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[Illustration: "I'll hit any trail with you--barring Mexican politics."
[Page 19]]
THE TREASURE TRAIL
A ROMANCE OF THE LAND OF GOLD AND SUNSHINE
By
MARAH ELLIS RYAN
Illustrated by Robert Amick
Publishers Chicago
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1918
Copyright
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1918
Published November, 1918
Copyrighted in Great Britain
To Kalatoka of the brown tent
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I KIT AND THE GIRL OF THE LARK CALL 1
II THE RED GOLD LEGEND 15
III A VERIFIED PROPHECY OF SENORITA BILLIE 54
IV IN THE ADOBE OF PEDRO VIJIL 66
V AN "ADIOS"--AND AFTER 73
VI A DEAD MAN UNDER THE COTTONWOODS 90
VII IN THE PROVINCE OF ALTAR 107
VIII THE SLAVE TRAIL 124
IX A MEETING AT YAQUI WELL 133
X A MEXICAN EAGLET 144
XI GLOOM OF BILLIE 161
XII COVERING THE TRAIL 167
XIII A WOMAN OF EMERALD EYES 186
XIV THE HAWK OF THE SIERRAS 217
XV THE "JUDAS" PRAYER AT MESA BLANCA 230
XVI THE SECRET OF SOLEDAD CHAPEL 256
XVII THE STORY OF DONA JOCASTA 288
XVIII RAMON ROTIL DECIDES 300
XIX THE RETURN OF TULA 328
XX EAGLE AND SERPENT 346
XXI EACH TO HIS OWN 360
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"I'll hit any trail with you--barring Mexican
politics." _Frontispiece_
"You poor kid, you have a hard time with the
disreputables you pick up." 76
"No, Ramon! No!" she cried, and flung herself between
him and his victims. 280
The Indian girl was steadily gaining on the German. 356
THE TREASURE TRAIL
CHAPTER I
KIT AND THE GIRL OF THE LARK CALL
In the shade of Pedro Vijil's little brown adobe on the Granados
rancho, a horseman squatted to repair a broken cinch with strips of
rawhide, while his horse--a strong dappled roan with a smutty
face--stood near, the rawhide bridle over his head and the quirt
trailing the ground.
The horseman's frame of mind was evidently not of the sweetest, for to
Vijil he had expressed himself in forcible Mexican--which is supposed
to be Spanish and often isn't--condemning the luck by which the cinch
had gone bad at the wrong time, and as he tinkered he sang softly an
old southern ditty:
_Oh--oh! I'm a good old rebel,
Now that's just what I am!
For I won't be reconstructed
And I don't care a damn!_
He varied this musical gem occasionally by whistling the air as he
punched holes and wove the rawhide thongs in and out through the
spliced leather.
Once he halted in the midst of a strain and lifted his head,
listening. Something like an echo of his own notes sounded very close,
a mere shadow of a whistle.
Directly over his head was a window, unglazed and wooden barred. A fat
brown olla, dripping moisture, almost filled the deep window sill, but
the interior was all in shadow. Its one door was closed. The Vijil
family was scattered around in the open, most of them under the
_ramada_, and after a frowning moment of mystification the young
fellow resumed his task, but in silence.
Then, after a still minute, more than the whisper of a whistle came to
him--the subdued sweet call of a meadow lark. It was so sweet it might
have been mate to any he had heard on the range that morning.
Only an instant he hesitated, then with equal care he gave the
duplicate call, and held his breath to listen--not a sound came back.
"We've gone loco, Pardner," he observed to the smutty-faced roan
moving near him. "That jolt from the bay outlaw this morning has
jingled my brain pans--we don't hear birds call us--we only think we
do."
If he had even looked at Pardner he might have been given a sign, for
the roan had lifted its head and was staring into the shadows back of
the sweating olla.
"Hi, you caballero!"
The words were too clear to be mistaken, the "caballero" stared across
to the only people in sight. There was Pedro Vijil sharpening an axe,
while Merced, his wife, turned the creaking grindstone for him. The
young olive branches of the Vijil family were having fun with a horned
toad under the _ramada_ where gourd vines twisted about an ancient
grape, and red peppers hung in a gorgeous splash of color. Between
that and the blue haze of the far mountains there was no sign of
humanity to account for such cheery youthful Americanism as the tone
suggested.
"Hi, yourself!" he retorted, "whose ghost are you?"
There was a giggle from the barred window of the adobe.
