TALK OF MANY THINGS
Golden prided itself upon being "the most American town in the
Territory," but for all its energy and progressiveness it had not
developed an ordinary regard for its own safety. After the mines which
had given it birth had been worked out, it became the depot of supplies
for the widespread miles of cattle country in the plains below, the
mining regions in the mountains above, and the ranches scattered along
the streams within a radius of fifty miles. As its importance increased
a railway sought it out, the honor of being the county seat came
to it, and the ruthless Anglo-Saxon arrived in such numbers and so
energetically that its few contented and improvident Mexicans, thrust to
one side, sank into hopeless nonentity. When Lucy Bancroft first set
upon it the pleased eyes of youthful interest and filial affection, it
was a busy, prosperous place of several thousand souls.
But it still clung to the gulch wherein had been the beginning of its
life and fortune. All the houses of its infancy had been built along the
stream that sparkled down from the mountains, and there the town had
tried to stay, regardless of the floods that occasionally swept down the
canyon during the Summer rains. At first its growth had been up and down
the creek; afterward cross streets had been extended far out on either
side, especially where gradual hill slopes gave easy grades, and roads
had also been made lengthwise along the hillsides and even on their
crests, where now a goodly number of homes looked out over the plains
and down upon the town-filled valley at their feet.
Newcomers gazed curiously at the high sidewalks, raised on posts
above the level of the thoroughfares, asking why, if there was such
possibility of flood, the people continued to live and do business along
the bottom of the gulch. The residents thought the walled sidewalks
rather a good joke, a humorous distinction, and laughed at the idea of
danger.
Lucy Bancroft's eyes grew wide and solemn as she listened to the tale
Dan Tillinghurst told her of the first year he was in Golden, years
before, when a mighty torrent roared down the gulch, carried away most
of the houses, and drowned a dozen souls. "But the very next day," he
added proudly, "the people began rebuildin' their houses on the
identical sites from which they had been swept."
"Why didn't they rebuild on higher ground?" Lucy asked. "And aren't you
afraid there will be another flood that will destroy all these houses
and perhaps kill a great many people?"
"Oh, there's no danger now," he assured her confidently. "The climate's
changin'. There's not nearly so much rain as there used to be. The creek
is dry half the time nowadays, and in my first years here it never went
dry at all. Just look at these flood-marks," and he pointed out to her
on the side of the brick building that housed her father's bank the
lines to which had risen the high waters of each Summer. She saw that
those of recent years were all very low. "Yes," he assured her, "the
climate's changin', there's no doubt of that. There won't be any more
floods."
Between Lucy and the Sheriff a mutual admiration and good-fellowship had
arisen, such as might exist between an elephant and a robin. The day
after her arrival Tillinghurst had told Bancroft that his daughter was
"the prettiest piece of dry goods that had ever come to Golden, and if
he ever let her pull her freight he'd sure deserve nothin' less than
tarrin' and featherin' at the hands of an outraged community."
Notwithstanding her confidence in the big Sheriff, Lucy did not like
the idea of living in the gulch, and persuaded her father to build
their home on the brow of the _mesa_ overlooking the town from the west.
She had no definite fear of the floods nor, after her first few weeks in
the place, did she so much as think of danger from such a source. She
liked the site on the _mesa_, although it was new and raw and treeless,
because it commanded a far-reaching view, to the mountains on the west
and north and, in front, across the town and the valley to the wide gray
level of the plains.
She sat on the veranda of her new home with Miss Louise Dent, telling
her friend what pleasure she was taking in its arrangement and
direction. "At first daddy didn't want me to do it. He thought it would
be too much care and responsibility for me, and that we'd better board.
But I said if a girl eighteen years old wasn't old enough and big
enough to begin to take care of her father she never would be, and so he
gave up. And now! Well, you'll see how he enjoys our home! He just beams
with happiness every time he comes into the house. And I'm perfectly
happy. Daddy is so good, and it's such a pleasure to make things nice
and comfortable for him!"
"I'm so glad," Miss Dent replied, "that you are happy here with him. He
has had so many years of lonely wandering. And I know that he has long
been looking forward to the time when you and he could have a home
together. Your father hasn't had an easy life, dear. You could never
guess all that he has been through. But he is a strong and determined
man, and he's finally won success--just as I always knew he would.
That's what I admire in him so much--that he never would give up." She
stopped, a faint flush mounting to her brow. Lucy threw both arms around
her neck and kissed her.
