WHEREIN AN OLD FRIEND RETURNS, AND THERE IS A JOYFUL REUNION
On a wonderful afternoon, more than two years later, Lucia sat in the
little Spanish courtyard that Gilbert had had built a few months after
their marriage. The air was like golden wine, and she drank it in, bathed
her soul in it, as though she could never find enough joy through these
slow hours. How marvelous life had been to her in the last radiant months!
She had realized the fulfillment of her most cherished dream, and looked
down now at a tiny pink face that smiled at her.
"Oh, how sweet you are, Pancho!" she was saying. "I don't know what I ever
did without you!" And she kissed the baby's cheek, which instantly took on
a rosy hue.
There is an ecstasy that is close to tears; and in the happiness that Lucia
had now found she was experiencing that high state of spiritual exaltation
which made life almost unbearably beautiful. The autumn day itself, warm
and glowing, was like a low fire on the hearth, toward which she stretched
her hands. But there was a spiritual fire within her which needed no
outward symbol; a flame that leaped and burned steadily.
Far off she heard the chug of a motor--not the Ford now, but a big
touring-car that glistened in the sun. She knew that Gilbert would be
returning from Bisbee at just about this hour, and she could hardly wait to
see him turn in.
"Here's your daddy, Pancho!" she cried, when the car swung from the road,
and Gilbert, hatless and sun-burned, leaped from the machine with all the
eagerness of a great healthy boy.
He ran to his little family and kissed them both. "Gosh! but you look
lovely, Lucia, my dear!" he exclaimed, standing back a bit so that he could
have even a better view of her rosy cheeks, flashing eyes, and blowing
hair. "This autumn weather agrees with you, doesn't it? And Pancho--he
looks better than any baby around here--even Angela's."
He dropped down on the seat beside her, and looked with rapture at the
child in her arms.
"Sold ten head of cattle this morning, and Montrose says he'll take as many
more when I'm ready for him. Great, isn't it? 'Red' been over to-day?"
"Yes," answered Lucia; "and he said he was going to bring Angela and
Panchita for an early supper. Says it's awful the way they've neglected us.
We haven't seen them for two whole days, you know!"
They both laughed.
"Well, of course old 'Red' has more to do now that Jasper Hardy's dead; but
after all, he can hire all the men he needs. Guess it's more a question of
his wanting to stay around Angy and the kid, don't you think so?"
"He tries so hard to imitate you in everything. It makes me ache to see how
happy he is, Gil. Aren't they the cutest couple you ever saw? And won't it
be nice when Pancho and Panchita are old enough to play together?"
"You bet!" Gilbert agreed. He looked off at the quiet mountains, steadfast
in their serenity, their crests seeming to kiss the sky. This _was_ God's
country, after all. Sometimes he could not believe that he had come so
gloriously into his own. In the slow process of putting his ranch on a
paying basis, after the turmoil of those weeks following the departure of
Lopez, he had had the sustaining wonder of Lucia always beside him; and
when little Pancho came upon the scene he felt that life was altogether too
kind to him. He had worked unremittingly; and not only had he had his own
affairs to absorb him, but "Red," after his marriage to Angela, was forever
ringing him up on the telephone, or coming over and asking his advice and
help. He was never too busy to throw out a word to his faithful friend;
indeed, they had reached a coöperative basis so far as the two properties
were concerned, and the arrangement could not have worked out better. The
ranches touched each other, and after Jasper Hardy's death a year and a
half before, it seemed wise to form a sort of partnership. There was no
need of a written understanding; the two men simply said to each other that
they would do certain things, install certain improvements, and share
expenses and profits. Nothing on paper for them! No, siree, said "Red." He
wouldn't hear of it. And everything had been as amicable as possible.
It was curious to see the change in Uncle Henry since the arrival of little
Pancho. Gilbert got him a brand-new wheel chair--sent all the way to
Phoenix for it--to celebrate the great event; and Uncle Henry loved
nothing better than to take the chap on his knee and give him a ride in the
courtyard whenever Lucia would trust him to his care. He never complained
now. He was deliriously happy, and with the new era of prosperity that had
struck the household, he was given a Mexican boy as his own personal
attendant, and he grew to take a kindly interest in him. He taught him to
read and write English. Thus busily occupied, and loving Lucia because she
loved his nephew so, his health improved, as well as his temper. He could
even tolerate "Red's" harmonica; in fact, he often begged him to play it
when the latter came over to midday dinner, and his legs had so improved
that he could actually jiggle them to some merry tune.
