again her whistle shrilled,
and the bronco trotted down toward her.

"Can you hold on?" she asked in English.

He was chilled to the marrow, but he answered quietly: "I reckon."

She was gone, swift-footed as a deer, to meet the descending animal. He
saw her swing to the saddle and lean over it as the pace quickened to a
gallop.

He did not know her fingers were busy preparing the rawhide lariat that
depended from the side of the saddle. On the very bank she brought up
with a jerk that dragged her mount together, and at the same moment
slipped to the ground.

Running open the noose of the lariat, she dropped it surely over his
shoulders. The other end of the rope was fastened to the saddle-horn,
and the cow-pony, used to roping and throwing steers, braced itself with
wide-planted front feet for the shock.

"Can you get your arm through the loop?" cried the girl.

His arms were like lead, and almost powerless. With one hand he knew he
could not hang on. Nor did he try longer than for that one desperate
instant when he shot his fist through the loop. The wall of water swept
him away, but the taut rope swung him shoreward.

Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the strong current for
the body of the almost unconscious man; fought steadily and strongly,
for there was strength in the small wrists and compact muscle in the
shapely arms. She was waist deep in the water before she won, for from
above she could find no purchase for the lift.

The fisherman's opening eyes looked into dark anxious ones that gazed at
him from beneath the longest lashes he had ever seen. He had an odd
sense of being tangled up in them and being unable to escape, of being
both abashed and happy in his imprisonment. What he thought was: "They
don't have eyes like those out of heaven." What he said was entirely
different.

"Near thing. Hadn't been for you I wouldn't have made it."

At his words she rose from her knees to her full height, and he saw that
she was slenderly tall and fashioned of gracious curves. The darkness of
her clear skin was emphasized by the mass of blue-black hair from which
little ears peeped with exquisite daintiness. The mouth was sweet and
candid, red-lipped, with perfect teeth just showing in the full arch.
The straight nose, with its sensitive nostrils, proclaimed her pure
patrician.

"You are wet," he cried. "You went in after me."

She looked down at her dripping skirts, and laughter rippled over her
face like the wind in golden grain. It brought out two adorable dimples
near the tucked-in corners of her mouth.

"I am damp," she conceded.

"Why did you do it? The water might have swept you away," he chided,
coming to a sitting posture.

"And if I hadn't it might have swept you away," she answered, with a
flash of her ivory teeth.

He rose and stood before her.

"You risked your life to save mine."

"Is it not worth it, sir?"

"That ain't for me to say. The point is, you took the chance."

Her laughter bubbled again. "You mean, I took the bath."

"I expect you'll have to listen to what I've got to say, ma'am."

"Are you going to scold me? Was I precipitate? Perhaps you were
attempting suicide. Forgive, I pray."

He ignored her raillery, and told her what he thought of a courage so
fine and ready. He permitted a smile to temper his praise, as he added:
"You mustn't go jumping in the river after strangers if you don't want
them to say, 'Thank you kindly.' You find four out of five of them want
to, don't you?"

"It is not yet a habit of mine. You're the first"

"I hope I'll be the last."

She began to wring out the bottom of her skirt, and he was on his knees
at once to do it for her.

"That will do very nicely," she presently said, the color billowing her
cheeks.

He gathered wood and lit a fire, being fortunate enough to find his
match-case had been waterproof. He piled on dry branches till the fire
roared and licked out for the moisture in their clothes.

"I've been wondering how you happened to see me in the water," he said.
"You were riding past, I expect?"

"No, I was sketching. I saw you when you came up to eat your lunch, and
I watched you go back to the river."

"Do you live near here, then?" he asked.

"About three miles away."

"And you were watching me all the time?" He put his statement as a
question.

"No, I wasn't," the young woman answered indignantly. "You happened to
be in the landscape."

"A blot in it," he suggested. "A hop-toad splashing in the puddle."

The every-ready dimples flashed out at this. "You did make quite a
splash when you went in. The fish must have thought it was a whale."

