by Unknown
"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, señor, 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, señor."
"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 Valdés 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, señorita."
"Since when have I been 'señorita' 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, niña. 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 ca
n we help it? It will all come right yet. Don't cry, niña"
"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 Fé, 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 Moreño 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 Valdés or Moreño grant, reported daily to him whatever came to their ears. He could see that the impression was strong among the Mexicans that their champion, Doña 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 Fé 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 señor 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 señor 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 Bartolomé Valdés, 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 Valdés' tenants have settled on the land, grazed their flocks over it, bought farms here and there from the heirs, haven't they?"
"Exactly. But if the sellers cannot show a good title--and my word as a lawyer for it they can't. Prove that in court and all we'll need is a writ of ejectment against the present holders as squatters. Then----" Fitt snapped his finger and thumb in an airy gesture that swept the Valdés' faction into the middle of the Pacific.
"It'll be the story of Evangeline all over again, won't it?" asked Gordon satirically.