Four days before Thanksgiving Brother Anthony returned from El Toro
with Father Dominic's little automobile purring as it had not purred
for many a day, for expert mechanics had given the little car a
thorough overhauling and equipped it with new tires and brake lining at
the expense of Miguel Farrel. Father Dominic looked the rejuvenated
ruin over with prideful eyes and his saintly old face puckered in a
smile.
"Brother Anthony," he declared to that mildly crack-brained person,
"that little conveyance has been responsible for many a furious
exhibition of temper on your part. But God is good. He will forgive
you, and has He not proved it by moving our dear Don Mike to save you
from the plague of repairing it for many months to come?"
Brother Anthony, whose sense of humor, had he ever possessed one, had
long since been ruined in his battles with Father Dominic's automobile,
raised a dour face.
"Speaking of Don Miguel, I am informed that our young Don Miguel has
gone to Baja California, there to race Panchito publicly for a purse of
ten thousand dollars gold. I would, Father Dominic, that I might see
that race."
Father Dominic laid his hand on poor Brother Anthony's shoulder.
"Because you have suffered for righteousness' sake, Brother Anthony,
your wish shall be granted. Tomorrow you shall drive Pablo and
Carolina and me to Tia Juana in Baja California to see Panchito race on
the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day. We will attend mass in San Diego in
the morning and pray for victory for him and his glorious young master."
Big tears stood in Brother Anthony's eyes. At last! At last! Poor
Brother Anthony was a human being, albeit his reason tottered on its
throne at certain times of the moon. He did love race-horses and
horse-races, and for a quarter of a century he had been trying to
forget them in the peace and quiet of the garden of the Mission de la
Madre Dolorosa.
"Our Don Mike has made this possible?" he quavered. Father Dominic
nodded.
"God will pay him," murmured Brother Anthony, and hastened away to the
chapel to remind the Almighty of the debt.
Against the journey to Baja California, Carolina had baked a tremendous
pot of brown beans and fried a hundred tortillas. Pablo had added some
twenty pounds of jerked meat and chilli peppers, a tarpaulin Don Mike
had formerly used when camping, and a roll of bedding; and when Brother
Anthony called for them at daylight the following morning, both were up
and arrayed in their Sunday clothes and gayest colors. In an empty
tobacco sack, worn like an amulet around her fat neck and resting on
her bosom, Carolina carried some twenty-eight dollars earned as a
laundress to Kay and her mother; while in the pocket of Pablo's new
corduroy breeches reposed the two hundred-dollar bills; given him by
the altogether inexplicable Señor Parker. Knowing Brother Anthony to
be absolutely penniless (for he had taken the vow of poverty) Pablo
suffered keenly in the realization that Panchito, the pride of El
Palomar, was to run in the greatest horse race known to man, with not a
centavo of Brother Anthony's money bet on the result. Pablo knew
better than to take Father Dominic into his confidence when the latter
joined them at the Mission, but by the time they had reached El Toro,
he had solved the riddle. He changed one of his hundred dollar bills,
made up a little roll of ten two-dollar bills and slipped it in the
pocket of the brown habit where he knew Brother Anthony kept his
cigarette papers and tobacco.
At Ventura, when they stopped at a garage to take on oil and gasoline,
Brother Anthony showed Pablo the roll of bills, amounting to twenty
dollars, and ascribed his possession of them to nothing more nor less
than a divine miracle. Pablo agreed with him. He also noticed that
for reasons best known to himself, Brother Anthony made no mention of
this miracle to his superior, Father Dominic.
At about two o'clock on Thanksgiving Day the pilgrims from the San
Gregorio sputtered up to the entrance of the Lower California Jockey
Club at Tia Juana, parked, and approached the entrance. They were
hesitant, awed by the scenes around them. Father Dominic's rusty brown
habit and his shovel hat constituted a novel sight in these worldly
precincts, and the old Fedora hat worn by Brother Anthony was the
subject of many a sly nudge and smile. Pablo and Carolina, being
typical of the country, passed unnoticed.
Father Dominic had approached the gateman and in his gentle old voice
had inquired the price of admittance. It was two dollars and fifty
cents! Scandalous! He was about to beat the gatekeeper down; surely
the management had special rates for prelates--
A hand fell on his shoulder and Don Miguel José Maria Federico Noriaga
Farrel was gazing down at him with beaming eyes.
