VIII

There are some people in this world with whom it seems impossible to

quarrel, notably the parents of attractive daughters.

Perhaps, if Gracia Aragon had not been watching him from the window,

Philip De Lancey would not have been quite so cordial with her

father--at least, that was what Hooker thought, and he was so badly

peeved at the way things had gone that he said it, too.

Then, of course, they quarreled, and one thing leading to another, Phil

told Bud he had a very low way of speaking. Bud replied, that whatever

his deficiencies of speech might be, he was not fool enough to be drawn

in by a skirt, and Phil rebuked him again. Then, with a scornful grunt,

Bud Hooker rode on in silence and they said no more about it.

It was a gay life that they led at night, for the Fortuna Hotel was

filled with men of their kind, since all the staid married men had

either moved across the line with their families or were under orders

to come straight home.

In the daytime the hotel was nearly deserted, for every man in town was

working for the company; but in the evening, when they gathered around

the massive stove, it was a merry company indeed.

There were college men, full of good stories and stories not so good,

world-wanderers and adventurers with such tales of the East and West

as never have been written in books. But not a college boy could match

stories with Phil De Lancey, and few wanderers there were who could

tell him anything new about Mexico. Also, when it came to popular

songs, he knew both the words and the tune. So he was much in demand,

and Don Juan passed many drinks across the bar because of him.

In all such festivities the two pardners stayed together; Bud, with a

broad, indulgent grin, listening to the end, and Phil, his eyes alight

with liquor and good cheer, talking and laughing far into the night.

Outside the winter winds were still cold and the Mexicans went wrapped

to the eyebrows; but within the merry company was slow to quit, and

Phil, making up for the lonely months when he had entirely lacked an

audience, sat long in the seat of honor and was always the last to go.

But on the evening after their spat Bud sat off to one side,

and even Phil's sprightly and ventriloquistic conversation with

the-little-girl-behind-the-door called forth only a fleeting smile.

Bud was thinking, and when engaged in that arduous occupation even the

saucy little girl behind the door could not beguile him.

But, after he had studied it all out and come to a definite conclusion,

he did not deliver an ultimatum. The old, good-natured smile simply

came back to his rugged face; he rolled a cigarette; and then for

the rest of the evening he lay back and enjoyed the show. Only in the

morning, when they went out to the corral to get their horses, he

carried his war-bag with him and, after throwing the saddle on Copper

Bottom, he did the same for their spare mount.

"What are you going to pack out, Bud?" inquired Phil, and Bud slapped

his canvas-covered bed for an answer. Then, with a heave, he snaked it

out of the harness-room where it had been stored and slung it deftly

across the pack-saddle.

"Why, what's the matter?" said De Lancey, when they were on their way.

"Don't you like the hotel?"

"Hotel's fine," conceded Bud, "but I reckon I'd better camp out at the

mine. Want to keep my eye on that Mexican of ours."

"Aw, he's all right," protested Phil.

"Sure," said Bud; "I ain't afraid he'll steal something--but he might

take a notion to quit the country."

"Why, what for?" challenged De Lancey. "He's got his wife and family

here."

"That's nothing--to a Mexican!" countered Bud. "But I ain't figuring on

the excuse he'd give--that won't buy me nothing--what I want to do is

to keep him from going. Because if we lose that Mex now, we lose our

mine."

"And--"

"No 'and' to it," said Bud doggedly. "We ain't going to lose him."

"But if we did," persisted De Lancey, "why, then you think--"

"Your friend would get it," finished Hooker grimly.

"Ah, I see," nodded De Lancey, noting the accent on "friend." "You

don't approve of my making friends with Aragon."

"Oh, that's all right," shrugged the big cowboy. "It won't make no

difference now. Go ahead, if you want to."

"You mean you can get along without me?"

"No," answered Bud. "I don't mean nothing--except what I say. If you

want to palaver around with Aragon, go to it. I'll round up Mendez

and his family and keep 'em right there at the mine until we get them

papers signed--after that I don't care what happens."

"Oh, all right," murmured De Lancey in a subdued tone; but if his

conscience smote him for the moment it did not lead to the making of

any sentimental New Year's resolutions, for he stopped when he came

to the store and exchanged salutations with Aragon, who was lounging

expectantly before his door.

