As Farrel approached the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa, a man in the
rusty brown habit of a Franciscan friar rose from a bench just outside
the entrance to the Mission garden.
"My son," he said, in calm, paternal accents and speaking in Spanish,
"I knew you would come to see your old friends when you had laid aside
the burdens of the day. I have waited here to be first to greet you;
for you I am guilty of the sin of selfishness."
"Padre Dominic!" Don Mike grasped the out-stretched hand and wrung it
heartily. "Old friend! Old Saint! Not since my confirmation have I
asked for your blessing," and with the words he bent his head while the
old friar, making the sign of the cross, asked the blessing of God upon
the last of the Farrels.
Don Mike drew his old friend down to the seat the latter had just
vacated. "We will talk here for awhile, Father," he suggested. "I
expect the arrival of a friend in an automobile and I would not be in
the garden when he passes. Later I will visit with the others. Good
Father Dominic, does God still bless you with excellent health?"
"He does, Miguel, but the devil afflicts me with rheumatism."
"You haven't changed a bit, father Dominic."
"Mummies do not change, my son. I have accomplished ninety-two years
of my life; long ago I used up all possibilities for change, even for
the worse. It is good to have you home, Miguel. Pablo brought us the
news early this morning. We wondered why you did not look in upon us
as you passed last night."
"I looked in at my father's grave. I was in no mood for meeting those
who had loved him."
For perhaps half an hour they conversed; then the peace of the valley
was broken by the rattling and labored puffing of an asthmatic
automobile.
Father Dominic rose and peered around the corner. "Yonder comes one
who practises the great virtue of economy," he announced, "for he is
running without lights. Doubtless he deems the moonlight sufficient."
Farrel stepped out into the road and held up his arm as a signal for
the motorist to halt. Old Bill Conway swung his prehistoric automobile
off the road and pulled up before the Mission, his carbon-heated motor
continuing to fire spasmodically even after he had turned off the
ignition.
"Hello, Miguel," he called, cheerily. "What are you doing here, son?"
"Calling on my spiritual adviser and waiting for you, Bill."
"Howdy, Father Dominic." Conway leaped out and gave his hand to the
old friar. "Miguel, how did you know I was coming?"
"This is the only road out of Agua Caliente basin--and I know you!
You'd give your head for a football to anybody you love, but the man
who takes anything away from you will have to get up early in the
morning."
"Go to the head of the class, boy. You're right. I figured Parker
would be getting up rather early tomorrow morning and dusting into El
Toro to clear for action, so I thought I'd come in to-night. I'm going
to rout out an attorney the minute I get to town, have him draw up a
complaint in my suit for damages against Parker for violation of
contract, file the complaint the instant the county clerk's office
opens in the morning and then attach his account in the El Toro bank."
"You might attach his stock in that institution while you're at it,
Bill. However, I wouldn't stoop so low as to attach his two
automobiles. The Parkers are guests of mine and I wouldn't
inconvenience the ladies for anything,"
"By the Holy Poker! Have they got two automobiles?" There was a hint
of apprehension in old Conway's voice.
"Si, _señor_. A touring car and a limousine."
"Oh, lord! I'm mighty glad you told me, Miguel. I only stole the
spark plugs from that eight cylinder touring car. Lucky thing the
hounds know me. They like to et me up at first."
Farrel sat down on the filthy running board of Bill Conway's car and
laughed softly. "Oh, Bill, you're immense! So that's why you're
running without lights! You concluded that even if he did get up early
in the morning you couldn't afford to permit him to reach El Toro
before the court-house opened for business."
"A wise man counteth his chickens before they are hatched, Miguel.
Where does Parker keep the limousine?"
"Bill, I cannot tell you that. These people are my guests."
"Oh, very well. Now that I know it's there I'll find it. What did you
want to see me about, boy?"
"I've been thinking of our conversation of this afternoon, Bill, and as
a result I'm panicky. I haven't any right to drag you into trouble or
ask you to share my woes. I've thought it over and I think I shall
play safe. Parker will get the ranch in the long run, but if I give
him a quit-claim deed now I think he will give me at least a quarter of
a million dollars. It'll be worth that to him to be free to proceed
with his plans."
"Yes, I can understand that, Miguel, and probably, from a business
standpoint, your decision does credit to your common sense. But how
about this Jap colony?"
"Bill, can two lone, poverty-stricken Californians hope to alter the
immigration laws of the entire United States? Can we hope to keep the
present Japanese population of California confined to existing areas?"
"No, I suppose not."