"Perhaps, Father Dominic," he suggested in Spanish and employing the
old-fashioned courtly tone of the _haciendado_, "you will permit me the
great honor of entertaining you." And he dropped a ten-dollar bill in
the cash box and ushered the four _San Gregoriaños_ through the
turn-stile.
"My son, my son," murmured Father Dominic. "What means this
unaccustomed dress? One would think you dwelt in the City of Mexico.
You are unshaven--you resemble a loafer in _cantinas_. That _sombrero_
is, perhaps, fit for a bandit like Pancho Villa, but, my son, you are
an American gentleman. Your beloved grandfather and your equally
beloved father never assumed the dress of our people--"
"Hush! I'm a wild and woolly Mexican sport for a day, padre. Say
nothing and bid the others be silent and make no comment. Come with me
to the grandstand, all of you, and look at the races. Panchito will
not appear until the fifth race."
Father Dominic bent upon Brother Anthony a glance which had the effect
of propelling the brother out of earshot, whereupon the old friar took
his young friend by the arm and lifted his seamed, sweet old face
toward him with all the _insouciance_ of a child.
"Miguel," he whispered, "I'm in the throes of temptation. I told you
of the thousand dollars which the Señora Parker, in a moment of that
great-heartedness which distinguishes her (what a triumph, could I but
baptize her in our faith!) forced Señor Parker to present to me. I
contemplate using it toward the needed repairs to the roof of our
Mission. These repairs will cost at least three thousand dollars, and
the devil has whispered to me--"
"Say no more about it, but bet the money," said Miguel. "Be a sport,
Father Dominic, for the opportunity will never occur again. Before the
sun shall set this day, your one thousand will have grown to ten. Even
if Panchito should lose, I will guarantee you the return of your money."
Father Dominic trembled. "Ah, my son, I feel like a little old devil,"
he quavered, but--he protested no more. When Don Mike settled him in a
seat in the grand-stand, Father Dominic whispered wistfully, "God will
not hold this worldliness against me, Miguel. I feel I am here on His
business, for is not Panchito running for a new roof for our beloved
Mission? I will pray for victory."
"Now you are demonstrating your sound common sense," Don Mike assured
him. His right hand closed over the roll of bills Father Dominic
surreptitiously slipped him. Scarcely had he transferred the
Restoration Fund to his trousers' pocket when Brother Anthony nudged
him and slipped a tiny roll into Don Miguel's left hand, accompanying
the secret transfer with a wink that was almost a sermon.
"What news, Don Miguel?" Pablo ventured presently.
"We will win, Pablo."
"_Valgame dios_! I will wager my fortune on Panchito. Here it is, Don
Miguel--one hundred and eighty dollars. I know not the ways of these
Gringo races, but if the stakeholder be an honest man and known
personally to you, I will be your debtor forever if you will graciously
consent to attend to this detail for me."
"With pleasure, Pablo."
Carolina drew her soiled little tobacco bag from her bosom, bit the
string in two and handed bag and contents to her master, who nodded and
thrust it in his pocket.
Two tiers up and directly in back of Don Miguel and his guests, two men
glanced meaningly at each other.
"Did you twig that?" one of them whispered. "That crazy Greaser is a
local favorite, wherever he comes from. Those two monks and that
_cholo_ and his squaw are giving him every dollar they possess to bet
on this quarter horse entered in a long race, and I'll bet five
thousand dollars he'll drop it into that machine, little realizing that
every dollar he bets on his horse here will depress the odds
proportionately."
"It's a shame, Joe, to see all that good money dropping into the maw of
those Paris Mutuel sharks. Joe, we ought to be kicked if we allow it."
"Can you speak Spanish?"
"Not a word."
"Well, let's get an interpreter. That Tia Juana policeman yonder will
do."
"All right. I'll split the pot with you, old timer."
Directly after the first race a Mexican policeman touched Farrel on the
arm. "Your pardon, _señor_," he murmured politely, "but two American
gentlemen have asked me to convey to you a message of importance. Will
the _señor_ be good enough to step down to the betting ring with me?"
"With the utmost delight," Don Miguel replied in his mother tongue and
followed the policeman, who explained as they proceeded toward the
betting ring the nature of the message.
"These two gentlemen," he exclaimed, "are book-makers. While
book-makers who lay their own odds are not permitted to operate openly
and with the approval of the track authorities, there are a number of
such operating quietly here. One may trust them implicitly. They
always pay their losses--what you call true blue sports. They have
much money and it is their business in life to take bets. These two
gentlemen are convinced that your horse, Panchito, cannot possibly win
this race and they are prepared to offer you odds of ten to one for as
much money as the _señor_ cares to bet. They will not move from your
side until the race is run and the bet decided. The odds they offer
you are greater than you can secure playing your money in the Mutuel."