"Of course, Dearie," she exclaimed, "you must appreciate my father, for
you've known him so long; but it makes me love you all the more to hear
you say so--and oh, Dearie, I'm going to make such a beautiful home out
of this place!" Lucy looked about, her girlish face glowing with proud
and pleased proprietorship. "I know how new and barren it looks now, but
just wait till I've been at work at it for a year!"
She went on to speak of her plans, asking Miss Dent's advice. In the
back-yard the gaunt wings of a big windmill gave a touch of ultra modern
picturesqueness and promised the fulfilment of the girl's hope of a lawn
and flowers, trees and shrubbery, in the near future. A little
conservatory jutted from the southern side of the house, while a deep
veranda ran halfway across the eastern front and around the other two
sides. The neutral, gray-green color of the structure melted into the
hue of the hills and the surrounding _mesa_, leaving its barren newness
less aggressive.
As they talked Lucy now and then cast a lingering glance down the street
that climbed the hill from the town below, and Miss Dent thought that
sometimes a shade of disappointment dimmed the bright face for an
instant. She was twenty years Lucy's senior, although both looks and
manner gave the lie to the fact. The loving friendship between them was
one of those unusual ties between a younger and an older woman which,
when they do occur, are apt to be marked by an overflowing measure of
enthusiasm and loyalty. Louise Dent had been the intimate friend of
Lucy's mother and, after her death, had given the bereaved girl such
love and care and sympathy as had won her instant and ardent devotion,
and the relationship thus established had grown stronger and closer
as the years passed and Lucy matured into womanhood. The girl's
enthusiastic affection had enabled her to find in Louise Dent intimate
friend, elder sister, and mother combined. This complicated feeling
making it impossible for her to address the elder woman by either formal
title or first name, she had soon settled upon "Dearie" as a substantive
term expressing their relationship, and "Dearie" Miss Dent had been to
her ever since, whether between themselves or among her own intimate
friends.
As the shadows grew longer and the hot white sunlight became less vivid,
Lucy seemed to grow restless. She rose and moved about the veranda, or
ran down into the yard and back upon some trivial errand, each time
stopping on the steps to send an inquiring eye down the street.
Standing there, when the afternoon was far spent and the fierce westerly
wind had ebbed into a gentle breeze, she pointed out to Louise the
statuesque sapphire mass of Mangan's Peak against the turquoise blue of
the eastern sky, and told her of the drive thither and back she and her
father had taken a fortnight before, and of their call at Socorro
Springs ranch. "It's an interesting place," she went on; "such a huge
ranch! Why, its grazing rights extend more than a hundred miles south,
away across the Mexican border. Father knows the superintendent very
well, and we'll get him to drive us out there some day." A higher color
rose in her cheeks; she quickly turned away, drew her chair well back,
and sat down. "There's Mr. Conrad, the superintendent, coming up the
hill now!" she exclaimed. "Daddy told me at luncheon that he was in
town."
Lucy bore her new role of hostess with a dignity so easy and gracious
that it surprised Louise, and made Conrad think her more attractive than
ever. Bancroft came a little later, and Curtis was urged to stay to
dinner. Lucy showed him in her conservatory the collection of cactus
plants she had begun to make and listened with eager interest while he
gave her information about the growth of the species she already had,
and told her where she could find others less common. She was anxious to
have his opinion whether it would be possible to make a hedge of
mesquite to replace the wooden paling around the yard; he did not know,
but offered to help her try the experiment.
They dined on the side veranda, where Lucy, with the help of a screen or
two and some plants from her green-house, had contrived an out-of-doors
dining-room. The high spirits of the two younger people dominated the
conversation, as they jested and bantered, laughed, and crossed wits in
little wordy sword-plays that called forth applause and encouragement
from the others. Lucy sparkled and dimpled, and her color rose, while
Curtis's eyes darkened and flashed. Miss Dent, watching them, realized
what an attractive young woman Lucy had grown to be, and how much she
had blossomed out even in the few months since their last parting. "She
will have plenty of admirers," the older woman thought, with a little
twinge at her heart. Still, she was very young, and it would be a long
time yet before she would think of marriage. But--if she were to marry
and leave her father--he would be very lonely--perhaps--and then she
felt her cheeks grow warmer, and hastened to resume her part in the
conversation.
Louise was pleased with Conrad's face. It seemed full of character, with
its broad brow, tanned cheeks, large nose, and well-set chin. She noted
especially the strong, firm jaw and chin, saying to herself that they
betokened a strength of will and constancy of purpose that foretold
success in whatever he might undertake. He was amusing them with an
account of the feud between the wives of the Castleton brothers.
"But don't the men take up the quarrels of their wives," Louise asked,
"or allow any feeling to come between them?"