"I don't dare say because I am not respectable just now," replied the
voice. "I fell in the ditch and have nothing on but the Sunday shirt
of Pedro. I am the funniest looking thing! wish I dared ride home in
it to shock them all silly."
"Why not?" he asked, and again the girlish laugh gave him an odd
thrill of comradeship.
"A good enough reason; they'd take Pat from me, and say he wasn't safe
to ride--but he is! My tumble was my own fault for letting them put on
that fool English saddle. Never again for me!"
"They are all right for old folks and a pacing pony," he observed, and
again he heard the bubbling laugh.
"Well, Pat is not a pacing pony, not by a long shot; and I'm not
old folks--yet!" Then after a little silence, "Haven't you any
curiosity?"
"I reckon there's none allowed me on this count," he replied without
lifting his head, "between the wooden bars and Pedro's shirt you
certainly put the fences up on me."
"I'm a damsel in distress waiting for a rescuing knight with a white
banner and a milk-white steed--" went on the laughing voice in stilted
declamation.
"Sorry, friend, but my cayuse is a roan, and I never carried a white
flag yet. You pick the wrong colors."
Whereupon he began the chanting of a war song, with an eye stealthily
on the barred window.
_Hurrah! Hurrah! For southern rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the bonnie blue flag
That bears the single star!_
"Oh! _I_ know that!" the voice was now a hail of recognition. "Cap
Pike always sings that when he's a little 'how-came-ye-so'--and
_you're_ a Johnny Reb!"
"Um! twice removed," assented the man by the wall, "and you are a
raiding Yank who has been landed in one of our fortresses with only
one shirt to her back, and that one borrowed."
He had a momentary vision of two laughing gray eyes beside the olla,
and the girl behind the bars laughed until Merced let the grindstone
halt while she cast a glance towards the house as if in doubt as to
whether three feet of adobe wall and stout bars could serve instead of
a duena to foolish young Americans who chattered according to their
foolishness.
There was an interval of silence, and then the girlish voice called
again.
"Hi, Johnny Reb!"
"Same to you, Miss Yank."
"Aren't you the new Americano from California, for the La Partida
rancho?"
"Even so, O wise one of the borrowed garment." The laugh came to him
again.
"Why don't you ask how I know?" she demanded.
"It is borne in upon me that you are a witch of the desert, or the
ghost of a dream, that you see through the adobe wall, and my equally
thick skull. Far be it for me to doubt that the gift of second sight
is yours, O seventh daughter of a seventh daughter!"
"No such thing! I'm the only one!" came the quick retort, and the
young chap in the shade of the adobe shook with silent mirth.
"I see you laughing, Mr. Johnny Reb, you think you caught me that
time. But you just halt and listen to me, I've a hunch and I'm going
to prophesy."
"I knew you had the gift of second sight!"
"Maybe you won't believe me, but the hunch is that you--won't--hold--the
job on these ranches!"
"What!" and he turned square around facing the window, then laughed.
"That's the way you mean to get even for the 'seventh daughter' guess
is it? You think I can't handle horses?"
"Nix," was the inelegant reply, "I know you can, for I saw you handle
that bay outlaw they ran in on you this morning: seven years old and
no wrangler in Pima could ride him. Old Cap Pike said it was a damn
shame to put you up against that sun-fisher as an introduction to
Granados."
"Oh! Pike did, did he? Nice and sympathetic of Pike. I reckon he's the
old-time ranger I heard about out at the Junction, reading a red-fire
riot to some native sons who were not keen for the cactus trail of the
Villistas. That old captain must be a live wire, but he thinks I can't
stick?"
"No-o, that wasn't Cap Pike, that was my own hunch. Say, are you
married?"
"O senorita! this is so sudden!" he spoke in shy reproof, twisting his
neckerchief in mock embarrassment, and again Merced looked toward the
house because of peals of laughter there.
"You are certainly funny when you do that," she said after her
laughter had quieted down to giggles, "but I wasn't joking, honest
Indian I wasn't! But how did you come to strike Granados?"
"Me? Well, I ranged over from California to sell a patch of ground I
owned in Yuma. Then I hiked over to Nogales on a little _pasear_ and
offered to pack a gun and wear a uniform for this Mexican squabble,
and the powers that be turned me down because one of my eyes could see
farther than the other--that's no joke--it's a calamity! I spent all
the _dinero_ I had recovering from the shock, and about the time I was
getting my sympathetic friends sobered up, Singleton, of Granados, saw
us trying out some raw cavalry stock, and bid for my valuable services
and I rode over. Any other little detail you'd like to know?"