"And when I told you the water was fine, and you came in, too, they
probably took you for a naiad."

She thanked him with an informal little nod.

"I thought you Anglo-Saxons did not give compliments."

"I don't," he immediately answered.

"Oh! If that isn't another one, I'm mistaken, sir." She turned
indifferently away, apparently of the opinion that she had been quite
friendly enough to this self-possessed young stranger.

Rewinding the lariat, she fastened it to the saddle, then swung to the
seat before he could step forward to aid her.

"I hope you will suffer no bad effects from your bath," he said.

"I shall not; but I'm afraid you will. You were in long enough to get
thoroughly chilled. _Adios, senor_."

He called to her before the pony had taken a dozen steps:

"Your handkerchief, _senorita_!"

She turned in the saddle and waited for him to bring it. He did so, and
she noticed that he limped badly.

"You have hurt yourself," she said quickly.

"I must have jammed my knee against a rock," he explained. "Nothing
serious."

"But it pains?"

"Just enough to let me know it's there."

Frowning, she watched him.

"Is it a bruise or a sprain?"

"A wrench, I think. It will be all right if I favor it"

"Favor it? Except the ranch, there is no place nearer than seven miles.
You are staying at Corbett's, I presume?"

"Yes."

"You can't walk back there to-night. That is certain." She slipped from
the saddle. "You'll have to go back to the ranch with me, sir. I can
walk very well."

He felt a wave of color sweep his face.

"I couldn't take the horse and let you walk."

"That is nonsense, sir. You can, and you shall."

"If I am to take your horse I need not saddle myself upon your
hospitality. I can ride back to Corbett's, and send the horse home
to-morrow."

"It is seven miles to Miguel's, and Corbett's is three beyond that. No
doctor would advise that long ride before your knee receives attention,
I think, sir, you will have to put up with the ranch till to-morrow."

"You ain't taking my intention right. All I meant was that I didn't like
to unload myself on your folks; but if you say I'm to do it I'll be very
happy to be your guest." He said it with a touch of boyish embarrassment
she found becoming.

"We'll stop at the top of the hill and take on my drawing things," she
told him.

He need have had no fears for her as a walker, for she was of the elect
few born to grace of motion. Slight she was, yet strong; the delicacy
that breathed from her was of the spirit, and consisted with perfect
health. No Grecian nymph could have trod with lighter or surer step nor
have unconsciously offered to the eye more supple and beautiful lines of
limb and body.

Never had the young man seen before anybody whose charm went so
poignantly to the root of his emotions. Every turn of the head, the set
of the chin, the droop of the long, thick lashes on the soft cheek, the
fling of a gesture, the cadence of her voice; they all delighted and
fascinated him. She was a living embodiment of joy-in-life, of love
personified.

She packed her sketches and her paraphernalia with businesslike
directness, careless of whether he did or did not see her water-colors.
A movement of his hand stayed her as she took from, the easel the one
upon which she had been engaged.

It represented the sun-drenched slope below them, with the little gulch
dressed riotously in its gala best of yellows.

"You've got that fine," he told her enthusiastically.

She shook her head, unmoved by praise which did not approve itself to
her judgment as merited.

"No, I didn't get it at all. A great artist might get the wonder of it;
but I can't."

"It looks good to me," he said.

"Then I'm afraid you're not a judge," she smiled.

From where they stood a trail wound along the ridge and down into a
valley beyond. At the farther edge of this, nestling close to the hills
that took root there, lay the houses of a ranch.

"That is where I live," she told him.

He thought it a lovely spot, almost worthy of her, but obviously he
could not tell her so. Instead, he voiced an alien thought that happened
to intrude:

"Do you know Senorita Valdes? But of course you must."

She flung a quick glance at him, questioning.

"Yes, I know her."

"She lives somewhere round here, too, does she not?"

Her arm swept round in a comprehensive gesture. "Over that way, too."

