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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The boy shook his head and let his eyes fall before her clear gaze.
"I can tell nothing."
"Look at me, Juan," she commanded, and waited till he obeyed. "Pedro it
was that shot at this man Gordon. Is it not so?"
His eyes grew wide.
"Some one has told?" he said questioningly.
"No matter. It was he. Yesterday the American saved his life. Surely
Pedro does not still----"
She did not finish in words, but her eyes chiseled into his stolid will
to keep silent.
"The stranger invites evil. He would rob the _senorita_ and us all. He
has said he would horsewhip Pedro. He rides up and down the valley,
taunting us with his laugh. Is he a god, and are we slaves?"
"He said he would horsewhip Pedro, did he?"
"_Si senorita_; when Pedro told him to take his life, since it was his."
"And this was after Pedro had been thrown?"
"Directly after. The American is a devil, _dona_. He rode that
man-killer like Satan. Did he not already know that it was Pedro who
shot at him? Is not Pedro a sure shot, and did he not miss twice? Twice,
_senorita_; which makes it certain that this _Senor_ Gordon is a devil."
"Don't talk nonsense, Juan. I want to know how he came to tell Pedro
that he would whip him."
"He came up to the piazza when he had broken the heart of that other
devil, the man-killer, and Pedro was sitting there. Then Pedro told him
that he was the one who had shot at him, but he only laughed. He always
laughs, this fiend. He knew it already, just as he knows everything.
Then it was he said he had saved the boy to whip him."
"And that is all?"
"_Por Dios_--all" shrugged the lad.
"Are there others beside you that believe this nonsense about the
American being in league with evil?"
"It is not nonsense, _senorita_, begging your pardon," protested Juan
earnestly. "And Ferdinand and Pablo and Sebastian, they all believe it."
Valencia knew this complicated the situation. These simple peons would
do, under the impulsion of blind bigotry, what they would hesitate to do
otherwise. Let them think him a devil, and they would stick at nothing
to remove him.
Her first thought was that she must keep informed of the movements of
her people. Otherwise she would not be able to frustrate them.
"Juan, if this man is really what you think, he will work magic to
destroy those who oppose him. It will not be safe for any of my people
to set themselves against him. I know a better way to attack him. I want
to talk with Pablo and Sebastian. You must work with me. If they try to
do anything, let me know at once; otherwise they will be in great
danger. Do you understand?"
"_Si, senorita_."
"And will you let me know, quietly, without telling them?"
"_Si, senorita_."
"That is good. Now, I know my Juan trusts and loves his mistress. You
have done well. Go, now."
From the point of view of her people the girl knew it was all settled.
If the stranger whipped Pedro, the boy would kill him unless he used
magic to prevent it. If he did use it, they must contrive to nullify his
magic. There was, too, Don Manuel, who would surely strike soon, and
however the encounter might terminate, it was a thing to dread
miserably.
But, though her misery was acute, she was of a temperament too hopeful
and impulsive to give up to despair so long as action was possible.
While she did not yet know what she could do, she was not one to sit
idle while events hurried to a crisis.
Meantime she had her majordomo order a horse saddled for her to ride
over to Corbett's for the mail.
CHAPTER X
MR. AINSA DELIVERS A MESSAGE
Back to Davis, who had stopped to tighten his saddle-girth, came Dick
Gordon's rather uncertain tenor in rollicking song:
"Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I
Kissed 'er where she stud!"
"There he goes, advertising himself for a target to every greaser in the
county. Pity he can't ride along decent, if he's got to ride at all in
these hills, where every gulch may be a trap," grumbled the old miner.
He jerked the leather strap down with a final tug, pulled himself to the
saddle, and cantered after his friend.
"Elephints a pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you
Was 'arf afraid to speak!"
"No danger of the silence hanging heavy here while you're around trying
to be a whole opery troupe all by your lonesome," suggested Davis.
"Seems to me if you got to trapse round this here country hunting for
that permanent residence, it ain't necessary to disturb the Sabbath calm
so on-feelin'. I don't seem to remember hearing any great demand for an
encore after the rendering of the first verse."
"You do ce'tainly remind me of a lien with one chick, Steve," laughed
Dick.
"I ain't worrying about you none. It's my own scalp kinder hangs loose
every time you make one of your fool-plays," explained the other.
"Go pipe that up to your granny. Think I ain't learned my ABC's about
my dry-nurse yet?"
"I'm going back to the gold camp to-morrow."
"You been saying that ever since you came here. Why don't you go, old
Calamity Prophet?"
