THE OLD SPANISH CHEST
Pratt saw a tall, lean man--a man of massive frame, indeed, with a heavy
mustache that had once been yellow but had now turned grey, teetering on
the rear legs of a hard-bottomed chair, with his shoulders against the
wall of the house.
There were plenty of inviting-looking chairs scattered about the
veranda. There were rugs, and potted plants, and a lounge-swing, with a
big lamp suspended from the ceiling, giving light enough over all.
But the master of the Bar-T had selected a straight-backed,
hard-bottomed chair, of a kind that he had been used to for half a
century and more. He brought the front legs down with a bang as the girl
and youth approached.
"What's kept you, Frances?" he asked, mellowly. "Evening, sir! I take it
your health's well?"
He put out a hairy hand into which Pratt confided his own and, the next
moment, vowed secretly he would never risk it there again! His left hand
tingled badly enough since the attentions of the mountain lion. Now his
right felt as though it had been in an ore-crusher.
"This is Pratt Sanderson, from Amarillo," the daughter of the ranchman
said first of all. "He's a friend of Mrs. Bill Edwards. He was having
trouble with a lion over in Brother's Coulie, when I came along. We got
the lion; but Pratt got some scratches. Can't Ming find him a flannel
shirt, Dad?"
"Of course," agreed Captain Rugley, his eyes twinkling just as Frances'
had a little while before. "You tell him as you go in. Come on, Pratt
Sanderson. I'll take a look at your scratches myself."
A shuffle-footed Chinaman brought the shirt to the room Pratt Sanderson
had been ushered to by the cordial old ranchman. The Chinaman assisted
the youth to get into the garment, too, for Captain Rugley had already
swathed the scratches on Pratt's chest and arm with linen, after
treating the wounds with a pungent-smelling but soothing salve.
"San Soo, him alle same have dlinner ready sloon," said Ming, sprinkling
'l's' indiscriminately in his information. "Clapen an' Misse Flank wait
on pleaza."
The young fellow, when he was presentable, started back for the
"pleaza."
Everything he saw--every appointment of the house--showed wealth, and
good taste in the use of it. The old ranchman furnished the former, of
course; but nobody but Frances, Pratt thought, could have arranged the
furnishings and adornments of the house.
The room he was to occupy as a guest was large, square, grey-walled, was
hung with bright pictures, a few handsome Navajo blankets, and had heavy
soft rugs on the floor. There was a gay drapery in one corner, behind
which was a canvas curtain masking a shower bath with nickel fittings.
The water ran off from the shallow marble basin through an open drain
under the wall. The bed was of brass and looked comfortable. There was a
big steamer chair drawn invitingly near the window which opened into the
court, or garden, around which the house was built.
The style of the building was Spanish, or Mexican. A fountain played in
the court and there were trees growing there, among the branches of
which a few lanterns were lit, like huge fireflies.
In passing back to the front porch of the ranch-house (farther south it
would have been called _hacienda_) Pratt noted Spanish and Aztec
armor hanging on the walls; high-backed, carven chairs of black oak,
mahogany, and other heavy woods; weapons of both modern and ancient
Indian manufacture, and those of the style used by Cortez and his
cohorts when they marched on the capital city of the great Montezuma.
In a glass-fronted case, too, hung a brilliant cloak of parakeet
feathers such as were worn by the Aztec nobles. Lights had been lit in
the hall since he had arrived and the treasures were now revealed for
the first time to the startled eye of the visitor.
The sight of these things partially prepared him for the change in
Frances' appearance. Her smooth brown skin and her veiled eyes were the
same. She still wore her hair in girlish plaits. She was quite the
simple, unaffected girl of sixteen. But her dress was white, of some
soft and filmy material which looked to the young fellow like spider's
web in the moonlight. It was cut a little low at the throat; her arms
were bared to the elbow. She wore a heavy, glittering belt of alternate
red-gold links and green stones, and on one arm a massive, wrought-gold
bracelet--a serpent with turquoise eyes.
"Frances is out in her warpaint," chuckled Captain Rugley's mellow voice
from the shadow, where he was tipped back in his chair again.
"You gave me these things out of your treasure chest, Daddy, to wear
when we had company," said the girl, quite calmly.
She wore the barbarous ornaments with an air of dignity. They seemed to
suit her, young as she was. And Pratt knew that the girdle and bracelet
must be enormously valuable as well as enormously old.
The expression "treasure chest" was so odd that it stuck in the young
man's mind. He was very curious as to what it meant, and determined,
when he knew Frances better, to ask about it.
A little silence had fallen after the girl's speech. Then Captain Rugley
started forward suddenly and the forelegs of his chair came sharply to
the planks.
"Hello!" he said, into the darkness outside the radiance of the porch
light. "Who's there?"
Frances fluttered out of her chair. Pratt noted that she slipped into
the shadow. Neither she nor the Captain had been sitting in the full
radiance of the lamp.