"Do you know her well?"

An odd smile dimpled her face.

"Sometimes I think I do, and then again I wonder."

"I have been told she is beautiful."

"Beauty is in the beholder's eyes, _senor_. Valencia Valdes is as Heaven
made her."

"I have no doubt; but Heaven took more pains with some of us than
others--it appears."

Again the dark eyes under the long lashes swept him from the curly head
to the lean, muscular hands, and approved silently the truth of his
observation. The clean lithe build of the man, muscles packed so that
they rippled smoothly like those of a panther, appealed to her trained
eyes. So, too, did the quiet, steady eyes in the bronzed face, holding
as they did the look of competent alertness that had come from years of
frontier life.

"You are interested in Miss Valdes?" she asked politely.

"In a way of speaking, I am. She is one of the reasons why I came here."

"Indeed! She would no doubt be charmed to know of your interest," still
with polite detachment.

"My interest ain't exactly personal; then again it is," he contributed.

"A sort of an impersonal personal interest?"

"Yes; though I don't quite know what that means."

"Then I can't be expected to," she laughed.

His laughter joined hers; but presently he recurred to his question:

"You haven't told me yet about Miss Valdes. Is she as lovely as they say
she is?"

"I don't know just how lovely they say she is. Sometimes I have thought
her very passable; then again--" She broke off with a defiant little
laugh. "Don't you know, sir, that you mustn't ask one lady to praise the
beauty of another?"

"I suppose I may ask questions?" he said, much amused.

"It depends a little on the questions."

"Is she tall?"

"Rather. About as tall as I am."

"And dark, of course, since she is a Spanish _senorita_"

"Yes, she is dark."

"Slim and graceful, I expect?"

"She is slender."

"I reckon she banks a heap on that blue blood of hers?"

"Yes; she is prouder of it than there is really any need of, though I
think probably her pride is unconscious and a matter of habit."

"I haven't been able to make out yet whether you like her," he laughed.

"I don't see what my liking has to do with it."

"I expect to meet her, and I want to use your judgment to base mine on."

"Oh, you expect to meet her?"

She said it lightly, yet with a certain emphasis that he noted.

"Don't you think she will let me? Do I have to show blue blood before I
can be presented? One of my ancestors came over on the _Mayflower_. Will
that do?"

Her raillery met his.

"That ought to do, I should think. I suppose you have brought
genealogical proofs with you?"

"I clean forgot. Won't you please get on and ride now? I feel like a
false alarm, playing the invalid on you, ma'am."

"No; I'll walk. We're almost at the ranch. It's just under this hill.
But there's one thing I want to ask of you as a favor."

"It's yours," he replied briefly.

She seemed to struggle with some emotion before she spoke:

"Please don't mention Valencia Valdes while you are at the ranch. I--I
have reasons, sir."

"Certainly; I'll do as you prefer."

To himself he thought that there was probably a feud of some kind
between the two families that might make a mention of the name
unpleasant. "And that reminds me that I don't know what your name is.
Mine is Muir--Richard Muir."

"And mine is Maria Yuste."

He offered her his brown hand. "I'm right happy to meet you, Senorita
Maria."

"Welcome to the Yuste _hacienda, senor_. What is ours is yours, so long
as you are our guest. I pray you make yourself at home," she said as
they rode into the courtyard.

Two Mexican lads came running forward; and one whom she called Pedro
took the horse, while the other went into the house to attend to a quick
command she gave in Spanish.

The man who had named himself Richard Muir followed his hostess through
a hall, across an open court, and into a living-room carpeted with
Navajo rugs, at the end of which was a great open fireplace bearing a
Spanish motto across it.

Large windows, set three feet deep in the thick adobe walls, were filled
with flowers or padded with sofa pillows for seats. One of these his
hostess indicated to the limping man.

"If you will be seated here for the present, sir, your room will be
ready very soon."