"I had a wild hope this afternoon--guess I was a bit theatrical--but it
was a hope based on selfishness. I'm only twenty-eight years old,
Bill, but you are nearly sixty. I'm too young to sacrifice my old
friends, so I've waited here to tell you that you are released from
your promise to support me. Settle with Parker and pull out in peace."
Conway pondered. "Wel-l-l-l," he concluded, finally, "perhaps you're
right, son. Nevertheless, I'm going to enter suit and attach. Foolish
to hunt big game with an empty gun, Miguel. Parker spoke of an
amicable settlement, but as Napoleon remarked, 'God is on the side of
the strongest battalions,' and an amicable settlement is much more
amicably obtained, when a forced settlement is inevitable." And the
cunning old rascal winked solemnly.
Farrel stood up. "Well, that's all I wanted to see you about, Bill.
That, and to say 'thank you' until you are better paid."
"Well, I'm on my way, Miguel." The old contractor shook hands with
Father Dominic and Farrel, cranked his car, turned it and headed back
up the San Gregorio, while Father Dominic guided Don Mike into the
Mission refectory, where Father Andreas and the lay brothers sat around
the dinner table, discussing a black scale which had lately appeared on
their olive trees.
At the entrance to the palm avenue, Bill Conway stopped his car and
proceeded afoot to the Farrel hacienda, which he approached cautiously
from the rear, through the oaks. A slight breeze was blowing down the
valley, so Conway manoeuvred until a short quick bark from one of
Farrel's hounds informed him that his scent had been borne to the
kennel and recognized as that of a friend. Confident now that he would
not be discovered by the inmates of the hacienda, Bill Conway proceeded
boldly to the barn. Just inside the main building which, in more
prosperous times on El Palomar, had been used for storing hay, the
touring car stood. Conway fumbled along the instrument board and
discovered the switch key still in the lock, so he turned on the
headlights and discovered the limousine thirty feet away in the rear of
the barn. Ten minutes later, with the spark plugs from both cars
carefully secreted under a pile of split stove wood in the yard, he
departed as silently as he had come.
About nine o'clock Don Mike left the Mission and walked home. On the
hills to the north he caught the glare of a camp-fire against the
silvery sky; wherefore he knew that Don Nicolás Sandoval and his
deputies were guarding the Loustalot sheep.
At ten o'clock he entered the patio. In a wicker chaise-longue John
Parker lounged on the porch outside his room; Farrel caught the scent
of his cigar on the warm, semi-tropical night, saw the red end of it
gleaming like a demon's eye.
"Hello, Mr. Farrel," Parker greeted him. "Won't you sit down and smoke
a cigar with me before turning in?"
"Thank you. I shall be happy to." He crossed the garden to his guest,
sat down beside him and gratefully accepted the fragrant cigar Parker
handed him. A moment later Kay joined them.
"Wonderful night," Parker remarked. "Mrs. P. retired early, but Kay
and I sat up chatting and enjoying the peaceful loveliness of this old
garden. A sleepless mocking bird and a sleepy little thrush gave a
concert in the sweet-lime tree; a couple of green frogs in the fountain
rendered a bass duet; Kay thought that if we remained very quiet the
spirits of some lovers of the 'splendid idle forties' might appear in
your garden."
The mood of the night was still upon the girl. In the momentary
silence that followed she commenced singing softly:
I saw an old-fashioned missus,
Taking old-fashioned kisses,
In an old-fashioned garden,
From an old-fashioned beau.
Don Mike slid off the porch and went to his own room, returning
presently with a guitar. "I've been wanting to play a little," he
confessed as he tuned the neglected instrument, "but it seemed sort of
sacrilegious--after coming home and finding my father gone and the
ranch about to go. However--why sip sorrow with a long spoon? What's
that ballad about the old-fashioned garden, Miss Kay? I like it. If
you'll hum it a few times--"
Ten minutes later he knew the simple little song and was singing it
with her. Mrs. Parker, in dressing gown, slippers and boudoir cap,
despairing of sleep until all of the members of her family had first
preceded her to bed, came out and joined them; presently they were all
singing happily together, while Don Mike played or faked an
accompaniment.
At eleven o'clock Farrel gave a final vigorous strum to the guitar and
stood up to say good-night.
"Shall we sing again to-morrow night, Don Mike?" Kay demanded, eagerly.
Farrel's glance rested solemnly upon her father's face. "Well, if we
all feel happy to-morrow night I see no objection," he answered. "I
fear for your father, Miss Kay. Have you told him of my plans for
depleting his worldly wealth?"
