by Unknown
While he pleaded his cause passionately, with all the ardor of hot-blooded Spain, the girl heard only with her ears. She was searching her heart for the answer to the question she asked of it:
"Is this the man?"
A month ago she might have found her answer easier; but she felt that in some subtle, intangible way she was not the same girl as the Valencia Valdés she had known then. Something new had come into her life; something that at times exalted her and seemed to make life's currents sweep with more abandon.
She was at a loss to know what it meant; but, though she would not confess it even to herself, she was aware that the American was the stimulating cause. He was her enemy, and she detested him; and, in the same breath with which she would tell herself this, would come that warm beat of exultant blood she had never known till lately.
With all his ardor, Don Manuel never quickened her pulses. She liked him, understood him, appreciated his value. He was certainly very handsome, and, without doubt, a brave, courteous gentleman of her own set with whom she ought to be happy if she loved him. Ah! If she knew what love were.
So, when the torrent of Pesquiera's speech was for the moment dammed, she could only say:
"I don't know, Manuel."
Confidently he explained away her uncertainty:
"A maiden's love is retiring, shy, like the first flowers of the spring. She doubts it, fears it, hides it, my beloved, like----"
He was just swimming into his vocal stride when she cut him short decisively:
"It isn't that way with me, Manuel. I should tell you if I knew. Tell me what love is, my cousin, and I may find an answer."
He was off again in another lover's rhapsody. This time there was a smile almost of amusement in her eyes as she listened.
"If it is like that, I don't think I love you, Manuel. I don't think poetry about you, and I don't dream about you. Life isn't a desert when you are away, though I like having you here. I don't believe I care for you that way, not if love is what the poets and my cousin Manuel say it is."
Her eyes had been fixed absently now and again on an approaching wagon. It passed on the road below them, and she saw, as she looked down, that her vaquero Pedro lay in the bottom of it upon some hay.
"What is the matter? Are you hurt?" she called down.
The lad who was driving looked up, and flashed a row of white teeth in a smile of reassurance to his mistress.
"It is Pedro, doña. He tried to ride that horse Teddy, and it threw him. Before it could kill him, the Americano jumped in and saved his life."
"What American?" she asked quickly: but already she knew by the swift beating of her heart.
"Señor Muir; the devil fly away with him," replied the boy loyally.
Already his mistress was descending toward him with her sure stride, Don Manuel and his suit forgotten in the interest of this new development of the feud. She made the boy go over the tale minutely, asking questions sometimes when she wanted fuller details.
Meanwhile, Manuel Pesquiera waited, fuming. Most certainly this fellow Gordon was very much in the way. Jealousy began to add its sting to the other reasons good for hastening his revenge.
When Valencia turned again to her cousin her eyes were starry.
"He is brave--this man. Is he not?" she cried.
It happened that Don Manuel, too, was a rider in a thousand. He thought that Fate had been unkind to refuse him this chance his enemy had found. But Pesquiera was a gentleman, and his answer came ungrudgingly:
"My cousin, he is a hero--as I told you before."
"But you think him base," she cried quickly.
"I let the facts speak for me," he shrugged.
"Do they condemn him--absolutely? I think not."
She was a creature of impulse, too fine of spirit to be controlled by the caution of speech that convention demands. She would do justice to her foe, no matter how Manuel interpreted it.
What the young man did think was that she was the most adorable and desirable of earth's dwellers, the woman he must win at all hazards.
"He came here a spy, under a false name. Surely you do not forget that, Valencia," he said.
"I do not forget, either, that we flung his explanations in his face; refused him the common justice of a hearing. Had we given him a chance, all might have been well."
"My cousin is generous," Manuel smiled bitterly.
"I would be just."
"Be both, my beloved, to poor Manuel Pesquiera, an unhappy wreck on the ocean of love, seeking in vain for the harbor."
"There are many harbors, Manuel, for the brave sailor. If one is closed, another is open. He hoists sail, and beats across the main to another port."
"For some. But there are others who will to one port or none. I am of those."
When she left him it was with the feeling that Don Manuel would be hard hit, if she found herself unable to respond to his love.
He was not like this American, competent, energetic, full of the turbulent life of a new nation which turns easily from defeat to fresh victory.
Her heart was full of sympathy, and even pity, for him. But these are only akin to love.
It was not long before Valencia began to suspect that she had not been told the whole truth about the affair of the outlaw horse. There was some air of mystery, of expectation, among her vaqueros.
At her approach, conversation became suspended, and perceptibly shifted to other topics. Moreover, Pedro was troubled in his mind, out of all proportion to the extent of his wound.
She knew it would be no use to question him; but she made occasion soon to send for Juan Gardiez, the lad who had driven him home.
From the doorway of the living-room, Juan presently ducked a bow at her.
"The señorita sent for me?"
"Yes. Come in, Juan. Take that chair."
Now, though Juan had often sat down in the kitchen, he had never before been invited to seat himself in this room. Wherefore, the warm smile that now met him, and went with the invitation, filled him with a more than mild surprise. Gingerly he perched himself on the edge of a chair, twirling his dusty sombrero round and round as a relief to his embarrassment.
"I am sorry, Juan, that you don't like me or trust me any longer," his mistress began.
"But, doña, I do," exclaimed the boy, nearly falling from his chair in amazement.
She shook her head.
"No; I can see you don't. None of you do. You keep secrets from me. You whisper and hide things."
"But, no, señorita----"
"Yes. I can see it plainly. My people do not love me. I must go away from them, since----"
Juan, having in his tender boyish heart a great love for his doña, could not stand this.
"No, no, no, señorita! It is not so. I do assure you it is a mistake. There is nothing about the cattle, nothing about the sheep you do not know. It is all told--all."
"Muy bien. Yet you conceal what happened yesterday to Pedro."
"He was thrown----"
She stopped him with a gesture.
"I don't want to know that again. Tell me what is in the air; what is planned for Señor Gordon; what Pedro has to do with it? Tell me, or leave me to know my people no longer love me."
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 señorita 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 señorita; 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, doña. 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, señorita; which makes it certain that this Señor 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, señorita, 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, señorita."
"And will you let me know, quietly, without telling them?"
"Si, señorita."
"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 señor 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.