Don Mike halted in his tracks. "I have heard of such men. I observed
the two who talked with you and the _jefe politico_ assured me
yesterday that they are reliable gentlemen. I am prepared to trust
them. Why not? Should they attempt to escape with my money when
Panchito wins--as win he will--I would quickly stop those fine
fellows." He tapped his left side under the arm-pit, and while the
policeman was too lazy and indifferent to feel this spot himself, he
assumed that a pistol nestled there.
"I will myself guard your bet," he promised.
They had reached the two book-makers and the policeman promptly
communicated to them Don Mike's ultimatum. The pair exchanged glances.
"If we don't take this lunatic's money," one of them suggested
presently, "some other brave man will. I'm game."
"It's a shame to take it, but--business is business," his companion
laughed. Then to the policeman: "How much is our high-toned Mexican
friend betting and what odds does he expect?"
The policeman put the question. The high-toned Mexican gentleman bowed
elaborately and shrugged deprecatingly. Such a little bet! Truly, he
was ashamed, but the market for steers down south had been none too
good lately, and as for hides, one could not give them away. The
American gentlemen would think him a very poor gambler, indeed, but
twelve hundred and twenty-eight dollars was his limit, at odds of ten
to one. If they did not care to trifle with such a paltry bet, he
could not blame them, but--
"Holy Mackerel. Ten to one. Joe, this is like shooting fish on a
hillside. I'll take half of it."
"I'll take what's left."
They used their cards to register the bet and handed the memorandum to
Don Mike, who showed his magnificent white teeth in his most engaging
smile, bowed, and insisted upon shaking hands with them both, after
which the quartet sauntered back to the grand-stand and sat down among
the old shepherd and his flock.
As the bugle called out the horses for the handicap, Father Dominic
ceased praying and craned forward. There were ten horses in the race,
and the old priest's faded eyes popped with wonder and delight as the
sleek, beautiful thoroughbreds pranced out of the paddock and passed in
single file in front of the grand-stand. The fifth horse in the parade
was Panchito--and somebody had cleaned him up, for his satiny skin
glowed in the semi-tropical sun. All the other horses in the race had
ribbons interlaced in their manes and tails, but Panchito was barren of
adornment.
"Well, Don Quixote has had him groomed and they've combed the cactus
burrs out of his mane and tail, at any rate. He'd be a beautiful
animal if he was dolled up like the others," the book-maker, Joe,
declared.
"Got racing plates on to-day, and that cholo kid sits him like he
intended to ride him," his companion added. "Joe, I have a suspicion
that nag is a ringer. _He looks like a champion_."
"If he wins we'll _know_ he's a ringer," Joe replied complacently.
"We'll register a protest at once. Of course, the horse is royally
bred, but he hasn't been trained, he's never been on a track before and
even if he has speed, both early and late, he'll probably be left at
the post. He's carrying one hundred and eighteen pounds and a green
_cholo_ kid has the leg up. No chance, I tell you. Forget it."
Don Mike, returning from the paddock after saddling Panchito and giving
Allesandro his final instructions, sat majestically in his seat, but
Father Dominic, Brother Anthony, Pablo and Carolina paid vociferous
tribute to their favorite and the little lad who rode him.
Allesandro's swarthy hands and face were sharply outlined against a
plain white jockey suit; somebody had loaned him a pair of riding boots
and a cap of red, white and blue silk. This much had Don Mike
sacrificed for convention, but not the willow switch. Allesandro waved
it at his master and his grandparents as he filed past.
Pablo stood up and roared in English: "_Kai_! Allesandro! Eef you
don' win those race you grandfather hee's goin' cut you throat sure. I
look to you all the time, _muchacho_. You keep the mind on the
bus-i-ness. You hear, Allesandro _mio_?"
Allesandro nodded, the crowd laughed and the horses went to the post.
They were at the post a minute, but got away to a perfect start.
"Sancho Panza leads on Panchito!" the book-maker, Joe, declared as the
field swept past the grand-stand. He was following the flying horses
through his racing glasses. "Quarter horse," he informed his
companion. "Beat the gate like a shot out of a gun. King Agrippa, the
favorite, second by two lengths. Sir Galahad third. At the quarter!