She flushed a little and answered in the affirmative.
"How does the idea strike you, Mr. Parker?"
John Parker grinned--the superior grin of one who knows his superior
strength, "Like a great many principles that are excellent in theory,
your plan will not work in practice."
"No?"
"No."
For the second time that day Kay saw Don Mike's face light up with that
insouciant boyish smile.
Then he skipped blithely across the garden thrumming the guitar and
singing:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the
coming of the Lord!
At seven o'clock next morning, while Miguel Farrel was shaving, John
Parker came to his door, knocked, and without further ado came into the
room.
"Farrel," he began, briskly, "I do not relish your way of doing
business. Where are the spark plugs of my two cars?"
"My dear man, I haven't taken them, so why do you ask me? I am not
flattered at your blunt hint that I would so far forget my position as
host as to steal the spark plugs from my guest's automobiles."
"I beg your pardon. Somebody took them and naturally I jumped to the
conclusion that you were the guilty party."
Don Mike shaved in silence.
"Do you know who removed those spark plugs, Mr. Farrel?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
"Who did it?"
"Bill Conway. He came by last night and concluded it would be better
to make quite certain that you remained away from El Toro until about
nine-thirty o'clock this morning. It was entirely Bill's idea. I did
not suggest it to him, directly or indirectly. He's old enough to roll
his own hoop. He had a complaint in action drawn up against you last
night; it will be filed at nine o'clock this morning and immediately
thereafter your bank account and your stock in the First National Bank
of El Toro will be attached. Of course you will file a bond to lift
the attachment, but Bill will have your assets where he can levy on
them when he gets round to collecting on the judgment which he will
secure against you unless you proceed with the contract for that dam."
"And this is Conway's work entirely?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's clever work. I'm sorry it wasn't yours. May I have the loan of
a saddle horse--Panchito or the gray?"
"Not to ride either of them, breakfastless, twenty-one miles to El Toro
in two hours. They can do it, but not under an impost of a hundred and
ninety pounds. You might ruin both of them--" he scraped his chin,
smiling blandly-- "and I know you'd about ruin yourself, sir. The
saddle had commenced to get very sore before you had completed eight
miles yesterday."
"Then I'm out of luck, I dare say."
"Strikes me that way, Mr. Parker."
"Very well. You force me to talk business. What will that quit-claim
deed cost me?"
"Six hundred thousand dollars. I've raised the ante since last night."
"I'll not pay it."
"What will you pay?"
"About fifty per cent. of it."
"I might consider less than my first figure and more than your last.
Make me a firm offer--in writing--and I'll give you a firm answer the
instant you hand me the document. I'm a poor bargainer. Haggling
irritates me--so I never haggle. And I don't care a tinker's hoot
whether you buy me off or not. After nine o'clock this morning you
will have lost the opportunity, because I give you my word of honor, I
shall decline even to receive an offer."
He reached over on his bureau and retrieved therefrom a sheet of paper.
"Here is the form I desire your offer to take, sir," he continued,
affably, and handed the paper to Parker. "Please re-write it in ink,
fill in the amount of your offer and sign it. You have until nine
o'clock, remember. At nine-one you will be too late."
Despite his deep annoyance, Parker favored him with a sardonic grin.
"You're a good bluffer, Farrel."
Don Mike turned from the mirror and regarded his guest very solemnly.
"How do you know?" he queried, mildly. "You've never seen me bluff.
I've seen a few inquests held in this country over some men who bluffed
in an emergency. We're no longer wild and woolly out here, but when we
pull, we shoot. Remember that, sir."
Parker felt himself abashed in the presence of this cool young man, for
nothing is so disconcerting as a defeated enemy who refuses to
acknowledge defeat. It occurred to Parker in that moment that there
was nothing extraordinary in Farrel's action; for consideration of the
sweetness of life cannot be presumed to arouse a great deal of interest
in one who knows he will be murdered if he does not commit suicide.
John Parker tucked the paper in his pocket and thoughtfully left the
room. "The boy distrusts me," he soliloquized, "afraid I'll go back on
any promise I make him, so he demands my offer in writing. Some more
of his notions of business, Spanish style. Stilted and unnecessary.
How like all of his kind he is! Ponderous in minor affairs, casual in
major matters of business."
An hour later he came up to Don Mike, chatting with Kay and Mrs. Parker
on the porch, and thrust an envelope into Farrel's hand.
"Here is my offer--in writing."