"Not in the least; nor does there seem to be any ill-feeling between the
ladies. They are always good friends, and the men look upon the whole
thing as a good joke. If Mrs. Turner, for instance, cooks up some new
scheme for getting the better of Mrs. Ned, she tells her husband about
it, he tells Ned, and they laugh over it and make bets about which will
win."
Lucy was interested in the Castleton ladies. Conrad said that Mrs.
Turner Castleton was considered a great beauty, but that he liked Mrs.
Ned, who was half Mexican, much the better and thought her the more
interesting and charming. She asked if they ever visited the ranch.
"Yes," said Curtis; "Ned and his wife come up for a few days every
Spring. This year they'll be there after the round-up is over and the
cattle shipped. Would you like to meet them? All right, we'll arrange
it. While they are there I'll get up a barbecue and a _baile_, and ask
some people. You and Miss Dent and your father must all come."
The American in the Southwest, arrogant and contemptuous as the
Anglo-Saxon always is when brought face to face with a difference in
race, a difference in ideals, or a difference in speech, regards the
Spanish language with frank disdain and ordinarily refuses to learn it.
But where the Mexicans are present in large numbers, as in New Mexico,
he adopts from the other's language a good many words which soon
supplant their English equivalents. An evening party of any sort,
whether a public dance in the town hall, a select affair in the house of
a prominent resident, or a gathering in the Mexican quarter, is always
a "_baile_," a thriftless, insignificant person of either race a
"_paisano_," while upon "_coyote_" the American has seized with ready
tongue, applying it to any creature, human or other, for which he wishes
to express supreme contempt.
Miss Dent had to have _baile_ explained to her, and their talk drifted
to the subject of the Mexican people. Bancroft told her the story of the
bold theft of Conrad's mare, the chase and capture of Melgares, and the
wounding of Gaines. "It is thought that poor Jack cannot live," he said
in conclusion, "and the Mexican is held in jail to await the result. If
he dies the fellow will be tried for murder."
"I've heard a queer story about Melgares," said Conrad, and went on to
tell how the Mexican had lost his little ranch. Lucy listened
attentively, with indignant eyes fixed on Curtis's face.
"How shameful!" she broke out. "What a detestable way of getting money!
The poor Mexicans! Just think of their being turned out of their homes
in that way, with nothing to fall back on! I don't wonder poor Melgares
became a thief--but he ought to have gone to Santa Fe and stolen Mr.
Baxter's horses!"
Bancroft's eyes were fixed on his plate. Had the others been watching
him closely they would have seen no more than a flicker of his eyelids
as his face took on a stony impassiveness. But they were looking at Lucy
who, with head erect, face flushed, and eyes sparkling, made a pretty
picture.
"I'm glad you feel that way, Miss Bancroft," Curtis exclaimed, his face
alight with approval and admiration. "I think myself it's about as
despicable a way of getting money legally as man ever devised. Baxter
knows when he loans the money that the poor wretches will never be able
to pay back a cent of it. He wouldn't loan it to them if he thought they
could, for it's their land he's after. I've heard that he's getting
control in this way of a big tract in the Rio Grande valley and that he
intends to form a company, advertise it through the East, and sell the
land, which is really valuable, at big prices."
"Well, I think it's a shameful piece of business, and I'm surprised that
Mr. Baxter is engaged in it!" said Lucy with decision.
"Before you condemn him so severely, daughter," interposed Bancroft, his
eyes still lowered, "you should remember that the business of the loan
mortgage companies has the full sanction of law and custom, and that
many of the most reputable business men of the United States have
engaged in it."
"I can't help it, daddy, if all the Congressmen and lawyers and business
men, and preachers too, in the United States are engaged in it--that
doesn't make it right. Somehow it seems a different matter with these
poor Mexicans, they are so helpless. Why, it's almost like stealing
their homes. I'm sorry, daddy, to speak so about Mr. Baxter, but that's
really the way I feel about it; I suppose he doesn't realize what an
injury he's doing them. Oh, daddy," and she leaned forward eagerly, her
face flushing, "you and he are such good friends, maybe you could tell
him what harm he's doing and persuade him to give up that part of his
business!"
Conrad smiled grimly. "It's plain, Miss Bancroft," he said, without
waiting for her father to reply, "that you are not intimately acquainted
with Dell Baxter. I'm sorry about this Melgares business, for I can't
help feeling a sort of responsibility. If the fellow is hung his family
will be left destitute. Yes, he has a wife and four children," he
continued in answer to Miss Dent. "I had a talk with him about the
affair, and he asked me to send for his family for him. He had money
with which to pay their fares, though where he got it probably wouldn't
bear too close an inquiry."