A few minutes later the fisherman found himself in a large bedroom. He
was seated in an easy-chair before a crackling fire of _pinon_ knots.

A messenger had been dispatched for a doctor, Senorita Yuste had told
him, and in the meantime he was to make himself quite at home.

CHAPTER IV

AT THE YUSTE HACIENDA

The wrench to the fisherman's knee proved more serious than he had
anticipated. The doctor pronounced it out of the question that he should
be moved for some days at least.

The victim was more than content, because he was very much interested in
the young woman who had been his rescuer, and because it gave him a
chance to observe at first hand the remains of the semifeudal system
that had once obtained in New Mexico and California.

It was easy for him to see that Senorita Maria Yuste was still
considered by her dependents as a superior being, one far removed from
them by the divinity of caste that hedged her in. They gave her service;
and she, on her part, looked out for their needs, and was the patron
saint to whom they brought all their troubles.

It was an indolent, happy life the peons on the estate led, patriarchal
in its nature, and far removed from the throb of the money-mad world.
They had enough to eat and to wear. There was a roof over their heads.
There were girls to be loved, dances to be danced, and guitars to be
strummed. Wherefore, then, should the young men feel the spur of an
ambition to take the world by the throat and wring success from it?

It had been more years than he could remember since this young American
had taken a real holiday except for an occasional fishing trip on the
Gunnison or into Wyoming. He had lived a life of activity. Now for the
first time he learned how to be lazy. To dawdle indolently on one of the
broad porches, while Miss Yuste sat beside him and busied herself over
some needlework, was a sensuous delight that filled him with content. He
felt that he would like to bask there in the warm sunshine forever.
After all, why should he pursue wealth and success when love and
laughter waited for him in this peaceful valley chosen of the gods?

The fourth morning of his arrival he hobbled out to the south porch
after breakfast, to find his hostess in corduroy skirt, high laced
boots, and pinched-in sombrero. She was drawing on a pair of driving
gauntlets. One of the stable boys was standing beside a rig he had just
driven to the house.

The young woman flung a flashing smile at her guest.

"Good day, Senor Muir. I hope you had a good night's rest, and that your
knee did not greatly pain you?"

"I feel like a colt in the pasture--fit for anything. But the doctor
won't have it that way. He says I'm an invalid," returned the young man
whimsically.

"The doctor ought to know," she laughed.

"I expect it won't do me any harm to lie still for a day or two. We
Americans all have the git-up-and-dust habit. We got to keep going,
though Heaven knows what we're going for sometimes."

Though he did not know it, her interest in him was considerable, though
certainly critical. He was a type outside of her experience, and, by the
law of opposites, attracted her. Every line of him showed tremendous
driving power, force, energy. He was not without some touch of Western
swagger; but it went well with the air of youth to which his boyish
laugh and wavy, sun-reddened hair contributed.

The men of her station that she knew were of one pattern, indolent,
well-bred aristocrats, despisers of trade and of those who indulged in
it more than was necessary to live. But her mother had been an American
girl, and there was in her blood a strong impulse toward the great
nation of which her father's people were not yet in spirit entirely a
part.

"I have to drive to Antelope Springs this morning. It is not a rough
trip at all. If you would care to see the country----"

She paused, a question in her face. Her guest jumped at the chance.

"There is nothing I should like better. If you are sure it will be no
inconvenience."

"I am sure I should not have asked you if I had not wanted you," she
said; and he took it as a reproof.

She drove a pair of grays that took the road with the spirit of racers.
The young woman sat erect and handled the reins masterfully, the while
Muir leaned back and admired the steadiness of the slim, strong wrists,
the businesslike directness with which she gave herself to her work, the
glow of life whipped into her eyes and cheeks by the exhilaration of the
pace.

"I suppose you know all about these old land-grants that were made when
New Mexico was a Spanish colony and later when it was a part of Mexico,"
he suggested.

Her dark eyes rested gravely on him an instant before she answered:
"Most of us that were brought up on them know something of the facts."