"Thank you, sir." Don Mike thrust the envelope unopened into the
breast pocket of his coat and from the side pocket of the same garment
drew another envelope. "Here is my answer--in writing."
Parker stared at him in frank amazement and admiration; Kay's glance,
as it roved from her father to Don Mike and back again, was sad and
troubled.
"Then you've reopened negotiations, father," she demanded, accusingly.
He nodded. "Our host has a persuasive way about him, Kay," he
supplemented. "He insisted so on my making him an offer that finally I
consented."
"And now," Farrel assured her, "negotiations are about to be closed."
"Absolutely?"
"Absolutely. Never to be reopened, Miss Kay."
Parker opened his envelope and read. His face was without emotion.
"That answer is entirely satisfactory to me, Mr. Farrel," he said,
presently, and passed the paper to his daughter. She read:
I was tempted last night. You should have closed then. I have changed
my mind. Your offer--whatever it may be--is declined.
"I also approve," Kay murmured, and in the swift glance she exchanged
with Don Miguel he read something that caused his heart to beat
happily. Mrs. Parker took the paper from her daughter's hand and read
it also.
"Very well, Ajax. I think, we all think a great deal more of you for
defying the lightning," was her sole comment.
Despite his calm, John Parker was irritated to the point of fury. He
felt that he had been imposed upon by Don Mike; his great god,
business, had been scandalously flouted.
"I am at a loss to understand, Mr. Farrel," he said, coldly, "why you
have subjected me to the incivility of requesting from me an offer in
writing and then refusing to read it when I comply with your request.
Why subject me to that annoyance when you knew you intended to refuse
any offer I might make you? I do not relish your flippancy at my
expense, sir."
"Do you not think, sir, that I can afford a modicum of flippancy when I
pay such a fearfully high price for it?" Don Mike countered smilingly.
"I'll bet a new hat my pleasantry cost me not less than four hundred
thousand dollars. I think I'll make certain," and he opened Parker's
envelope and read what was contained therein. "Hum-m! Three hundred
and twenty-five thousand?"
Parker extended his hand. "I would be obliged to you for the return of
that letter," he began, but paused, confused, at Farrel's cheerful,
mocking grin.
"All's fair in love and war," he quoted, gaily. "I wanted a document
to prove to some banker or pawn-broker that I have an equity in this
ranch and it is worth three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars,
in the opinion of the astute financier who holds a first mortgage on
it. Really, I think I'd be foolish to give away this evidence," and he
tucked it carefully back in his pocket.
"I wonder," Kay spoke up demurely, "which ancestor from which side of
the family tree put that idea in his head, father?"
Don Mike pretended not to have heard her. He turned kindly to John
Parker and laid a friendly hand upon the latter's arm.
"I think Bill Conway will drift by about ten o'clock or ten-thirty, Mr.
Parker. I know he will not cause you any more inconvenience than he
finds absolutely necessary, sir. He's tricky, but he isn't mean."
Parker did not reply. He did not know whether to laugh or fly into a
rage, to offer Don Mike his hand or his fist. The latter must have
guessed Parker's feelings, for he favored his guests with a Latin shrug
and a deprecatory little smile, begged to be excused and departed for
the barn. A quarter of an hour later Kay saw him and Pablo ride out of
the yard and over the hills toward the west; she observed that Farrel
was riding his father's horse, wherefore she knew that he had left
Panchito behind for her.
Farrel found Don Nicolás Sandoval, the sheriff, by riding straight to a
column of smoke he saw rising from a grove of oaks on a flat hilltop.
"What do you mean by camping out here, Don Nicolás?" Farrel demanded as
he rode up. "Since when has it become the fashion to await a formal
invitation to the hospitality of the Rancho Palomar?"
"I started to ride down to the hacienda at sunset last night," Don
Nicolás replied, "but a man on foot and carrying a rifle and a blanket
came over the hills to the south. I watched him through my binoculars.
He came down into the wash of the San Gregorio--and I did not see him
come out. So I knew he was camped for the night in the willow thickets
of the river bed; that he was a stranger in the country, else he would
have gone up to your hacienda for the night; that his visit spelled
danger to you, else why did he carry a rifle?
"I went supperless, watching from the hillside to see if this stranger
would light a fire in the valley."
"He did not?" Farrel queried.
"Had he made a camp-fire, my boy, I would have accorded myself the
pleasure of an informal visit, incidentally ascertaining who he was and
what he wanted. I am very suspicious of strangers who make cold camps
in the San Gregorio. At daylight this morning I rode down the wash and
searched for his camp. I found where he had slept in the grass--also
this," and he drew from his pocket a single rifle cartridge.