"_Buenos días_, Don Cipriano!" he hailed. "How are you this morning?"

"Ah, good morning, Don Felipe," responded Aragon, stepping forth from

the shadow of the door. "I am very well, thank you--and you?"

"The same!" answered Phil, as if it were a great piece of news. "It is

fine weather--no?"

"Yes, but a little dry," said Aragon, and so they passed it back and

forth in the accepted Spanish manner, while Bud hooked one leg over the

horn of his saddle and regarded the _hacienda_ with languid eyes.

But as his gaze swept the length of the vine-covered _corredor_ it

halted for a moment and a slow smile came over his face. In the green

depths of a passion-flower vine he had detected a quick, birdlike

motion; and then suddenly, like a transformation scene, he beheld a

merry face, framed and illuminated by soft, golden locks, peering out

at him from among the blossoms. Except for that brief smile he made

no sign that he saw her, and when he looked up again the face had

disappeared.

Don Cipriano showed them about his _mescal_ plant, where his men kept a

continual stream of liquid fire running from the copper worm, and gave

each a raw drink; but though De Lancey gazed admiringly at the house

and praised the orange-trees that hung over the garden wall, Spanish

hospitality could go no farther, and the visit ended in a series of

_adioses_ and _muchas graciases_.

"Quick work!" commented Phil, as they rode toward the mine. "The old

man has got over his grouch."

"Um," mused Bud, with a quiet, brooding smile; and the next time he

rode into town he looked for the masked face among the flowers and

smiled again. That was the way Gracia Aragon affected them all.

He did not point out the place to Phil, nor betray her by any sign. All

he did was to glance at her once and then ride on his way, but somehow

his heart stood still when he met her eyes, and his days became filled

with a pensive, brooding melancholy.

"What's the matter, Bud?" rallied Phil, after he had jollied him for a

week. "You're getting mighty quiet lately. Got another hunch--like that

one you had up at Agua Negra?"

"Nope," grinned Bud; "but I'll tell you one thing--if old Aragon

don't spring something pretty soon I'm going to get uneasy. He's too

dog-goned good-natured about this."

"Maybe he thinks we're stuck," suggested De Lancey.

"Well, he's awful happy about something," said Bud. "I can see by the

way he droops that game eye of his--and smiles that way--that he knows

we're working for him. If we don't get a title to this mine, every tap

of work we do on it is all to the good for him, that's a cinch. So sit

down now and think it out--where's the joker?"

"Well," mused Phil, "the gold is here somewhere. He knows we're not

fooled there. And he knows we're right after it, the way we're driving

this cut in. Our permit is good--he hasn't tried to buffalo Mendez--and

it's a cinch he can't denounce the claim himself."

"Maybe he figures on letting us do all the work and pay all the

denouncement fees and then spring something big on old One-Eye,"

propounded Bud. "Scare 'im up or buy 'im off, and have him transfer the

title to _him_. That's the way he worked Kruger."

"Well, say," urged Phil, "let's go ahead with our denouncement before

he starts something. Besides, the warm weather is coming on now,

and if we don't get a move on we're likely to get run out by the

_revoltosos_."

"Nope," said Bud; "I don't put this into Mendez's hands until I

know he's our man--and if I ever do go ahead I'll keep him under my

six-shooter until the last paper is signed, believe me. I know we're in

bad somewhere, but hurrying up won't help none.

"Now I tell you what we'll do--you go to the mining agent and get

copies of all our papers and send them up to that Gadsden lawyer. I'm

going to go down and board with Mendez and see if I can read his heart."

So they separated, and while Phil stayed in town to look over the

records Bud ate his beans and _tortillas_ with the Mendez family.

They were a happy little family, comfortably installed in the stone

house that Mendez had built, and rapidly getting fat on three full

meals a day. From his tent farther up the cañon Bud could look down and

watch the children at play and see the comely Indian wife as she cooked

by the open fire.

Certainly no one could be more innocent and contented than she was, and

El Tuerto was all bows and protestations of gratitude. And yet, you

never can tell.

Bud had moved out of the new house to furnish quarters for El Tuerto

and had favored him in every way; but this same consideration might

easily be misinterpreted, for the Mexicans are slow to understand

kindness.