Lucy was looking at him eagerly, her face full of sympathy. "The poor
things!" she exclaimed. "When they come you must let me know, Mr.
Conrad."
Bancroft abruptly changed the subject, and presently the talk drifted to
a story that had just come out about the postmaster at Randall. "It's a
characteristic New Mexican tale," said Curtis, turning to the ladies.
"You'll soon find out, Miss Bancroft, if you don't know it already, that
the cowboy song of 'What was your name in the States?' can often be
applied in earnest."
"Confound the fellow," thought Bancroft irritably, "why is he always
harping on that subject!"
"This is a particularly audacious case, though--don't you think so,
Aleck?" Curtis went on. "Here this man has been living for several years
in Randall, a respected citizen, holding office, with influence in the
community, when, behold, it is discovered that just before coming here
he had skipped from some town in Missouri, where he was postmaster, with
all the money in his office and another man's wife. But his sin has
finally found him out."
"It always does," observed Lucy coolly.
Louise Dent was conscious of a fluttering in her throat and realized
that her heart was beating loudly. The moment's pause that followed
seemed to her so long that she rushed into speech, without thought of
what she said: "I'm afraid it does."
"Why do you say 'afraid,' Dearie?" asked Lucy, with surprise. "Isn't it
right that it should?"
Louise made brief and noncommittal reply and Bancroft hurriedly asked
Curtis how the round-up was getting on.
"Well, we've got the thing started, and are ready to move the cattle on
the north part of the range toward Pelham. We'll begin shipping within
two or three weeks. But something seems to have struck the cowboy market
this year; I've been short of hands all the Spring."
"Perhaps I can give you some help," said Bancroft. "A Mexican from up
North has been to me looking for work. He came the day you had the
chase after Melgares and was in again to-day. He has worked for Baxter,
and Dell says he is an expert cowboy and sure to give satisfaction."
"He must be an unusual sort of greaser if he's looking for work,"
laughed Conrad. "If he's that sort, I guess he'll strike my gait."
They found the Mexican sitting on the steps of the front veranda when
they finished dinner.
"Why," exclaimed Curtis with hearty interest, "he's the same chap that
told me my mare was stolen. I hope you can ride and throw a rope; I'm
obliged to you already, and I'd like to do you a good turn. I'll meet
you down town presently, and if you know anything about the business
I'll take you behind me on my mare to the ranch to-night, and you can go
to work in the morning."
The moon had just risen, and its huge white disk seemed to be resting on
the plain only a little way beyond the town. Its brilliant silvery light
was already working weird transformations in the landscape.
"Oh, are you going to ride home to-night, through this wonderful
moonlight!" Lucy exclaimed. "How I envy you!"
"Yes," he answered, lowering his voice and speaking in a tone different
from any she had before heard from his lips; "and it is indeed a
wonderful ride! I don't know anything more impressive than the landscape
of this country under a marvellous moon, like that over there. I hope we
can have a ride by moonlight together, some time, when the moon is full.
Does Miss Dent ride?" His voice went back to its usual tone. "I know
your father is a fine rider. Perhaps we can make up a party some night,
when I don't have to hurry home. I expect my brother here this Summer,
to spend his vacation with me. You and Miss Dent will like him, I'm
sure, for he's a fine lad. I hope we can all have some pleasant
excursions together."
At the sound of his softened voice Lucy felt herself swept by sudden
emotion, and hastily put her hands behind her lest he should see that
they were trembling. And later that night, when she looked out from her
window at the white moon floating in the violet sky, suddenly her nerves
went a-quiver again and her eyes sought the far, dim plain as she softly
whispered, "Under a marvellous moon, like that over there!"
The Mexican asked Bancroft how to reach the place where Conrad was to
meet him, and the banker walked to the gate and pointed out the streets
he was to follow. As he finished Gonzalez bent a keen gaze upon him and
asked, significantly, "Has the senor further instructions for me?"
Bancroft's start and the shade of annoyance that crossed his face as he
realized that it had been noticed were not lost upon the man, whose
searching look was still on him. His equanimity had been well tried
already that evening, and this sudden touch upon a half-formed and most
secret desire startled him for an instant out of his usual self-control.
Heretofore he had merely dallied with the thought that Conrad's removal
would mean his own safety, for the rest of his life. It had appeared to
him merely as something the consequences of which would be desirable.
His hand could not be concerned in it, he wished to know nothing about
it--but if Baxter thought best--to further his own ends--why had the
Mexican come to him with this impudent question?