"Thirty-two-forty caliber, Miguel," he continued, "with a soft-nose
bullet. I do not know of one in this county who shoots such a heavy
rifle. In the old days we used the .44 caliber, but nowadays, we
prefer nothing heavier than a .30 and many use a .35 caliber for deer."
Farrel drew a 6 millimeter Mannlicher carbine from the gun scabbard on
his saddle, dropped five shells into the magazine, looked at his sights
and thrust the weapon back into its receptacle. "I think I ought to
have some more life insurance," he murmured, complacently. "By the
way, Don Nicolás, about how many sheep have I attached?"
"Loustalot's foreman says nine thousand in round numbers."
"Where is the sheep camp?"
"Over yonder." Don Nicolás waved a careless hand toward the west. "I
saw their camp-fire last night."
"I'm going over to give them the rush."
"By all means, Miguel. If you run those Basques off the ranch I will
be able to return to town and leave my deputies in charge of these
sheep. Keep your eyes open, Miguel. _Adios, muchacho_!"
Farrel jogged away with Pablo at his heels. Half an hour later he had
located the sheep camp and ridden to it to accost the four bewhiskered
Basque shepherds who, surrounded by their dogs, sullenly watched his
approach.
"Who is the foreman?" Don Mike demanded in English as he rode.
"I am, you ---- ---- ----," one of the Basques replied,
briskly. "I don't have for ask who are you. I know."
"Mebbeso some day, you forget," Pablo cried. "I will give you
something for make you remember, pig." The old majordomo was riding
the black mare. A touch of the spur, a bound, and she was beside
Loustalot's foreman, with Pablo cutting the fellow furiously over the
head and face with his heavy quirt. The other three sheepmen ran for
the tent, but Don Mike spurred the gray in between them and their
objective, at the same time drawing his carbine.
There was no further argument. The sheepherders' effects were soon
transferred to the backs of three burros and, driving the little
animals ahead of them, the Basques moved out. Farrel and Don Nicolás
followed them to the boundaries of the ranch and shooed them out
through a break in the fence.
"Regarding that stranger who camped last night in the valley, Don
Miguel. Would it not be well to look into his case?"
Don Mike nodded. "We will ride up the valley, Pablo, as if we seek
cattle; if we find this fellow we will ask him to explain."
"That is well," the old Indian agreed, and dropped back to his
respectful position in his master's rear. As they topped the ridge
that formed the northern buttress of the San Gregorio, Pablo rode to
the left and started down the hill through a draw covered with a thick
growth of laurel, purple lilac, a few madone trees and an occasional
oak. He knew that a big, five-point buck had its habitat here and it
was Pablo's desire to jump this buck out and thus afford his master a
glimpse of the trophy that awaited him later in the year.
From the valley below a rifle cracked. Pablo slid out of his saddle
with the ease of a youth and lay flat on the ground beside the trail.
But no bullet whined up the draw or struck near him, wherefore he knew
that he was not the object of an attack; yet there was wild pounding of
his heart when the rifle spoke again and again.
The thud of hoofs smote his ear sharply, so close was he to the ground.
Slowly Pablo raised his head. Over the hog's back which separated the
draw in which Pablo lay concealed from the draw down which Don Miguel
had ridden, the gray horse came galloping--riderless--and Pablo saw the
stock of the rifle projecting from the scabbard. The runaway plunged
into the draw some fifteen yards in front of Pablo, found a cow-trail
leading down it and disappeared into the valley.
Pablo's heart swelled with agony. "It has happened!" he murmured.
"Ah, Mother of God! It has happened!"
Two more shots in rapid succession sounded from the valley. "He makes
certain of his kill," thought Pablo. After a while he addressed the
off front foot of the black mare. "I will do likewise."
He started crawling on his belly up out of the draw to the crest of the
hog's back. He had an impression, amounting almost to a certainty,
that the assassin in the valley had not seen him riding down the draw,
otherwise he would not have opened fire on Don Miguel. He would have
bided his time and chosen an occasion when there would be no witnesses.
For an hour he waited, watching, grieving, weeping a little. From the
draw where Don Miguel lay no sound came forth. Pablo tried hard to
erase from his mind a vision of what he would find when, his primal
duty of vengeance, swift and complete, accomplished, he should go down
into that draw. His tear-dimmed, bloodshot eyes searched the
valley--ah, what was that? A cow, a deer or a man? Surely something
had moved in the brush at the edge of the river wash.