The visitor had heard nothing; but he knew that the old ranchman was
leaning forward listening intently.
"Who's there?" the captain demanded again.
"Don't shoot, neighbor!" said a hoarse voice out of the darkness. "I'm
jest a-paddin' of it Amarillo way. Can I get a flop-down and a bite
here?"
"Only a tramp, Dad," breathed Frances, with a sigh.
"How did you get into this compound?" demanded Captain Rugley, none the
less suspiciously and sternly.
"I come through an open gate. It's so 'tarnal dark, neighbor----"
"You see those lights down yonder?" snapped the Captain. "They are at
the bunk-house. Cook'll give you some chuck and a chance to spread your
blanket. But don't you let me catch you around here too long after
breakfast to-morrow morning. We don't encourage hobos, and we already
have all the men hired for the season we want."
"All right, neighbor," said the voice in the darkness, cheerfully--too
cheerfully, in fact, Pratt Sanderson thought. An ordinary man--even one
with the best intentions in the world--would have been offended by the
Captain's brusk words.
A stumbling foot went down the yard. Captain Rugley grunted, and might
have said something explanatory, but just then Ming came softly to the
door, whining:
"Dlinner, Misse."
"Guess Pratt's hungry, too," grunted the Captain, rising. "Let's go in
and see what the neighbors have flung over the back fence."
But sad as the joke was, all that Captain Rugley said seemed so
open-hearted and kindly--save only when he was talking to the unknown
tramp--that the guest could not consider him vulgar.
The dining-room was long, massively furnished, well lit, and the
sideboard exposed some rare pieces of old-fashioned silver. Two heavy
candelabra--the loot of some old cathedral, and of Spanish
manufacture--were set upon either end of the great serving table.
All these treasures, found in the ranch-house of a cowman of the
Panhandle, astounded the youth from Amarillo. Nothing Mrs. Bill Edwards
had said of Frances of the ranges and her father had prepared him for
this display.
Captain Rugley saw his eyes wandering from one thing to the other as
Ming served a perfect soup.
"Just pick-ups over the Border," the old man explained, with a
comprehensive wave of his hand toward the candelabra and other articles
of value. "I and a partner of mine, when we were in the Rangers years
and years ago, raided over into Mexico and brought back the bulk of
these things.
"We cached them down in Arizona till after I was married and built this
ranch-house. Poor Lon! Never have heard what became of him. I've got his
share of the treasure out of old Don Milo Morales' _hacienda_ right
here. When he comes for it we'll divide. But I haven't heard from Lon
since long before Frances, here, was born."
This was just explanation enough to whet the curiosity of Pratt. Talk of
the Texas Rangers, and raiding over the Border, and looting a Mexican
_hacienda_, was bound to set the young man's imagination to work.
But the dinner, as it was served in courses, took up Pratt's present
attention almost entirely. Never--not even when he took dinner at the
home of the president of the bank in Amarillo--had he eaten so
well-cooked and well-served a meal.
Despite his commonplace speech, Captain Rugley displayed a familiarity
with the niceties of table etiquette that surprised the guest. Frances'
mother had come from the East and from a family that had been used to
the best for generations. And the old ranchman, in middle age, had set
himself the task of learning the niceties of table manners to please
her.
He had never fallen back into the old, careless ways after Frances'
mother died. He ate to-night in black clothes and a soft, white shirt in
the bosom of which was a big diamond. Although he had sat on the veranda
without a coat--contrary to his doctor's orders--he had slipped one on
when he came to the table and, with his neatly combed hair, freshly
shaven face, and well-brushed mustache, looked well groomed indeed.
He would have been a bizarre figure at a city table; nevertheless, he
presided at his own board with dignity, and was a splendid foil for the
charming figure of Frances opposite.
In the midst of the repast the Captain said, suddenly, to the
soft-footed Chinaman:
"Ming! telephone down to Sam at the bunk-house and see if a hobo has
just struck there, on his way to Amarillo. I told him he could get chuck
and a sleep. Savvy?"
"Jes so, Clapen," said Ming, softly, and shuffled out.
It was evident that the tramp was on the Captain's mind. Pratt believed
there must be some special reason for the old ranchman's worrying over
marauders about the Bar-T.
There was nothing to mar the friendliness of the dinner, however; not
even when Ming slipped back and said in a low voice to the Captain:
"Him Slilent Slam say no hobo come to blunk-house."
They finished the meal leisurely; but on rising from the table Captain
Rugley removed a heavy belt and holster from its hook behind the
sideboard and slung it about his hips.
Withdrawing the revolver, he spun the cylinder, made sure that it was
filled, and slipped it back in the holster. All this was done quite as a
matter of course. Frances made no comment, nor did she seem surprised.
The three went back to the porch for a little while, although the night
air was growing chill. Frances insisted that her father wear his coat,
and they both sat out of the brighter radiance of the hanging lamp.
She and her guest were talking about the forthcoming pageant at the
Jackleg schoolhouse. Pratt had begun to feel enthusiastic over it as he
learned more of the particulars.