Panchito leads by half a length, Sir Galahad second. King Agrippa
third! At the half! Sir Galahad first, Panchito second, King Agrippa
third! At the three-quarter pole! King Agrippa first, Panchito
second, Polly P. third. Galahad's out of it. Polly P's making her
spurt, but she can't last. Into the stretch with Panchito on the rail
and coming like he'd been sent for and delayed. Oh, Lord, Jim, that's
a horse--and we thought he was a goat! Look at him come! He's an open
length in front of Agrippa and the _cholo_ hasn't used his willow
switch. Jim, we're sent to the cleaner's--"
It was a Mexican race-track, but the audience was American and it is
the habit of Americans to cheer a winner, regardless of how they have
bet their money. A great sigh went up from the big holiday crowd.
Then, "Panchito! Come on, you Panchito! Come on, Agrippa! Ride him,
boy, ride him!" A long, hoarse howl that carried with it the hint of
sobs.
At the paddock the gallant King Agrippa gave of the last and the best
that was in him and closed the gap in a dozen furious jumps until, as
the field swept past the grand-stand, Panchito and King Agrippa were
for a few seconds on such even terms that a sudden hush fell on the
race-mad crowd. Would this be a dead heat? Would this unknown
Panchito, fresh from the cattle ranges, divide first money with the
favorite?
The silence was broken by a terrible cry from Pablo Artelan.
"Allesandro! I cut your throat!"
Whether Allesandro heard the warning or whether he had decided that
affairs had assumed a dangerous pass, matters not. He rose a trifle in
his saddle, leaned far out on Panchito's withers and delivered himself
of a tribal yell. It was a cry meant for Panchito, and evidently
Panchito understood, for he responded with the only answer a gallant
race-horse has for such occasions. A hundred feet from the wire King
Agrippa's wide-flung nostrils were at Panchito's saddle girth; under
the stimulus of a rain of blows he closed the gap again, only to drop
back and finish with daylight showing between his head and Panchito's
flowing tail.
Father Dominic stood gazing down the track. He was trembling
violently. Brother Anthony turned lack-luster eyes toward Farrel.
"You win, Brother Anthony," Don Mike said quietly.
"How good is God," murmured Brother Anthony. "He has granted me a joy
altogether beyond my deserts. And the joy is sufficient. The money
will buy a few shingles for our roof." He slumped down in his seat and
wiped away great tears.
Pablo waited not for congratulations or exultations, but scrambled down
through the grand-stand to the railing, climbed over it and dropped
down into the track, along which he jogged until he met Allesandro
galloping slowly back with Panchito. "Little treasure of the world,"
he cried to the boy, "I am happy that I do not have to cut your
throat," and he lifted Allesandro out of the saddle and pressed him to
his heart. That was the faint strain of Catalonian blood in Pablo.
Up in the grand-stand Carolina, in her great excitement, forgot that
she was Farrel's cook. When he was a baby she had nursed him and she
loved him for that. So she waddled down to him with beaming eyes--and
he patted her cheek.
"Father Dominic," Don Mike called to the old friar, "your Mission
Restoration Fund has been increased ten thousand dollars."
"So?" the gentle old man echoed. "Behold, Miguel, the goodness of God.
He willed that Panchito should save for you from the heathen one little
portion of our dear land; He was pleased to answer my prayers of fifty
years that I be permitted to live until I had restored the Mission of
our Mother of Sorrows." He closed his eyes. "So many long years the
priest," he murmured, "so many long years! And I am base enough to be
happy in worldly pleasures. I am still a little old devil."
Don Mike turned to the stunned book-makers. "For some reason best
known to yourselves," he addressed them in English, bowing graciously,
"you two gentlemen have seen fit to do business with me through this
excellent representative of the civil authority of Tia Juana. We will
dispense with his services, if you have no objection. Here, my good
fellow," he added, and handed the policeman a ten-dollar bill.
"You're not a Mexican. You're an American," the book-maker Joe cried
accusingly, "although you bragged like a Mexican."
"Quite right. I never claimed to be a Mexican, however. I heard about
this Thanksgiving Handicap, and it seemed such a splendid opportunity
to pick up a few thousand dollars that I entered my horse. I have
complied with all the rules. This race was open to four-year-olds and
up, regardless of whether they had been entered in a race previously or
had won or lost a race. Panchito's registration will bear
investigation; so will his history. My jockey rode under an apprentice
license. May I trouble you for a settlement, gentlemen?"
"But your horse is registered under a Mexican's name, as owner."
"My name is Miguel José Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel."
"We'll see the judges first, Señor Farrel."