Pablo rubbed the moisture from his eyes and looked again. A man was
crossing the wash on foot and he carried a rifle. A few feet out in
the wash he paused, irresolute, turned back, and knelt in the sand.
"Oh, blessed Mother of God!" Pablo almost sobbed, joyously. "I will
burn six candles in thy honor and keep flowers on thy altar at the
Mission for a year!"
Again the man stood up and started across the wash. He no longer had
his rifle. "It is as I thought," Pablo soliloquized. "He has buried
the rifle in the sand."
Pablo watched the man start resolutely across the three-mile stretch of
flat ground between the river and the hills to the south. Don Nicolás
Sandoval had remarked that the stranger had come in over the hills to
the south. Very well! Believing himself undetected, he would depart
in the same direction. The Rancho Palomar stretched ten miles to the
south and it would be a strange coincidence if, in that stretch of
rolling, brushy country, a human being should cross his path.
The majordomo quickly crawled back into the draw where the black mare
patiently awaited him. Leading her, he started cautiously down, taking
advantage of every tuft of cover until, arrived at the foot of the
draw, he discovered that some oaks effectually screened his quarry from
sight. Reasoning quite correctly that the same oaks as effectually
screened him from his quarry, Pablo mounted and galloped straight
across country for his man.
He rode easily, for he was saving the mare's speed for a purpose. The
fugitive, casting a guilty look to the rear, saw him coming and paused,
irresolute, but observing no evidences of precipitate haste, continued
his retreat, which (Pablo observed, grimly) was casual now, as if he
desired to avert suspicion.
Pablo pulled the mare down to a trot, to a walk. He could afford to
take his time and it was not part of his plan to bungle his work by
undue baste. The fugitive was crossing through a patch of lilac and
Pablo desired to overhaul him in a wide open space beyond, so he urged
the mare to a trot again and jogged by on a parallel course, a hundred
yards distant.
"_Buena dias, señor_," he called, affably, and waved his hand at the
stranger, who waved back.
On went the old majordomo, across the clear space and into the oaks
beyond. The fugitive, his suspicions now completely lulled, followed
and when he was quite in the center of this chosen ground, Pablo
emerged from the shelter of the oaks and bore down upon him. The mare
was at a fast lope and Pablo's rawhide riata was uncoiled now; the loop
swung in slow, fateful circles--
There could be no mistaking his purpose. With a cry that was curiously
animal-like, the man ran for the nearest brush. Twenty feet from him,
Pablo made his cast and shrieked exultantly as the loop settled over
his prey. A jerk and it was fast around the fellow's mid-riff; a half
hitch around the pommel, a touch of a huge Mexican spur to the flank of
the fleet little black thoroughbred and Pablo Artelan was headed for
home! He picked his way carefully in order that he might not snag in
the bushes that which he dragged behind him, and he leaned forward in
the saddle to equalize the weight of the THING that bumped and leaped
and slid along the ground behind him. There had been screams at first,
mingled with Pablo's exultant shouts of victory, but by the time the
river was reached there was no sound but a scraping, slithering
one--the sound of the vengeance of Pablo Artelan.
When he reached the wagon road he brought the mare to a walk. He did
not look back, for he knew his power; the scraping, slithering sound
was music to his ears; it was all the assurance he desired. As calmly
as, during the spring round-up, he dragged a calf up to the branding
fire, he dragged his victim up into the front yard of the Rancho
Palomar and paused before the patio gate.
"Ho! Señor Parker!" he shouted. "Come forth. I have something for
the _señor_. Queeck, _Señor_!"
The gate opened and John Parker stepped out. "Hello, Pablo! What's
all the row about?"
Pablo turned in his saddle and pointed. "_Mira_! Look!" he croaked.
"Good God!" Parker cried. "What is that?"
"Once he use' for be one Jap. One good friend of you, I theenk, Señor
Parker. He like for save you much trouble, I theenk, so he keel my Don
Mike--an' for that I have--ah, but you see! An' now, señor, eet is all
right for take the Rancho Palomar! Take eet, take eet! Ees nobody for
care now--nobody! Eef eet don' be for you daughter I don't let you
have eet. No, sir, I keel it you so queeck--but my Don Mike hes never
forget hes one great _caballero_--so Pablo Artelan mus' not forget,
too--you sleep in theese hacienda, you eat the food--ah, señor, I am so
'shame' for you--and my Don Mike--hees dead--hees dead--"
He slid suddenly off the black mare and lay unconscious in the dust
beside her.