TEN days had passed and the count of the stock on San Antonio Rancho had
been completed, every canyon searched, the last wandering maverick
roped and branded, the number of fat beeves accurately estimated. Three
members of the Los Angeles syndicate had arrived in a big automobile and
remained over night at the ranch house. Most of the time they had been
closeted with Ben Thurston in his office, and had finally taken their
departure without exchanging a word with anyone else on the rancho.
Nobody knew whether the deal had gone through or not, but rumor said
that, after some disagreement on the first day, terms had been arranged
next morning.
Dick Willoughby, although he discussed the question with no one, made
his own inferences. The very fact that the visitors had not made any
inspection of the property proved that they already knew it thoroughly
well. The counting of the cattle and horses had been the final factor
in the negotiations, and the figures had enabled the deal to advance a
further stage toward completion. Ben Thurston might fool himself about
easy option money put up only to be forfeited, but Dick Willoughby was
not fooled. The days of closer settlement in California had come, and
these Los Angeles men were the most enterprising and skilful subdividers
in the West. They dealt only in big propositions, and after mopping
up all the available tracts in the southern end of the State, were
extending their operations northward. This vast so-called “Spanish
grant,” an empire in itself, had no doubt for several years been in
their eye, and now they were prepared to handle the San Antonio Rancho
with the lavish expenditure it deserved and required to transform the
great sweep of cattle range—rich agricultural land, as the luxuriant
native grasses showed—into smiling orchards and alfalfa farms, each
provided with the irrigation water which intelligent conservation would
ensure in abundance.
Dick knew in his heart that the era of transformation had at last come,
that the roaming herds were to be pushed back into regions more remote,
that homes and schoolhouses and garden cities would soon be dotting the
landscape, that the passing of Ben Thurston, the cattle king, and of his
hard-riding, devil-may-care vaqueros was at hand.
Yet Thurston spoke no word—in fact, he seemed to be more grouchy and
taciturn than ever. Not even his son Marshall was in his confidence, for
the young man was seldom with his father, preferring to spend his
time in the drinking saloons and dance halls of Bakersfield, where the
activity of oil-developing operations attracted all sorts and conditions
of men, among whom the dissipated decadent had readily found friends to
his liking.
Ben Thurston who had gone the pace himself in his early days, did not
seek to interfere with his son’s pursuit of pleasures, but he had very
promptly squelched any interference from Marshall with his own business
operations. On the evening of the quarrel with Dick Willoughby at the
round-up, Marshall had attempted to tell his father about the affair and
suggest Dick’s dismissal. But the old man had at once silenced him
by saying: “Why, damn you! I brought you out to this country to enjoy
yourself and not to get into trouble. So far as Willoughby is concerned,
I can’t afford to quarrel with him. He is my foreman, and I am right
in the midst of a big business transaction. So just you mind your own
business, my boy, and leave him alone.”
Accordingly, Marshall Thurston, a coward at heart, had not sought to
pursue the feud singlehanded, and Dick had seen but little of him during
the rest of the mustering work. When they did happen to meet, it was a
case of a black scowl of hate from the one and a contemptuous smile of
indifference from the other. And so the days had passed until the task
was finished.
It was the Sunday morning that had been fixed for the visit to the
home of Mr. Ricardo Robles, when the cattle foreman could at last
conscientiously take a day of recreation. With the first break of dawn
he and Munson were in the saddle, for they had been invited to breakfast
at La Siesta before starting with the young ladies on the ride through
the oak forest.
The visitors arrived early, but not too early for their hostesses. Grace
and Merle were waiting to welcome them in the portico, looking more
charming than ever in their neat riding suits of khaki.
“We saw you cross the bridge,” declared Grace, “and mother has gone in
to order breakfast to be served. You must be hungry after your early
start.”
“Oh, Sing Ling didn’t let us go without a cup of coffee,” laughed Dick.
“But I fancy we’ll do full justice, all right, to the bountiful fare of
La Siesta.”
It proved to be a delightful meal in every way, the viands seasoned with
gay repartee and laughter. A full hour had sped before Dick recalled the
real object of the day’s excursion.
“We usually walk to Mr. Robles’ place,” remarked Merle. “It is only a
mile or so by the short cuts up the hill, but by the winding road it is
very much longer. So we ordered our ponies.”
“I see,” smiled Munson, “to prolong the pleasure of our foursome among
the oaks.”
“Not at all, sir,” retorted Grace. “The climb on foot is a stiff one,
and we knew that you must be out of condition from the lazy life you are
living.”
“I am only waiting for Willoughby to give me a cowboy’s job,” replied
the ex-lieutenant.
“I don’t know if there will be any cowboy jobs going,” observed
Willoughby. “It’s my belief that San Antonio Rancho is sold and is going
to be broken up into small holdings.”
“Oh, what a pity!” exclaimed Merle.
“From one point of view, perhaps,” answered Dick. “But from a hundred
other points of view, what a blessing! There will be a dozen happy homes
for every steer the range now feeds!”
“But La Siesta will remain just as it is,” cried Grace.
“That will be all right,” replied Dick, gallantly, “It’s already a happy
home.”
The ladies smiled pleasantly.
“Then this will mean the elimination of Mr. Ben Thurston,” observed Mrs.
Darlington.
“The greatest blessing of all,” declared Merle, clapping her hands. “You
see, I am already converted to the change, Mr. Willoughby,” she added
merrily.
“But what about my job?” asked Munson in mock dolefulness.
“Consult Mr. Robles,” laughed Grace. “He may take pity on you, and find
you a place as handy man on his estate.”
In merry mood they all sallied forth. The saddle horses were waiting,
and standing beside them was an elderly Spanish woman.
“Tia Teresa, Mr. Munson,” said Mrs. Darlington by way of introduction.
Munson had often enough heard the name, and in answer to an inquiry,
Willoughby had told him that the old dame had been the personal
attendant of the two young ladies ever since they could remember. Tia
or Aunt Teresa was now more a friend of the family than a servant of the
house, and, taking her hand in salutation, Munson treated her with the
affable courtesy that was her due.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance,” he said, raising his hat.
Tia Teresa looked pleased. Despite her seventy years, she was a buxom
and splendidly preserved woman, and there was still the flash of
youthfulness in her big dark eyes.
“You will look after my little girls,” she said, as she gathered
together the folds of her black lace mantilla. “By rights I should
be coming with you, too,” she added, in the manner of a true Spanish
duenna.
“You forget that we are home again—in free America,” laughed Merle as
she settled herself in the saddle.
“Too free, I sometimes think,” rejoined Tia Teresa. “But there is safety
in four,” she added, turning with a smile to Mrs. Darlington.
And as the young folks rode away she waved them a pleasant adios.