Porfiro Mendez had never been known as a moralist. Naturalists agree
that a wolf has no morals; and Porfiro had not been nicknamed Lobo
without a reason. Lobo wanted Juana. The difference in their ages meant
nothing to him. If it meant the slitting of a few more throats--what of
it? Did he not have Miguel and Ricardo, both experts in that line, to
do as he ordered? And if they were not enough he could easily recruit
more men in Piñon.
Mendez thought these things out, as he rode north to Indian Wells,
flanked on either side by those two henchmen. Mendez wore his red silk
shirt, beaded leather vest with the turquoise buttons, his biggest hat,
which cost a fortune in Mexico City; his tightest leather pants, with
the silver conchas; and his finest boots. The pants were a little tight
around the waist, but this discrepancy was covered by a silken sash,
the fringed ends hanging to his knee.
He smiled at two of the Border Patrol and touched the brim of his big
hat. They did not stop him. Ricardo and Miguel smiled straight ahead. If
they had been alone, perhaps the patrol would have stopped them, because
Ricardo and Miguel were ignorant enough to carry contraband openly. But
not when they were with Lobo Mendez.
“You see,” said Ricardo triumphantly. “Weeth Lobo we are safe.”
“From which are we safe?” asked Miguel.
“Spik _español_,” growled Lobo. “And never make fun from Border Patrol.
Some day these men put you in jail for the rest of my damn life.”
“That ees right,” agreed Ricardo. “You spik _español_, Mike. Me and Lobo
spik plenty Englis’ for ever’-t’ing.”
Lobo snorted. “You are worse from heem, Ricardo. Shut off!”
They rode to Indian Wells and loafed around the town. There were plenty
of _cantinas_ where _tequila_ might be purchased cheaply, an occasional
cock fight to wager a few pesos on, and always plenty of games of
chance--in which the patron took all the chances (if, indeed, he had any
chance at all).
But Lobo Mendez did not linger with the common herd. He went to the Casa
del Diaz, planted himself in a patio chair and ordered _mucho vino_. He
became expansive, but there was only the Indian woman who waited on him,
and those insufferable parrots grating: “_Está la vida--por Dios_” at
each other, as they performed acrobatics on their perches.
Finally he caught sight of Rosita through a doorway, and called to her.
She came out reluctantly, and he motioned her to a chair.
“I have much to talk about,” he told her in Spanish. “In fact, we have
much to talk about, Rosita.”
“Talk,” smiled Rosita. “That is one thing you do well, Porfiro.”
“Yes, I am a great talker.”
“And do little.”
“I do much, when there is much to do. Where is Juana?”
Rosita shrugged her shoulders. “She is not far away.”
“And the gringo--Austin?”
“What of him?” Rosita looked keenly at Mendez.
Mendez did not answer that question, but eyed her cunningly.
“I have been thinking. You will not allow this gringo to wed Juana?”
“Why not?”
“_Madre de Dios!_ She is your daughter, and this gringo is her
half-brother.”
“Well?” Rosita’s features hardened. “What is that to you, Porfiro?”
“This,” lowering his voice. “You hate Señor Austin. This is your threat.
He knows his son loves your daughter, he is afraid to acknowledge her,
and he will pay well to have this stopped. To you he would pay much
American gold to have Juana far away from his son. Am I not right?”
Rosita’s eyes flashed dangerously. “This is not your affair.”
Mendez laughed harshly. “I am no fool. I know all these things. What
would Señor Austin pay me for silence, eh? You do not like that? All
right; let us play this game together. Collect many American dollars
from Austin, take Juana away, and I will marry her myself.”
Rosita remained silent, her eyes searching the gross features of Mendez.
She had hated him for many years, but now she hated him still more. Give
Juana to Mendez? Impossible. But how to get rid of Mendez?
“In Piñon I have a priest,” said Mendez softly. “He will marry us.”
“Juana would never marry you.”
“Why not? Am I not wealthy? Am I not the biggest man in Piñon? You speak
as though I were a peon. Huh!” Mendez snorted and began tugging at his
moustache. Then he drained the rest of the wine at a gulp.
“And you have no compassion for Señor Austin,” continued Mendez. “Did he
not cast you aside in favour of another woman--a white one--and knowing
that a child was to come into the world? You owe him nothing. I, Mendez,
will see that he pays well. Oh, he will pay well, and no mistake.”
“And you will take half,” said Rosita evenly.
“Why not?”
“Did I ask for your assistance in this matter?”
“I offer my help. My wife was your sister. It needs a man to deal with a
man. Your half will be more than the whole would be, if I did not handle
this matter in a big way.”
“Suppose,” softly, “that I did not intend any such a thing.”
“In that event,” grinned Mendez, “I shall handle it for myself alone.”
There was no way to shake Mendez from his purpose.
Graft seldom came his way, and he would make the most of it. “And I
shall marry Juana,” he added firmly. “That is settled. Now, I shall
have more wine and chicken.”
Rosita went to the kitchen, ordered the food and wine, and came back,
but not to continue the conversation. Mendez watched her meet Juana at
a doorway, saw her touch the girl on the arm, and they both entered the
house, closing the door behind them. Mendez scowled and tugged at his
moustache. It occurred to him that Rosita desired a word with Juana,
and he also felt that the word might be about him.
So he got quietly to his feet and stepped over near the door. Just to
one side of the door was a small window, covered with an iron grille.
Luckily for him the window was open, and he could hear the women
talking. With his eyes on the entrance from the _cantina_, both ears
trained on the conversation, Mendez appeared to be merely leaning
against the wall, deep in thought.
They were speaking in English, which Mendez understood better than he
could talk it.