"N-no, only needed to know it wasn't Conrad the manager hired you, and
I asked if you were married because married men need the work more
than single strays. Adolf Conrad got rid of two good American men
lately, and fetches over Mexicans from away down Hermosillo way."
"'Cause why?" asked the man who had ceased pretense of mending the
saddle, and was standing with back against the adobe.
"'Cause I don't know," came petulant response. "I only had the hunch
when I saw you tame that outlaw in the corral. If he pulls wires to
lose _you_, I'll stop guessing; I'll know!"
"Very interesting, senorita," agreed the stranger reflectively. "But
if I have a good job, I can't see how it will give me aid or comfort
to know that you've acquired knowledge, and stopped guessing. When's
your time up behind the bars?"
"Whenever my clothes get dry enough to fool the dear home folks."
"You must be a joy to the bosom of your family," he observed, "also a
blessing."
He heard again the girlish laughter and concluded she could not be
over sixteen. There was silence for a space while only the creak of
the grindstone cut the stillness. Whoever she was, she had given him a
brief illuminating vision of the tactics of Conrad, the manager for
the ranches of Granados and La Partida, the latter being the Sonora
end of the old Spanish land grant. Even a girl had noted that the
rough work had been turned over to a new American from the first
circle of the _rodeo_. He stood there staring out across the sage
green to the far purple hills of the Green Springs range.
"You've fixed that cinch, what you waiting for?" asked the voice at
last, and the young fellow straightened up and lifted the saddle.
"That's so," he acknowledged. "But as you whistled to me and the call
seemed friendly, it was up to me to halt for orders--from the lady in
distress."
Again he heard the soft laughter and the voice.
"Glad you liked the friendly call, Johnny Reb," she confessed. "That's
my call. If ever you hear it where there are no larks, you'll know who
it is."
"Sure," he agreed, yanking at the cinch, "and I'll come a lopin' with
the bonnie blue flag, to give aid and succor to the enemy."
"You will not!" she retorted. "You'll just whistle back friendly, and
be chums. I think my clothes are dry now, and you'd better travel. If
you meet anyone looking for a stray maverick, you haven't seen me."
"Just as you say. _Adios!_"
After he had mounted and passed along the corral to the road, he
turned in the saddle and looked back. He could see no one in the
window of the bars, but there came to him clear and sweet the field
bugle of the meadow lark.
He answered it, lifted his sombrero and rode soberly towards the
Granados corrals, three miles across the valley. Queer little trick
she must be. American girls did not usually ride abroad alone along
the border, and certainly did not chum with the Mexicans to the extent
of borrowing shirts. Then as he lifted the bridle and Pardner broke
into a lope, he noted an elderly horseman jogging along across trail
on a little mule. Each eyed the other appraisingly.
"Hello, Bub!" hailed the older man. "My name's Pike, and you're the
new man from California, hey? Glad to meet you. Hear your name's
Rhodes."
"I reckon you heard right," agreed the young chap. "K. Rhodes at your
service, sir."
"Hello! K? K? Does that K stand for Kit?"
"Center shot for you," assented the other.
"From Tennessee?"
"Now you're a sort of family historian, I reckon, Mr. Pike," suggested
K. Rhodes. "What's the excitement?"
"Why you young plantation stray!" and the older man reached for his
hand and made use of it pump-handle fashion with a sort of sputtering
glee. "Great guns, boy! there was just one K. Rhodes a-top of God's
green earth and we were pardners here in Crook's day. Hurrah for us!
Are you cousin, son, or nephew?"
"My grandfather was with Crook."
"Sure! I knew it soon as I laid eyes on you and heard your name; that
was in the corral with the outlaw Conrad had driven in for you to
work, it wa'n't a square deal to a white man. I was cussin' mad."
"So I heard," and the blue eyes of the other smiled at the memory of
the girl's glib repetition of his discourse. "What's the great idea?
Aside from the fact that he belongs to the white dove, anti-military
bunch of sisters, Singleton seems quite white, a nice chap."
"Yeh, but he's noways wise at that. He sort of married into the horse
game here, wasn't bred to it. Just knows enough to not try to run it
solo. Now this Dolf Conrad does know horses and the horse market, and
Granados rancho. He's shipped more cavalry stock to France than any
other outfit in this region. Yes, Conrad knows the business end of the
game, but even at that he might not assay as high grade ore. He is
mixed up with them too-proud-to-fight clique organized by old maids of
both sexes, and to show that he is above all prejudice, political or
otherwise, he sure is corraling an extra lot of Mex help this year.