"By all means."
"You bet we will. The judges smell a rat, already. The winning
numbers haven't been posted yet."
As Don Mike and his retinue passed the Parker box, John Parker and
Danny Leighton fell in behind them and followed to the judges' stand.
Five minutes later the anxious crowd saw Panchito's number go up as the
winner. Don Mike's frank explanation that he had deceived nobody, but
had, by refraining from doing things in the usual manner, induced the
public to deceive itself and refrain from betting on Panchito, could
not be gainsaid--particularly when an inspection of the records at the
betting ring proved that not a dollar had been wagered on Panchito.
"You played the books throughout the country, Mr. Farrel?" one of the
judges asked.
Don Mike smiled knowingly. "I admit nothing," he replied.
The testimony of Parker and Danny Leighton was scarcely needed to
convince the judges that nothing illegal had been perpetrated. When
Don Mike had collected his share of the purse and the book-makers,
convinced that they had been out-generaled and not swindled, had issued
checks for their losses and departed, smiling, John Parker drew Farrel
aside.
"Son," he demanded, "did you spoil the Egyptians and put over a Roman
holiday?"
Again Don Mike smiled his enigmatic smile. "Well," he admitted, "I'm
ready to do a little mortgage lifting."
"I congratulate you with all my heart. For heaven's sake, take up your
mortgage immediately. I do not wish to acquire your ranch--that way.
I have never wished to, but if that droll scoundrel, Bill Conway,
hadn't managed to dig up unlimited backing to build that dam despite
me, and if Panchito hadn't cinched your case for you to-day, I would
have had no mercy on you. But I'm glad you won. You have a head and
you use it; you possess the power of decision, of initiative, you're a
sporting, kindly young gentleman and I count it a privilege to have
known you." He thrust out his hand and Don Mike shook it heartily.
"Of course, sir," he told Parker, "King Agrippa is a good horse, but
nobody would ever think of entering him in a real classic. I told
Allesandro to be careful not to beat him too far. The time was nothing
remarkable and I do not think I have spoiled your opportunity for
winning with him in the Derby."
"I noticed that. Thank you. And you'll loan him to me to beat that
old scoundrel I told you about?"
"You'll have to arrange that matter with your daughter, sir. I have
raced my first and my last race for anything save the sport of a
horse-race, and I am now about to present Panchito to Miss Kay."
"Present him? Why, you star-spangled idiot, I offered you fifteen
thousand dollars for him and you knew then I would have gone to fifty
thousand."
Don Mike laid a patronizing hand on John Parker's shoulder. "Old
settler, you're buying Panchito and you're paying a heavier price than
you realize, only, like the overcoat in the traveling salesman's
expense account, the item isn't apparent. I'm going to sell you a dam,
the entire Agua Caliente Basin and watershed riparian rights, a site
for a power station and a right of way for power transmission lines
over my ranch. In return, you're going to agree to furnish me with
sufficient water from your dam, in perpetuity, to irrigate every acre
of the San Gregorio Valley."
John Parker could only stare, amazed. "On one condition, Miguel," he
replied presently. "Not an acre of the farm lands of the San Gregorio
shall ever be sold, without a _proviso_ in the deed that it shall never
be sold or leased to any alien ineligible to citizenship."
"Oh, ho! So you've got religion, eh?"
"I have. Pablo dragged it into the yard last spring at the end of his
riata, and it lies buried in the San Gregorio. That makes the San
Gregorio consecrated ground. I always had an idea I was a pretty fair
American, but I dare say there's room for improvement. What do you
want for that power property?"
"I haven't the least idea. We'll get together with experts some day
and arrive at an equitable price.
"Thank you son. I'll not argue with you. You've given me a
first-class thrashing and the man who can do that is quite a fellow.
Nevertheless, I cannot see now where I erred in playing the game. Mind
telling me, boy?"
"Not at all. It occurred to me--assistance by Bill Conway--that this
property must be of vital interest to two power companies, the Central
California Power Company and the South Coast Power Corporation. Two
hypotheses presented themselves for consideration. First, if you were
developing the property personally, you had no intention of operating
it yourself. You intended to sell it. Second, you were not developing
it personally, but as the agent of one of the two power companies I
mentioned. I decided that the latter was the best hypothesis upon
which to proceed. You are a multi-millionaire trained in the fine art
of juggling corporations. In all probability you approached my father
with an offer to buy the ranch and he declined. He was old and he was
sentimental, and he loved me and would not sell me out of my
birthright. You had to have that ranch, and since you couldn't buy it
you decided to acquire it by foreclosure. To do that, however, you had
to acquire the mortgage, and in order to acquire the mortgage you had
to acquire a controlling interest in the capital stock of the First
National Bank of El Toro. You didn't seem to fit into the small town
banking business; a bank with a million dollars capital is small change
to you."