"People scarcely realize," said Frances, "that this Panhandle of ours
has a history as ancient as St. Augustine, Florida. And _that_, you
know, is called the oldest white settlement in these United States.
"Long, long ago the Spanish explorers, with Indian guides whom they had
enslaved, made a path through the swarming buffaloes up this way and
called the country _Llano Estacada_, the staked plain. Our
geographers misapplied the name 'Desert' to this vast country; but
Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma threw off that designation because it was
proven that the rains fell more often than was reported."
"What has built up those states," said Pratt, with a smile, "is farming,
not cattle."
The Captain grunted, for he had been listening to the conversation.
"You ought to have seen those first hayseeds that tried to turn the
ranges into posy beds and wheat fields," he chuckled. "They got all that
was coming to them--believe me!"
Frances laughed. "Daddy is still unconverted. He does not believe that
the Panhandle is fit for anything but cattle. But he's going to let me
have two hundred acres to plow and sow to wheat--he's promised."
The Captain grunted again.
"And last year we grew a hundred acres of milo maize and feterita.
Helped on the winter feed--didn't it, Daddy?" and she laughed.
"Got me there, Frances--got me there," admitted the old ranchman. "But I
don't hope to live long enough to see the Bar-T raising more wheat than
steers."
"No. It's stock-raising we want to follow, I believe," said the girl,
calmly. "We must raise feed for our steers, fatten them in fenced
pastures, and ship them more quickly."
"My goodness!" exclaimed Pratt, admiringly, "you talk as though you
understood all about it, Miss Frances."
"I think I _do_ know something about the new conditions that face
us ranchers of the Panhandle," the girl said, quietly. "And why
shouldn't I? I have been hearing it talked about, and thinking of it
myself, ever since I can remember."
Secretly Pratt thought she must have given her attention to something
beside the ranch work and cattle-raising. Of this he was assured when
they went inside later, and Frances sat down to the piano. The
instrument was in a big room with a bare, polished floor. It was
evidently used for dancing. There was a talking machine as well as a
piano. The girl played the latter very nicely indeed. There were a few
scratches on the floor of the room, and she saw Pratt looking at them.
"I told Ratty M'Gill he shouldn't come in here with the rest of the boys
to dance if he didn't take his spurs off," she said. "We have an
old-time hoe-down for the boys pretty nearly every week, when we're not
too rushed on the ranch. It keeps 'em better contented and away from the
towns on pay-days."
"Are the cowpunchers just the same as they used to be?" asked Pratt. "Do
they go to town and blow it wide open on pay-nights?"
"Not much. We have a good sheriff. But it wasn't so long ago that your
fancy little city of Amarillo was nothing but a cattleman's town. I'm
going to have a representation of old Amarillo in our pageant--you'll
see. It will be true to life, too, for some of the very people who take
part in our play lived in Amarillo at the time when the sight of a high
hat would draw a fusillade of bullets from the door of every saloon and
dance-hall."
"Don't!" gasped Pratt. "Was Amarillo ever like _that_?"
"And not twenty years ago," laughed Frances. "It had a few hundred
inhabitants--and most of them ruffians. Now it claims ten thousand, has
bricked streets that used to be cow trails, electric lights, a
street-car service, and all the comforts and culture of an 'effete
East.'"
Pratt laughed, too. "It's a mighty comfortable place to live in--beside
Bill Edwards' ranch, for instance. But I notice here at the Bar-T you
have a great many of the despised Eastern luxuries."
"'Do-funnies' daddy calls them," said Frances, smiling. "Ah! here he
is."
The old ranchman came in, the holstered pistol still slung at his hip.
"All secure for the night, Daddy?" she asked, looking at him tenderly.
"Locked, barred, and bolted," returned her father. "I tell you, Pratt,
we're something of a fort here when we go to bed. The court's free to
you; but don't try to get out till Ming opens up in the morning. You
see, we're some distance from the bunk-house, and nobody but the two
Chinks are here with us now."
"I see, sir," said Pratt.
But he did not see; he wondered. And he wondered more when, after
separating from Frances for the night, he found his way through the hall
to the door of the room that had been assigned to him for his use.
On the other side of the hall was another door, open more than a crack,
with a light shining behind it. Pratt's curiosity got the better of him
and he peeped.
Captain Dan Rugley was standing in the middle of the almost bare room,
before an old dark, Spanish chest. He had a bunch of keys in one hand
and in the other dangled the ancient girdle and the bracelet Frances had
worn.
"That must be the 'treasure chest' she spoke of," thought the youth.
"And it looks it! Old, old, wrought-iron work trimmings of Spanish
design. What a huge old lock! My! it would take a stick of dynamite to
blow that thing open if one hadn't the key."
The Captain moved quickly, turning toward the door. Pratt dodged
back--then crept silently away, down the hall. He did not know that the
eye of the old ranchman watched him keenly through the crack of the
door.