"You are familiar with the Valdes grant?"

"Yes."

"And with the Moreno grant, made by Governor Armijo?"

"Yes."

"The claims conflict, do they not?"

"The Moreno grant is taken right from the heart of the Valdes grant. It
includes all the springs, the valleys, the irrigable land; takes in
everything but the hilly pasture land in the mountains, which, in
itself, is valueless."

"The land included in this grant is of great value?"

"It pastures at the present time fifty thousand sheep and about twelve
thousand head of cattle."

"Owned by Miss Valdes?"

"Owned by her and her tenants."

"She's what you call a cattle queen, then. Literally, the cattle on a
thousand hills are hers."

"As they were her father's and her grandfather's before her, to be held
in trust for the benefit of about eight hundred tenants," she answered
quietly.

"Tell me more about it. The original grantee was Don Bartolome de
Valdes, was he not?"

"Yes. He was the great-great-grandson of Don Alvaro de Valdes y
Castillo, who lost his head because he was a braver and a better man
than the king. Don Bartolome, too, was a great soldier and ruler. He was
generous and public-spirited to a fault; and when the people of this
province suffered from Indian raids he distributed thousands of sheep to
relieve their distress."

"Bully for the old boy. He was a real philanthropist."

"Not at all. He _had_ to do it. His position required it of him."

"That was it, eh?"

Her dusky eyes questioned him.

"You couldn't understand, I suppose, since you are an American, how he
was the father and friend of all the people in these parts; how his
troopers and _vaqueros_ were a defense to the whole province?"

"I think I can understand that."

"So it was, even to his death, that he looked out for the poor peons
dependent upon him. His herds grew mighty; and he asked of Facundo
Megares, governor of the royal province, a grant of land upon which to
pasture them. These herds were for his people; but they were in his name
and belonged to him. Why should he not have been given land for them,
since his was the sword that had won the land against the Apaches?"

"You ain't heard me say he shouldn't have had it"

"So the _alcalde_ executed the act of possession for a tract, to be
bounded on the south by Crow Spring, following its cordillera to the Ojo
del Chico, east to the Pedornal range, north to the Ojo del Cibolo
--Buffalo Springs--and west to the great divide. It was a princely
estate, greater than the State of Delaware; and Don Bartolome held it
for the King of Spain, and ruled over it with powers of life and death,
but always wisely and generously, like the great-hearted gentleman he
was."

"Bully for him."

"And at his death his son ruled in his stead; and _his_ only son died in
the Spanish-American War, as a lieutenant of volunteers in the United
States Army. He was shot before Santiago."

The voice died away in her tremulous throat; and he wondered if it could
be possible that this girl had been betrothed to the young soldier. But
presently she spoke again, cheerfully and lightly:

"Wherefore, it happens that there remains only a daughter of the house
of Valdes to carry the burden that should have been her brother's, to
look out for his people, and to protect them both against themselves and
others. She may fail; but, if I know her, the failure will not be
because she has not tried."

"Good for her. I'd like to shake her aristocratic little paw and tell
her to buck in and win."

"She would no doubt be grateful for your sympathy," the young woman
answered, flinging a queer little look of irony at him.

"But what's the hitch about the Valdes grant? Why is there a doubt of
its legality?"

She smiled gaily at him.

"No person who desires to remain healthy has any doubts in this
neighborhood. We are all partizans of Valencia Valdes; and many of her
tenants are such warm followers that they would not think twice about
shedding blood in defense of her title. You must remember that they hold
through her right. If she were dispossessed so would they be."

"Is that a threat? I mean, would it be if I were a claimant?" he asked,
meeting her smile pleasantly.

"Oh, no. Miss Valdes would regret any trouble, and so should I." A
shadow crossed her face as she spoke. "But she could not prevent her
friends from violence, I am afraid. You see, she is only a girl, after
all. They would move without her knowledge. I know they would."

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