“But why should I go away for a trip, mother?” asked Juana. “There has
been nothing said of any trip. I do not understand.”
“I intended it as a surprise, dear. We can afford it now. There is not
much to be prepared. As for clothes, you can buy them in Chicago.”
“But I do not care to go. It is sweet of you to offer this, mother; but
I do not care to go--alone.”
“Is it because of Hal?” Rosita inquired.
Mendez had pricked up his ears. Rosita was trying to get Juana away. To
Mendez it seemed certain his sister-in-law was trying to double cross
him.
“Hal is in trouble,” replied Juana miserably.
“Trouble?”
“Yes. He says he drank too much in Silver Bar, and they accuse him of
killing a man. He does not remember anything about it. The sheriff
said it was self-defence, and Hal did not get arrested, but Cal Sands
told Hal’s father that it was not self-defence--that Hal shot the man
in the back. Now his people think him a murderer. The sheriff lied to
protect Hal. The dead man was Slade, who was down here several times
with Hal.”
“I remember him,” said Rosita sadly. “But if it was to be a secret, why
did Sands tell Hal’s father?”
“Because he hates Hal. He has hated Hal ever since Hal took me to that
dance at Keno City. You see, Cal Sands asked me to marry him.”
“I thought as much. Where is Hal to-day?”
“He went to Keno City. He is very sick over it all, and I’m afraid he
may meet Cal Sands. He wants to see his mother and sister, but he does
not care to go to the ranch while his father and Cal Sands are there.”
“You have given up the foolish idea of marriage?” asked her mother.
“Is marriage really foolish, then, mother? You said we might marry, as
soon as he had his father’s permission. You forget that Hal is of age.”
“It was for the good of both of you, Juana. Unless his father agreed to
the marriage, Hal would lose his inheritance. Hal is used to luxury. He
loves you now, but would he love you later, when he finds that he must
work every day at small wages to support you? Would he not look back at
what he had given up--and hate you for it? And, Juana, do not forget
that Hal is American--you are Mexican.”
“Am I?”
“What else, child?”
Mendez was obliged to strain his ears to hear what Juana was saying.
“I remember a long time ago--years ago. Some one had placed me on
one of the _cantina_ tables. Porfiro Mendez and some of his men were
in there, and you were behind the bar. One of the men said something
about my being a pretty little thing, and Mendez said: ‘Not bad for
a half-breed--she’s half white.’”
“Why, that--that is ridiculous. Child, you were dreaming.”
“No, not dreaming, mother. Was my father’s name Diaz?”
“This is all foolishness,” said Rosita wearily. “I do not know what ever
put such foolish ideas into your head. Childish dreams that come back
like a reality. You are upset over what happened to Hal. Just forget it
and plan on a nice long trip. I must go.”
Mendez stepped quickly back to his table, and was seated when the Indian
woman came in with the tray of food. Rosita came out, crossed the patio
and entered the _cantina_. Juana had followed her to the doorway, where
she stood and stared at the broad back of Porfiro Mendez.
Had she dreamed all this of the day Mendez had called her a half-breed,
she wondered?
When the Indian woman went back with the empty tray, Juana went swiftly
over to Mendez, who looked up quickly, grunting with astonishment.
“Seet down, _querida mía._”
“I would ask a question.”
“Question?”
“Once you said I was half white.”
“_Madre de Dios!_”
“It was there in the _cantina_, long ago.” Juana pointed a slim finger
toward the doorway. “You said, ‘Not bad for a half-breed--she’s half
white.’”
“_Por Dios!_ I mus’ ’ave been dronk. Seet down, Juana.”
But Juana was not to be so easily appeased. She leaned across the table.
“You knew my father?”
Mendez scowled heavily, thinking swiftly. “No, I never see heem. Thees
Diaz marry your mother biffore I come ’ere.”
“And my mother’s name was Diaz?”
“Sure. Thees worl’ ees full of Diaz people.”
Neither of them saw Rosita come back to the _cantina_ doorway.
“Where is my father now? Is he dead? Why did he leave my mother?”
“She never tell you? Hm-m-m-m-m. Mus’ be secret, eh? Well, thees
Diaz ees not wort’ damn. He don’ trit your mother ver’ good. He’s
’orse-t’ief. Your mother she say to me, ‘Porfiro, thees ’usband from
me ees no damn good.’ I’m say, ‘Rosita, w’at you wan’ me to do from
heem?’ and she say she not stand for heem, biccause he’s not trit
’er good.
“So I’m come over and I’m say to heem, ‘Diaz, I’m come for run hell out
from you, biccause you not trit Rosita ver’ good.’ Thees Diaz scare’
from Porfiro Mendez, and he’s start ronning. I’m chase heem over top of
Yaqui Mountain, and he keep go on and on. _Carajo_, thees man can ron
fas’.”
“Very interesting,” said Juana seriously. “But just now you said you had
never seen Diaz.”
“Ver’ true, but I’m mean I’m never see him close. All thees thing I say
to heem, I’m yall long ways.”
“I see. So my father was not much good?”
“The wors’ man that ever leeve. Now, weel you seet down?”
“No, thank you,” and Juana went back to her room.
Mendez looked over at the _cantina_ doorway, where Rosita was standing,
looking at him. Mendez grunted and poured out a glass of wine.
“_Por Dios! Por Dios! Está la vida,_” shrieked one of the parrots.
“’Ow you like thees ’usband I’m beeld for you, Rosita?” asked Mendez
softly.
“Thank you, Porfiro.”
“Oll right,” and Mendez waved airily. “You are my par’ner, and I’m ’ave
to lie for you.”