"Well, I am. Going to-morrow."
"You've hollered wolf too often, Steve. I'll believe it when I see it."
"Well, why don't you behave? What's the use of making a holy Caruso of
yourself? Nobody ain't ever pined to hear you tune up, anyhow."
"All right. Mum's the word, old hoss. I'll be as solemn as if I was
going to my own funeral."
"I ain't persuaded yet you're not."
"I'm right fully persuaded. Hallo! Stranger visiting at Corbett's. Guess
I'll unlimber the artillery."
They dismounted, and, before turning over his horse to Yeager, Dick
unstrapped from the saddle his rifle. Nowadays he never for a moment was
separated from some weapon of defense. For he knew that an attack upon
his life was almost a certainty in the near future. Though his manner
was debonair, he saw to it that nobody got a chance to tamper with his
guns.
"Make you acquainted with Mr. Ramon Ainsa, gentlemen. Mr. Gordon--Mr.
Davis," said Corbett, standing in the doorway in his shirt-sleeves.
Mr. Ainsa, a very young man with the hint of a black mustache over his
boyish mouth, clicked his heels together and bowed deeply. He expressed
himself as delighted, but did not offer to shake hands. He was so stiff
that Dick wanted to ask him whether the poker he had swallowed was
indigestible.
"I am the bearer of a message to Mr. Richard Muir Gordon," he said with
another bow.
"My name," acknowledged its owner. "You ain't missed a letter of it.
Must have been at the christening, I expect."
"A message from Don Manuel Pesquiera."
"Good enough. That's right friendly of him. How's the _don_?"
And Dick, the sparkle of malicious humor gleaming in his eye, shook Mr.
Ainsa warmly by the hand, in spite of that gentleman's effort to escape.
The messenger sidestepped as soon as he could, and began again, very
red:
"Don Manuel considers himself deeply insulted, and desires through me,
his friend, to present this note."
Dick looked at the envelope, and back at the youth who had handed it to
him, after which he crowded in and pump-handled the other's arm again.
"That's awfully good of him, Mr. 'Tain't-so."
"My name is Ainsa, at your service," corrected the New Mexican.
"Beg pardon--Ainsa. I expect I hadn't ought to have irrigated the _don_
so thorough, but it's real good of him to overlook it and write me a
friendly note. It's uncommon handsome of him after I disarranged his
laundry so abrupt."
"If the _senor_ will read the letter--" interrupted the envoy
desperately.
"Certainly. But let me offer you something to drink first, Mr.
Ain't-so."
"Ainsa."
"Ainsa, I should say. A plain American has to go some to round up and
get the right brand on some of these blue-blooded names of yours.
What'll it be?"
"Thank you. I am not thirsty. I prefer not." With which Mr. Ainsa
executed another bow.
"Just as you say, colonel. But you'll let me know if you change your
mind."
Dick indicated a chair to his visitor, and took another himself; then
leisurely opened the epistle and read it. After he had done so he handed
it to Davis.
"This is for you, too, Steve. The _don_ is awfully anxious to have you
meet Mr. Ainsa and have a talk with him," chuckled Gordon.
"'To arrange a meeting with your friend,' Why, it's a duel he means,
Dick."
"That's what I gathered. We're getting right up in society. A duel's
more etiquettish than bridge-whist, Steve. Ain't you honored, being
invited to one. You're to be my second, you see."
"I'm hanged if I do," exploded the old miner promptly.
"Sho! It ain't hard, when you learn the steps."
"I ain't going to have nothing to do with it. Tommyrot! That's what I
call it."
"Don't say it so loud, Steve, or you'll hurt Mr. Ainsa's feelings,"
chided his partner.
"Think I'm going to make a monkey of myself at my age?"
Dick turned mournfully to the messenger of war.
"I'm afraid it's off, Mr. Ainsa. My second says he won't play."
"We shall be very glad to furnish you a second, sir."
"All right, and while you're at it furnish a principal, too. I'm an
American. I write my address Cripple Creek, Colorado, U.S.A. We don't
fight duels in my country any more. They've gone out with buckled shoes
and knee-pants, Mr. Ainsa."
"Do I understand that Mr. Gordon declines to meet my friend on the field
of honor?"
"That's the size of it."
"I am then instruct' to warn you to go armed, as my friend will punish
your insolence at sight informally."
It was just at this moment that Mrs. Corbett, flushed with the vain
chase of her fleeing brood of chickens, came perspiring round the house.
Her large, round person, not designed by nature for such arduous
exercise, showed signs of fatigue.