"Proceed. You're on the target, son, and something tells me you're
going to score a bull's-eye in a minute."
"When you had acquired the mortgage following such patient steps, my
father checkmated you by making and recording a deed of gift of the
ranch to me, subject of course to the encumbrance. The war-time
moratorium, which protected men in the military or naval service from
civil actions, forced you to sit tight and play a waiting game. Then I
was reported killed in action. My poor father was in a quandary. As
he viewed it, the ranch now belonged to my estate, and I had died
intestate. Probate proceedings dragging over a couple of years were
now necessary, and a large inheritance tax would have been assessed
against the estate. My father broke under the blow and you took
possession. Then I returned--and you know the rest.
"I knew you were powerful enough to block any kind of a banking loan I
might try to secure and I was desperate until Bill Conway managed to
arrange for his financing. Then, of course, I realized my power. With
the dam completed before the redemption period should expire, I had
something definite and tangible to offer the competitor of the power
company in which you might be interested. I was morally certain I
could save my ranch, so I disabused my mind of worry."
"Your logical conclusions do credit to your intelligence, Miguel.
Proceed."
"I purchased, through my attorney, a fat little block of stock in each
company. That gave me _entrée_ to the company books and records. I
couldn't pick up your trail with the first company investigated--the
Central California--but before my attorney could proceed to Los Angeles
and investigate the list of stockholders and directors of the South
Coast Power Corporation, a stranger appeared at my attorney's office
and proceeded to make overtures for the purchase of the Agua Caliente
property on behalf of an unknown client. That man was in conference
with my attorney the day we all motored to El Toro via La Questa
Valley, and the instant I poked my nose inside the door my attorney
advised me--in Spanish,--which is really the mother tongue of El
Toro--to trail his visitor. Out in the hall I met my dear friend, Don
Nicolás Sandoval, the sheriff of San Marcos County, and delegated the
job to him. Don Nicolás trailed this stranger to the First National
Bank of El Toro and observed him in conference with the vice-president;
from the First National Bank of El Toro Don Nicolás shadowed his man to
the office of the president of the South Coast Power Corporation, in
Los Angeles.
"We immediately opened negotiations with the Central California Power
Company and were received with open arms. But, strange to relate, we
heard no more from the South Coast Power Corporation. Very strange,
indeed, in view of the fact that my attorney had assured their
representative of my very great desire to discuss the deal if and when
an offer should be made me."
John Parker was smiling broadly. "Hot, red hot, son," he assured
Farrel. "Good nose for a long, cold trail."
"I decided to smoke you out, so arbitrarily I terminated negotiations
with the Central California Power Company. It required all of my own
courage and some of Bill Conway's to do it, but--we did it. Within
three days our Los Angeles friend again arrived in El Toro and
submitted an offer higher than the one made us by the Central
California Power Company. So then I decided to shadow you, the
president of the South Coast Power Corporation, and the president of
the Central California Power Company. On the fifteenth day of October,
at eight o'clock, p.m., all three of you met in the office of your
attorney in El Toro, and when this was reported to me, I sat down and
did some thinking, with the following result:
"The backing so mysteriously given Bill Conway had you worried. You
abandoned all thought of securing the ranch by foreclosure, and my
careless, carefree, indifferent attitude confirmed you in this. Who,
but one quite certain of his position, would waste his time watching a
race-horse trained? I knew then that news of my overtures to the
Central California people were immediately reported to the South Coast
people. Evidently you had a spy on the Central California payroll, or
else you and your associates controlled both companies. This last
hypothesis seemed reasonable, in view of the South Coast Power
Corporation's indifference when it seemed that I might do business with
the Central California people, and the sudden revival of the South
Coast interest when it appeared that negotiations with the Central
people were terminated. But after that meeting on the fifteenth of
October, my attorney couldn't get a rise out of either corporation, so
I concluded that one had swallowed the other, or you had agreed to form
a separate corporation to develop and handle the Agua Caliente plant,
if and when, no matter how, the ranch should come into your possession.
I was so certain you and your fellow-conspirators had concluded to
stand pat and await events that I haven't been sleeping very well ever
since, although not once did I abandon my confident pose.