"If you don't look out, you'll be dancin' soon!" "Red" used to say on these
happy occasions. "You can shimmy now!"
"Shet your head!" Uncle Henry cried; but not angrily--not now. He laughed
when he said it, and was secretly flattered that anyone thought he had such
pep at his age and in his condition of semi-invalidism (for that is all it
could be called now).
It was five o'clock when the Giddings family came. They used the faithful
little Ford for the short run; but they too had a big roadster, painted a
flaming red, "to match the master's hair," Mrs. Quinn put it.
Angela, radiant in her motherhood, instantly compared notes with Lucia as
to infant symptoms--not that anything was the matter with either child; but
she loved to be ready for any emergency, and had a natural fear that
Panchita might be taken ill in the night sometime; and was everything in
her home medicine-chest, that should be?
Uncle Henry begged to take both children on his lap; and, holding them
firmly, he made his boy push the chair here and there, got "Red" to play
the once detested harmonica, and had a gay time of it all around the ranch
house.
"We'd better eat indoors this afternoon," Lucia said. "I was going to
spread the table under the pergola; but it may turn cooler."
It was not long before they were all seated at an extended table in the big
living-room--that same room which had been the scene of tragedy and
suffering for them, but was now so filled with joy.
"Mrs. Quinn sent over the cake," Lucia announced, as the table-boy brought
in a huge dish, on which was a chocolate cake of magnificent proportions.
It looked--and was--as light as a feather; a work of art to be proud of.
"Just like her, eh?" said "Red." "What would we do without Mrs. Quinn, the
queen of 'em all!"
"That's what I say," Uncle Henry declared. He could hardly wait to get to
the cake, for he knew what toothsome dainties the Irishwoman could cause to
emerge from her oven; and often she sent him this or that sweet, "just to
let 'im know she was livin' an' breathin'."
Suddenly there came a sound of hoof beats on the road; and through the open
door, outlined against the flaming sunset, Gilbert could see two horsemen
approaching, with pointed hats, and glistening buttons.
"Mexicans!" he cried. "What can they be doing here, now?" His mind rushed
back to that terrible evening so long ago when Lopez had ridden up to the
adobe, and changed the world for them all in almost the twinkling of an
eye.
He got up from the table now, and "Red" followed him. Dusk was just
descending, but Gilbert's sharp eyes recognized the first horseman even in
the dimming light.
"It's Pancho Lopez!" he cried.
And sure enough, on a steed that looked like Sunday afternoon, with
brand-new reins and bit, and in a suit that fit him to perfection, with
gleaming spurs and shining buttons, the rakish and indomitable Pancho, his
long-lost friend, returned to greet him. He could scarcely believe it. For
since that memorable night when he had left them, to return to the interior
of Mexico, never a word had he had from him. Meantime, the great happiness
had come to him; and when the baby came into the world, he and Lucia had
not forgotten the man who had been responsible for their joy. With one
accord they named the boy Pancho. There was not the slightest doubt but
that should be what he should be called. The only tragedy was that they had
no way of letting the bandit know what they had done. Where was he? They
did not know. When, if ever, would he return? They had no way of finding
out. There was but one thing to do--wait. And they did. But often Gilbert
had said to Lucia, "He has forgotten us, though we have never forgotten
him--our friend."
Now, in the quiet, brooding autumn dusk he came to their doorstep,
dismounted, lifted his hat, smiled that wonderful smile of his, and made a
bow that any courtier might have been proud to make. Behind him, on a brown
horse, was Pedro, his lieutenant--the same monosyllabic Pedro, faithful
unto death, and now as clean as a whistle.
"Ah! my frand!" Pancho said, as he bowed again, "How glad am I to see you.
You glad to see me, too, eh?"
Lucia also had come to the door; likewise Angela--but the latter was still
a bit timid. Even Uncle Henry pushed his way to the sill, and sat like a
lonely man in a gallery while those in the orchestra pressed about their
favorite actor.
"Glad?" exclaimed Gilbert. "I could kiss you, Pancho! But where on earth
have you been? Come in, and tell us everything."
He needed no urging. "Hongry as beeg bear!" he told them.
"Then sit right down," Lucia said, "There's plenty--far more than the last
time you were here!" And they all laughed.