"I declare, if them chickens ain't got out, and me wanting two for
supper," she panted, arms on her ample hips.
"That's too bad. Let me chase them," volunteered Dick.
He grasped his rifle, took a quick, careless aim, and fired. A
long-legged, flying cockerel keeled over and began to kick.
"Gracious me!" ejaculated the woman.
"Two, did you say?" asked the man behind the gun.
"I said two."
Again the rifle cracked. A second chicken flopped down, this one with
its head shot off at the neck.
The eyes of the minister of war were large with amazement. The distance
had been seventy yards, if it had been a step. When little Jimmie
Corbett came running forward with the two dead cockerels a slight
examination showed that the first had also been shot through the neck.
Dick smiled.
"Shall I shoot another and send it for a present to Don Manuel, Jimmie?"
he pleasantly inquired.
Mr. Ainsa met his persiflage promptly.
"I do assure you, _senor_, it will not be at all necesair. Don Manuel
can shoot chickens for himself--and larger game."
"I'm sure he'll find good hunting," the other gave him back, looking up
genially.
"He is a good hunter, _senor_."
"Don't doubt it a bit," granted the cordial Anglo-Saxon. "Trouble is
that even the best hunters can't tell whether they are going to bring
back the bear, or Mr. Bear is going to get them. That's what makes it
exciting, I reckon."
"Is Don Manuel going bear-hunting?" asked Jimmie, with a newly aroused
boy interest.
"Yes, Jimmie. One's been bothering him right considerable, and he's
going gunning for it," explained Dick.
"Gee! I hope he gets it."
"And I hope he don't," laughed Gordon. "Must you really be going,
colonel? Can't I do a thing for you in the refreshment line first? Well,
so long. Good hunting for your friend. See him later."
Thus cheerfully did the irrepressible Gordon speed Mr. Ainsa on his way.
That young man had somehow the sense of having been too youthful to cope
with the gay Gordon.
* * * * *
Valencia Valdes had not ridden far when she met Ramon Ainsa returning
from his mission. He was a sunny young fellow, whom she had known since
they had been children together.
It occurred to her that he bore himself in a manner that suggested
something important on hand. His boyish mouth was set severely, and he
greeted her with a punctilio quite unusual. At once she jumped shrewdly
to a conclusion.
"Did you bring our mail back with you from Corbett's?" she innocently
inquired.
"Yes, _senorita_."
"Since when have I been '_senorita_' to you, Ramon?"
"Valencia, I should say." He blushed.
"Indeed, I should think so. It hasn't been so long since you called me
Val."
"Ah! Those happy days!" he sighed.
"Fiddlesticks!" she promptly retorted. "Don't be a goose. You're not in
the sere and yellow yet. Don't forget you'll not be twenty-one till next
month."
"One counts time not by years, but by its fullness," he said, in the
manner of one who could tell volumes if he would.
"I see. And what has been happening of such tremendous importance?"
Mr. Ainsa attempted to twirl his mustache, and was as silent as honor
demanded.
"Pooh! It's no secret. Did you find Mr. Gordon at home?"
"At home?" he gasped.
"Well, at Corbett's, then?"
"I didn't know---- Who told you--er----"
"I'm not blind and deaf and dumb, you know."
"But you certainly have a great deal of imagination," he said,
recovering himself.
"Not a bit of it. You carried a challenge to this American from Don
Manuel. Now, I want to know the answer."
"Really, my dear girl----"
"You needn't try to evade me. I'm going to know, if I stay here all
night."
"It's a hold-up, as the Americans say," he joked.
"I don't care what you call it. You have got to tell me, you know."
"But I can't tell you, _nina_. It isn't mine to tell."
"Anyhow, you can't keep me from guessing," she said, with an
inspiration.
"No, I don't see how I can very well," he admitted.
"The American accepted the challenge immediately."
"But he didn't," broke out the young man.
"Then he refused?"
"That's a little obvious now," replied Ramon, with a touch of chagrin.
"He was very angry about it, and threatened to call the law to his aid."
Her friend surrendered at discretion, and broke into a laugh of delight.
"I never saw such a fellow, Val. He seemed to think it was all a joke.
He must have known why I was there, but before I could get in a word he
got hold of my hand and shook it till I wanted to shriek with the pain.
He's got a grip like a bear. And he persisted in assuming we were the
best of friends. Wouldn't read the letter at all."
"But after he did?"
"Said duels were not fashionable among his people any more."
"He is very sensible, but I'm afraid Manuel won't rest satisfied with
that," the girl sighed.