"My position was very trying. Even with the dam completed, your power
in financial circles might be such that you could block a new loan or a
sale of the property, although the completion, of the dam would add a
value of millions to the property and make it a very attractive
investment to a great many people. I felt that I could save myself if
I had time, but I might not have time before the redemption period
should expire. I'd have to lift that mortgage before I could smoke you
three foxes out of your hole and force you to reopen negotiations.
Well, the only chance I had for accomplishing that was a long
one--Panchito, backed by every dollar I could spare, in the
Thanksgiving Handicap. I took that chance. I won. Tag! You're It."
"Yes, you've won, Miguel. Personally, it hurt me cruelly to do the
things I did, but I was irrevocably tied up with the others. I
hoped--I almost prayed--that the unknown who was financing Bill Conway,
in order to render your property valuable and of quick sale, to save
your equity, might also give you a loan and enable you to eliminate me.
Then my companions in iniquity would be forced to abandon their waiting
game and deal with you. You are right, Miguel. That waiting game
might have been fatal to you."
"It _would_ have been fatal to me, sir."
"Wouldn't Conway's friend come to your rescue?"
"I am not informed as to the financial resources of Bill Conway's
friend and, officially, I am not supposed to be aware of that person's
identity. Conway refused to inform me. I feel assured, however, that
if it were at all possible for this person to save me, I would have
been saved. However, even to save my ranch, I could not afford to
suggest or request such action."
"Why?"
"Matter of pride. It would have meant the violation of my code in such
matters."
"Ah, I apprehend. A woman, eh? That dashing Sepulvida girl?"
"Her mother would have saved me--for old sake's sake, but--I would have
been expected to secure her investment with collateral in the shape of
a six-dollar wedding ring."
"So the old lady wanted you for a son-in-law, eh? Smart woman. She
has a long, sagacious nose. So she proceeded, unknown to you, to
finance old Conway, eh?"
"No, she did not. Another lady did."
"What a devil you are with the women! Marvelous--for one who doesn't
pay the slightest attention to any of them. May I ask if you are going
to--ah--marry the other lady?
"Well, it would never have occurred to me to propose to her before
Panchito reached the wire first, but now that I am my own man again and
able to match her, dollar for dollar, it may be that I shall consider
an alliance, provided the lady is gracious enough to regard me with
favor."
"I wish you luck," John Parker replied, coldly. "Let us join the
ladies."
Three days later, in El Toro, Don Mike and his attorney met in
conference with John Parker and his associates in the office of the
latter's attorney and completed the sale of the Agua Caliente property
to a corporation formed by a merger of the Central California Power
Company and the South Coast Power Corporation. A release of mortgage
was handed Miguel Farrel as part payment, the remainder being in bonds
of the South Coast Power Corporation, to the extent of two million
dollars. In return, Farrel delivered a deed to the Agua Caliente
property and right of way and a dismissal, by Bill Conway, of his suit
for damages against John Parker, in return for which John Parker
presented Farrel an agreement to reimburse Bill Conway of all moneys
expended by him and permit him to complete the original contract for
the dam.
"Well, that straightens out our muchly involved affairs," John Parker
declared. "Farrel, you've gotten back your ranch, with the exception
of the Agua Caliente Basin, which wasn't worth a hoot to you anyway,
you have two million dollars in good sound bonds and all the money you
won on Panchito. By the way, if I may be pardoned for my curiosity,
how much money did you actually win that day?"
Don Mike smiled, reread his release of mortgage, gathered up his bundle
of bonds, backed to the door, opened it and stood there, paused for
night.
"Gentlemen," he declared, "I give you my word of honor--no, I'll give
you a Spaniard's oath--I swear, by the virtue of my dead mother and the
honor of my dead father, I did not bet one single _centavo_ on Panchito
for myself, although I did negotiate bets for Brother Anthony, Father
Dominic, and my servants, Pablo and Carolina. Racing horses and
betting on horse-racing has proved very disastrous to the
Noriaga-Farrel tribe, and the habit ceased with the last survivor of
our dynasty. I'm not such a fool, Señor Parker, as to risk my pride
and my position and my sole hope of a poor but respectable future by
betting the pitiful remnant of my fortune on a horse-race. No, sir,
not if Panchito had been entered against a field of mules. _Adios,
señores_!"
"In the poetical language of your wily Latin ancestors," John Parker
yelled after him, "_Adios_! Go with God!" He turned to his amazed
associates. "How would you old penny-pinchers and porch-climbers like
to have a broth of a boy like that fellow for a son-in-law?" he
demanded.