"I'm not hiring you," was his curt answer.
"Certainly not, senor," the man answered calmly, his head erect, his
arms folded, and one foot advanced. The trio on the veranda noted and
laughed over his attitude. Lucy said he looked like a hero of melodrama
taking the limelight. Miss Dent added that he was handsome enough for a
matinee idol, and Conrad declared that there was no telling how many
senoritas' hearts he had already broken. Bancroft turned to go back to
the house, but paused an instant, and the Mexican quickly went on in a
softly insinuating voice: "But if the senor should wish to say anything
particular? Don Dellmey thought it might be possible."
Bancroft lingered, flicking the ashes from his cigar. "I--I know nothing
about it," he blurted out, uncertainly. "If Don Dellmey had anything to
say to you I suppose he said it."
As he turned away he heard the man say gently, "Thank you, Senor
Bancroft. I shall not forget our talk." There was no reply, and the
Mexican, whistling a Spanish love tune, disappeared down the hill in the
weird mixed lights of the fading day and the brilliant moon.
Alone on the veranda, Alexander Bancroft walked restlessly to and fro,
stopping now and again as if to listen to the music from within, which
he did not hear, or to look at the moonlit landscape, which he did not
see. Over and over he was saying to himself that he had no idea what
Dellmey Baxter had said to this Mexican, and, whatever it was, he had
distinctly told the creature that he knew nothing about it. The man had
come to him recommended as an expert cowboy, he had passed the
recommendation on to Conrad, and that was all there was about it.
Nevertheless, he knew he had reason to believe--the Congressman had
intimated as much in his letter--that the man who called himself Jose
Gonzalez was in reality Liberato Herrara, guilty of at least one murder
and probably of others, whom Baxter's legal skill had saved from the
gallows. Curtis had said that he should carry the man behind him to the
ranch that night. Before Bancroft's inward eye a sudden vision opened:
wide miles of silent plain, a great white moon hanging low in the sky, a
long stretch of deserted road, and then two men on a single horse--and
the light gleaming on a long knife! He shuddered as the blade flashed,
and turned his face away from the plain. Then, as there came to him a
sudden sense of tremendous relief, with breath and thought suspended he
turned slowly, fascinatedly, and with greedy eyes searched the distant
plain, as if eager to find in it some proof, at last, of his own safety.
Lucy's voice rose in a gay little song above the piano and fell upon his
ears. With a deep, long-drawn breath his thought leaped out and seized
upon all that freedom from Curtis Conrad's pursuit would mean for him.
Jose Gonzalez would sink out of sight, and Liberato Herrara would be
back in his own home, unsuspected and silent. Some excitement would
follow, search would be made, a body would be found in a mesquite
thicket,--and then the interest would die out, and there would be only
another grewsome tale of mystery to be added to the hundreds already
told through the Southwest. And he--Alexander Bancroft--would be
safe--secure in fortune and reputation and the love and honor of his
daughter as long as they should live.
The music within ceased and Lucy's voice rippled out in girlish
laughter. His heart sank as he seemed to hear again her hot denunciation
of Baxter's loan and mortgage operations. "I'll sell out to Dell and
she'll never know I've had anything to do with it," he thought. Then
there came ringing through his memory, as he had heard them so many
times since they rode home from the Socorro Springs ranch, her
passionate words, "He must have been a wicked man," and "I should hate
him, with all my strength," and again his longing face turned
impulsively toward the plain.
"I'd kill him myself, rather than let her find out," he whispered, with
teeth set. "And a man has got to protect himself out here!" his urgent
thought went on. "I'll be a fool if I don't stop him before he gets his
chance at me!" With a sudden stirring of conscience he remembered that
this man whose death he was so ardently desiring was his friend and
trusted his friendship. "I--I don't want him stuck in the back," he
muttered. "I might warn him. He may not have started yet."
He walked uncertainly toward the veranda steps. There was a flutter of
white drapery and Lucy was laying an affectionate hand on his arm. "Oh,
daddy dear," she coaxed, "won't you come in and try this duet with us?
Dearie will play the accompaniment for us to sing. She brought it to me,
and I'm dying to try it."
"Yes, if you wish it, daughter," the banker replied, hesitation in his
voice, "but I was thinking of going down town." He saw the shade of
disappointment that crossed her face, and drew her hand into his arm.
"It doesn't matter," he went on, "and I would rather stay at home." To
himself he said as they moved to the door, "Conrad has gone by this
time, and, anyway, I've no reason to think this Mexican intends to do
him any harm."