"I hinted as much, and told him to go armed. What do you think the
madman did then?"
"I can never guess."
Ramon retailed the chicken-shooting episode.
"You were to mention that to Manuel, I suppose?'" the girl said
thoughtfully.
"So I understood. He was giving fair warning."
"But Manuel won't be warned."
"When he hears of it he'll be more anxious than ever to fight."
Valencia nodded. "A spur to a willing horse."
"If he knew he would be killed it would make no difference to him. He is
quite fearless."
"Quite."
"But he is a very good shot, too. You do not need to be alarmed for
him."
"Oh, no! Not at all," the girl answered scornfully. "He is only my
distant cousin, anyhow--and my lover."
"It is hard, Val. Perhaps I might pick a quarrel with this American
and----"
She caught him up sharply, but he forgave it when he saw her white
misery.
"Don't you dare think of it, Ramon Ainsa. One would think nobody in the
valley had any business except fighting with this man. What has he done
to you? Or to these others? You are very brave, all of you, when you
know you are a hundred to one. I suppose _you_, too, will want to shoot
him from ambush?"
This bit of feminine injustice hurt the young man, but he only said
quietly:
"No; I don't think I would do that."
Impulsively she put out her hand.
"Forgive me, Ramon. I don't mean that, of course, but I'm nearly beside
myself. Why must all this bad will and bloodshed come into our happy
little valley? If we must have trouble why can't we let the law settle
it? I thought you were my friends--you and Manuel and my people--but
between you I am going to be made unhappy for life."
She broke down suddenly and began to sob. The lad slipped to the ground
and went quickly to her, putting an arm around her waist across the
saddle.
"Don't cry, Val. We all love you--of course we do. How can we help it?
It will all come right yet. Don't cry, _nina_"
"How can it come right, with all of you working to make things wrong?"
she sobbed.
"Perhaps the stranger will go away."
"He won't. He is a man, and he won't let you drive him out."
"We'll find some way, Val, to save Manuel for you."
"But it isn't only Manuel. I don't want any of you hurt--you or
anybody--not even this Mr. Gordon. Oh, Ramon, help me to stop this
wicked business."
"If you can tell me how."
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, as a sign that her weakness was
past.
"We must find a way. Do you know, my own people are in a dangerous mood?
They think this man's some kind of a demon. I shall talk to them
to-night. And you must send Manuel to me. Perhaps he may listen to me."
Ainsa agreed, though he felt sure that even she could not induce his
friend to withdraw from a position which he felt his honor called him to
take.
Nor did the mistress of the valley find it easy to lead her tenants to
her way of thinking. They were respectful, outwardly acquiescent, but
the girl saw, with a sinking heart, that they remained of their own
opinion. Whether he were man or devil, they were determined to make an
end of Gordon's intrusion.
CHAPTER XI
THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY AND THE TWENTIETH
It was the second day after Pesquiera's challenge that his rival was
called to Santa Fe, the capital of the State, to hold a conference with
his lawyers about the progress of the suit of ouster against those
living on the Moreno grant. Gordon knew how acute was the feeling of the
residents of the valley against him. The Corbetts, whose homestead was
not included in either the original Valdes or Moreno grant, reported
daily to him whatever came to their ears. He could see that the
impression was strong among the Mexicans that their champion, Dona Maria
as they called her, would be worsted in the courts if the issue ever
came to final trial.
To live under the constant menace of an attack from ambush is a strain
upon the best of nerves. Dick and his friend Davis rode out of the
valley to meet the Santa Fe stage with a very sensible relief. For a few
days, anyhow, they would be back where they could see the old Stars and
Stripes flutter, where feudal retainers and sprouts of Spanish
aristocracy were not lying in wait with fiery zeal to destroy the
American interloper.
They reached the little city late, but soon after sunup Gordon rose,
took a bath, dressed, and strolled out into the quaint old town which
lays claim to being the earliest permanent European settlement in the
country. It was his first visit to the place, and as he poked his nose
into out of the way corners Dick found every step of his walk
interesting.
Through narrow, twisted streets he sauntered, along unpaved roads
bounded by century-old adobe houses. His walk took him past the San
Miguel Church, said to be the oldest in America. A chubby-faced little
priest was watering some geraniums outside, and he showed Dick through
the mission, opening the door of the church with one of a bunch of large
keys which hung suspended from his girdle. The little man went through
the usual patter of the guide with the facility of long practice.