"Alas! My only daughter has already made me a grandfather," sighed the
president of the Central California Power Company.
"Let's make him president of the merger," the president of the South
Coast Power Corporation suggested. "He ought to make good. He held us
up with a gun that wasn't loaded. Whew-w-w! Boys! Whatever happens,
let us keep this a secret, Parker."
"Secret your grandmother! I'm going to tell the world. We deserve it.
Moreover, that fine lad is going to marry my daughter; she's the genius
who double-crossed her own father and got behind Bill Conway. God
bless her. God bless him. Nobody can throttle my pride in that boy
and his achievements. You two tried to mangle him and you forced me to
play your game. While he was earning the medal of honor from Congress,
I sat around planning to parcel out his ranch to a passel of Japs.
I'll never be done with hating myself."
That night at the _hacienda_, Don Mike, taking advantage of Kay's
momentary absence, drew Mr. and Mrs. Parker aside.
"I have the honor to ask you both for permission to seek your
daughter's hand in marriage," he announced with that charming,
old-fashioned Castilian courtliness which never failed to impress Mrs.
Parker. Without an instant's hesitation she lifted her handsome face
and kissed him.
"I move we make it unanimous," Parker suggested, and gripped Don Mike's
hand.
"Fine," Don Mike cried happily. He was no longer the least bit
Castilian; he was all Gaelic-American. "Please clear out and let me
have air," he pleaded, and fled from the room. In the garden he met
Kay, and without an instant's hesitation took her by the arm and led
her over to the sweet lime tree.
"Kay," he began, "on such a moonlit night as this, on this same spot,
my father asked my mother to marry him. Kay, dear, I love you. I
always shall, I have never been in love before and I shall never be in
love again. There's just enough Celt in me to make me a one-girl man,
and since that day on the train when you cut my roast beef because my
hand was crippled, you've been the one girl in the world for me. Until
to-day, however, I did not have the right to tell you this and to ask
you, as I now do, if you love me enough to marry me; if you think you
could manage to live with me here most of the time--after I've restored
the old place somewhat. Will you marry me, Kay--ah, you will, you
will!"
She was in his arms, her flower face upturned to his for his first kiss.
They were married in the quaint, old-world chapel of the now restored
Mission de la Madre Dolorosa by Father Dominic, and in accordance with
ancient custom, revived for the last time, the master of Palomar gave
his long-delayed _fiesta_ and barbecue, and the rich and the poor,
honest men and wastrels, the _gente_ and the _peons_ of San Marcos
County came to dance at his wedding.
Their wedding night Don Mike and his bride spent, unattended save for
Pablo and Carolina, in the home of his ancestors. It was still
daylight when they found themselves speeding the last departing wedding
guest; hand in hand they seated themselves on the old bench under the
catalpa tree and gazed down into the valley. There fell between them
the old sweet silence that comes when hearts are too filled with
happiness to find expression in words. From the Mission de la Madre
Dolorosa there floated up to them the mellow music of the Angelus; the
hills far to the west were still alight on their crests, although the
shadows were long in the valley, and Don Mike, gazing down on his
kingdom regained, felt his heart filled to overflowing.
His wife interrupted his meditations. He was to learn later that this
is a habit of all wives.
"Miguel, dear, what are you thinking about?"
"I cannot take time to tell you now, Kay, because my thoughts, if
transmuted into print, would fill a book. Mostly, however, I have been
thinking how happy and fortunate I am, and how much I love you and
that--yonder. And when I look at it I am reminded that but for you it
would not be mine. Mine? I loathe the word. From this day
forward--ours! I have had the ranch homesteaded, little wife. It
belongs to us both now. I owed you so much that I could never repay in
cash--and I couldn't speak about it until I had the right--and now that
Bill Conway has taken up all of his promissory notes to you, and his
suit against your father has been dismissed and we've all smoked the
pipe of peace, I've come to the conclusion that I cannot keep a secret
any longer. Oh, my dear, my dear, you loved me so you wouldn't let
them hurt me, would you?"
She was holding his hand in both of hers and she bent now and kissed
the old red scar in the old tender, adoring way; but said nothing. So
he was moved to query:
"And you, little wife--what are you thinking of now?"
"I was thinking, my husband, of the words of Ruth: entreat me not to
leave thee, and to return from following after thee: for whither thou
goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall
be my people and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and
there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught
but death part thee and me.'"