So, while on the one hand he had treated them generously, he had

always kept his distance, lest they be tempted to presume. But now,

with Phil in town for a few days, he took his meals with Maria, who was

too awed to say a word, and made friends with the dogs and the children.

The way to the dog's heart was easy, almost direct, and he finally

won the attention of little Pancho and Josefa with a well-worn Sunday

supplement. This gaudy institution, with its spicy stories and

startling illustrations, had penetrated even to the wilds of Sonora,

and every Sunday as regularly as the paper came Bud sat down and had

his laugh over the funny page.

But to Pancho, who was six years old and curious, this same highly

colored sheet was a mystery of mysteries, and when he saw the big

American laughing he crept up and looked at it wistfully.

"_Mira_," said Bud, laying his finger upon the smirking visage of one

of the comic characters, "look, and I will tell you the story."

And so, with laborious care, he translated the colored fun, while the

little Mendezes squirmed with excitement and leaped with joy. Even the

simple souls of El Tuerto and Maria were moved the by _comicas_, and

Mendez became so interested that he learned the words by heart, the

better to explain them to others.

But as for Mexican treachery, Bud could find none of it. In fact,

finding them so simple-hearted and good-natured, he became half ashamed

of his early suspicions and waited for the return of Phil to explain

Don Cipriano's complacency.

But the next Sunday, as Bud lay reading in his tent, the mystery

solved itself. Cruz Mendez came up from the house, hat in hand and

an apologetic smile on his face, and after the customary roundabout

remarks he asked the boss as a favor if he would lend him the page of

comic pictures.

"_Seguro!_" assented Bud, rolling over and fumbling for the funny

sheet; then, failing to find it instantly, he inquired: "What do you

want it for?"

"Ah, to show to my boy!" explained El Tuerto, his one eye lighting up

with pride.

"Who--Pancho?"

"Ah, no, _señor_," answered Mendez simply, "my boy in La Fortuna, the

one you have not seen."

Bud stopped fumbling for the paper and sat up suddenly. Here was a new

light on their faithful servitor, and one that might easily take away

from his value as a dummy locator.

"Oh!" he said, and then: "How many children have you, Cruz?"

Cruz smiled deprecatingly, as parents will, and turned away.

"By which woman?" he inquired, and Bud became suddenly very calm,

fearing the worst. For if Cruz was not legally married to Maria, he

could not transfer the mining claim.

"By all of them," he said quietly.

"Five in all," returned Cruz--"three by Maria, as you know--two by my

first woman--and one other. I do not count him."

"Well, you one-eyed old reprobate!" muttered Bud in his throat, but he

passed it off and returned smiling to the charge.

"Where does your boy live now?" he asked with flattering solicitude,

the better to make him talk, "and is he old enough to understand the

pictures?"

"Ah, yes!" beamed Mendez, "he is twelve years old. He lives with his

mother now--and my little daughter, too. Their _mama_ is the woman of

the _mayordomo_ of the Señor Aragon--a bad man, very ugly--she is not

married to _him_."

"But with you--" suggested Bud, regarding him with a steely stare.

"Only by the judge!" explained Mendez virtuously. "It was a love-match

and the priest did not come--so we were married by the judge. Then this

bad _mayordomo_ stole her away from me--the pig--and I married Maria

instead. Maria is a good woman and I married her before the priest--but

I love my other children too, even though they are not lawful."

"So you married your first wife before the judge," observed Bud

cynically, "and this one before the priest. But how could you do that,

unless you had been divorced?"

"Ah, _señor_," protested Mendez, holding out his hands, "you do not

understand. It is only the church that can really marry--the judge does

it only for the money. Maria is my true wife--and we have three nice

children--but as I am going through La Fortuna I should like to show

the picture paper to my boy."

Bud regarded him in meditative silence, then he rose up and began a

determined search for the funny sheet.

"All right," he said, handing it over, "and here is a _panoche_ of

sugar for your little girl--the one in La Fortuna. It is nothing," he

added, as Mendez began his thanks.

"But oh, you marrying Mexican," he continued, relapsing into his mother

tongue as El Tuerto disappeared; "you certainly have dished us right!"