The church was built, he said, in 1540, though Bandelier inaccurately
sets the date much later. The roof was destroyed by the Pueblo Indians
in 1680 during an attack upon the settlement, at which time the
inhabitants took refuge within the mission walls. These are from three
to five feet thick. The arrows of the natives poured through the
windows. The senor could still see the holes in the pictures, could he
not? Penuelo restored the church in 1710, as could be read by the
inscription carved upon the gallery beam. It would no doubt interest the
senor to know that one of the paintings was by Cimabue, done in 1287,
and that the seven hundred pound bell was cast in Spain during the year
1356 and had been dragged a thousand miles across the deserts of the new
world by the devoted pioneer priests who carried the Cross to the simple
natives of that region.
Gordon went blinking out of the San Miguel mission into a world that
basked indolently in a pleasant glow of sunshine. It seemed to him that
here time had stood still. This impression remained with him during his
tramp back to the hotel. He passed trains of faggot-laden burros, driven
by Mexicans from Tesuque and by Indians from adjoining villages, the
little animals so packed around their bellies with firewood that they
reminded him of caricatures of beruffed Elizabethan dames of the olden
days.
Surely this old town, which seemed to be lying in a peaceful siesta for
centuries unbroken, was an unusual survival from the buried yesterdays
of history. It was hard to believe, for instance, that the Governor's
Palace, a long one-story adobe structure stretching across one entire
side of the plaza, had been the active seat of so much turbulent and
tragic history, that for more than three hundred years it had been
occupied continuously by Spanish, Mexican, Indian, and American
governors. Its walls had echoed the noise of many a bloody siege and
hidden many an execution and assassination. From this building the old
Spanish cavaliers Onate and Vicente de Salivar and Penalosa set out on
their explorations. From it issued the order to execute forty-eight
Pueblo prisoners upon the plaza in front. Governor Armijo had here
penned his defiance to General Kearney, who shortly afterward nailed
upon the flagpole the Stars and Stripes. The famous novel "Ben Hur" was
written in one of these historic rooms.
But the twentieth century had leaned across the bridge of time to shake
hands with the sixteenth. A new statehouse had been built after the
fashion of new Western commonwealths, and the old Palace was now given
over to curio stores and offices. Everywhere the new era compromised
with the old. He passed the office of the lawyer he had come to consult,
and upon one side of the sign ran the legend:
+---------------------------------+
| Despacho |
| de |
| Thomas M. Fitt, Licendiado. |
+---------------------------------+
Upon the other he read an English translation:
+---------------------------------+
| Law Office |
| of |
| Thomas M. Fitt, Attorney. |
+---------------------------------+
Plainly the old civilization was beginning to disappear before an alert,
aggressive Americanism.
At the hotel the modern spirit became so pronounced during breakfast,
owing to the conversation of a shoe and a dress-goods drummer at an
adjoining table, that Gordon's imagination escaped from the tramp of
Spanish mailclad cavalry and from thoughts of the plots and counterplots
that had been devised in the days before American occupancy.
In the course of the morning Dick, together with Davis, called at the
office of his attorney. Thomas M. Fitt, a bustling little man with a
rather pompous manner, welcomed his client effusively. He had been
appointed local attorney in charge by Gordon's Denver lawyers, and he
was very eager to make the most of such advertising as his connection
with so prominent a case would bring.
He washed the backs of his hands with the palms as he bowed his visitors
to chairs.
"I may say that the case is progressing favorably--very favorably
indeed, Mr. Gordon. The papers have been drawn and filed. We await an
answer from the defendants. I anticipate that there will be only the
usual court delays in pressing the action."
"We'll beat them, I suppose," Dick replied, with a manner almost of
indifference.
"One can never be positive in advance, but I'd like to own your claim to
the estate, Mr. Gordon," laughed the lawyer wheezily.
"Think we'll be able to wolf the real owners out of their property all
right, do you?"
Fitt's smile went out like the flame of a burnt match. The wrinkles of
laughter were ironed out of his fat cheeks. He stared at his client in
surprise. It took him a moment to voice the dignified protest he felt
necessary.
"Our title is good in law, Mr. Gordon. I have been over the evidence
very carefully. The court decisions all lean our way. Don Bartolome
Valdes, the original grantee, failed to perfect his right of ownership
in many ways. It is very doubtful whether he himself had not before his
death abandoned his claim. His official acts appear to point to that
conclusion. Our case is a very substantial one--very substantial,
indeed."
"The Valdes' tenants have settled on the land, grazed their flocks over
it, bought farms here and there from the heirs, haven't they?"
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