He came into the room, while Pedro took care of the horses.
"Hallo, Oncle Hennery," he greeted the old man in the wheel chair. "You
look splendid! And 'allo, 'Red,'--zat's what zey call you--yes?" Then he
saw the babies, and his eyes fairly popped from his head, "Well, well!" he
cried, "Who 'ave zese leetle fellers!"
"They're not both fellers!" Angela made bold to say. "One's a girl--that
one! She's mine!"
"Oh, ho! Leetle spitfire still!" Pancho laughed. He chucked her under her
pretty chin. "So you marry ze man I pick for you, eh? Good! An'
zis"--pointing to the baby--"zis ees better yet!"
"Look at mine!" the proud Lucia couldn't help saying. "Isn't he the image
of his father?"
She held him up, and Lopez took his little hand in his. "Yes, I see what
you mean," he said, carefully looking at the child. "Hees father's
eyes--but not so much hair! What you call heem?"
"Guess!" said Gilbert.
"Could not," the Mexican answered.
"Only one guess!" Lucia begged.
"Could not t'ink," Lopez insisted.
"Well, then--you tell him, Gilbert," the mother said, turning to her
husband.
"There could be only one name in all the world for that youngster," Gilbert
said, and put his hand affectionately on his old friend's shoulder. "You
ought to know it as well as I. Of course his name is--Pancho!"
The smile that came over the Mexican's face was beautiful to see. And was
that the suggestion of a tear in his eye?
Long and long, and while everybody in the room remained perfectly still, he
looked at the baby, whose tiny hands bobbed up and down--a fat, healthy
youngster, fit as a fiddle, laughing, squirming, happy.
"For me you name him?" Lopez finally got out. "Oh, too good you are to me.
Pancho! my own leetle boy! Pancho! 'Some' name, what you say, eh?"
And he pinched the child's cheek, tenderly as his mother would have done.
"And here's mine!" Angela, not to be outdone, piped up, presenting her
child, also in her arms, to the delirious bandit.
"An' what heez name?"
"It ain't a he--it's a she, I told you!" Angela corrected.
"Ah! All kinds you 'ave 'ere, eh? Good! An' what _'er_ name?"
"Can't you guess?" asked "Red," coming forward, smiling.
"A girl? What use I 'ave for girls?" laughed Pancho Lopez. "What you say
now--what's ze name?"
"Why, Panchita! What else could we have named her?" Angela said.
You could have knocked the Mexican down with a straw. This time he was
flabbergasted.
"You all too fine, too tender, too good to me," he said; and there was a
softness in his speech that none of them had guessed could be there, save,
perhaps, Gilbert.
"Oh, no," Jones said. "We wanted a little Mexican touch in our households.
And we've never forgotten you, old friend. Tell me, where have you been all
these months? We hoped to hear from you. But never a word or a sign from
you. Aren't you just a little ashamed of yourself now, when you see how
much we have been thinking of you?"
Lopez hung his head. "Yes, my frand, I _am_ ashamed." Then he looked around
at all of them. "I love you very much. I dream of you often, an' I say to
myself. 'Some day I go back there, an' see my old frands which I make so
'appy.' But I bandit no more, an' travel I hate in trains. I reform. I
settle down in Mexico City. I 'ave baby too, an' good wife, good mother.
But I get 'omesick, 'ow you say, for you all, an' so I come down for what
you call 'oliday, an'--'ere I am! You 'ave made me very 'appy to-night. I
love you all even more seence I see zese cheeldrens. _Madre Dio!_ How fine
to 'ave cheeldren!"
"Ain't we ever goin' to finish our supper?" Uncle Henry wanted to know; but
his tone was not querulous; it was plaintively sweet, and it held a note of
invitation for everyone.
Laughing, they all sat down, but not before Pedro had been asked in. The
frightened cook--the same who had been drunk that fatal evening when Pancho
first arrived--scurried here and there, eager to serve the distinguished
guest.
"You all right!" Lopez told him. "Never fear, so long as you bring me good
'ot coffee!"
And, happy as the babies, they all fell to; and it was Pancho himself who
was asked to cut Mrs. Quinn's big cake.
"First time I use a knife in long while!" he laughed, as he stood up to the
job. "Now we all eat much; an' mebbe give some to leetle Pancho and
Panchita too, eh?"
THE END
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