I've _companeros_ I'd go through hell for, but Conrad's breed--well,
enough said, Bub, but they're different!" Mr. Pike bit off a chew of
black plug, and shook his head ruminatively.
Rhodes looked the old man over as they rode along side by side. He was
lean, wiry and probably sixty-five. His hair, worn long, gave him the
look of the old-time ranger. He carried no _reata_ and did not look
like a ranchman. He had the southern intonation, and his eyes were
wonderfully young for the almost snowy hair.
"Belong in the valley, Captain?"
"Belong? Me belong anywhere? Not yet, son," and he smiled at his own
fancy. "Not but what it's a good enough corner when a man reaches the
settlin' down age. I drift back every so often. This ranch was Fred
Bernard's, and him and me flocked together for quite a spell.
Singleton married Bernard's widow--she's dead now these seven years. I
just drift back every so often to keep track of Bernard's kid,
Billie."
"I see. Glad to have met you, Captain. Hope we can ride together often
enough for me to hear about the old Apache days. This land has fetched
out three generations of us, so it surely has some pull! My father
came at the end of his race, but I've come in time to grow up with the
country."
Captain Pike looked at him and chuckled. K. Rhodes was about
twenty-three, tall, almost boyish in figure, but his shoulders and
hands suggested strength, and his mouth had little dents of humor at
the corners to mitigate the squareness of jaw and the heavy dark
brows. His black lashes made the deep blue of his eyes look purple.
Young he was, but with a stature and self-reliant manner as witness
of the fact that he was fairly grown up already.
"Where'd you learn horses, Bub?"
"Tennessee stock farm, and southern California ranges. Then this neck
of the woods seemed calling me, and I trailed over to look after a bit
of land in Yuma. I wasted some time trying to break into the army, but
they found some eye defect that I don't know anything about--and don't
more than half believe! I had some dandy prospecting plans after that,
but there was no jingling in my pockets--no outfit money, so I hailed
Singleton as an angel monoplaned down with the ducats. Yes sir, I had
all the dream survey made for a try at some gold trails down here,
going to take it up where the rest of the family quit."
"You mean that, boy?" The old man halted his mule, and spat out the
tobacco, staring at Rhodes in eager anticipation.
"I sure do. Reckon I've inherited the fever, and can't settle down to
any other thing until I've had one try at it. Did do a little placer
working in the San Jacinto."
"And you're broke?" Mr. Pike's voice betrayed a keen joy in the
prospect.
"Flat," stated K. Rhodes, eyeing the old gentleman suspiciously, "my
horse, saddle, field glass, and gun are the only belongings in
sight."
"Ki-yi!" chirruped his new acquaintance gleefully, "I knew when I got
out of the blankets this morning I was to have good luck of some sort,
had a 'hunch.' You can bet on me, Bub; you've struck the right rail,
and I'm your friend, your desert _companero_!"
"Yes, you sound real nice and friendly," agreed K. Rhodes. "So glad
I'm flat broke that you're having hysterics over it. Typical southern
hospitality. Hearty welcome to our city, and so forth, and so forth!"
The old man grinned at him appreciatively. "Lord boy!--I reckon I've
been waiting around for you about ten year, though I didn't know what
your name would be when you come, and it couldn't be a better one!
We'll outfit first for the Three Hills of Gold in the desert, and if
luck is against us there we'll strike down into Sonora to have a try
after the red gold of El Alisal. I've covered some of that ground, but
never had a pardner who would stick. They'd beat it because of either
the Mexicans or the Indians, but _you_--say boy! It's the greatest
game in the world and we'll go to it!"
His young eyes sparkled in his weathered desert face, and more than
ten years were cast aside in his enthusiasm. K. Rhodes looked at him
askance.
"If I did not have a key to your sane and calm outlining of prospects
for the future, I might suspect loco weed or some other dope," he
observed. "But the fact is you must have known that my grandfather in
his day went on the trail of the Three Hills of Gold, and left about a
dozen different plans on paper for future trips."
"Know it? Why boy, I went in with him!" shrilled Captain Pike. "Know
it? Why, we crawled out half starved, and dried out as a couple of
last year's gourds. We dug roots and were chewing our own boot tops
when the Indians found us. Sure, I know it. He went East to raise
money for a bigger outfit, but never got back--died there."
"Yes, then my father gathered up all the plans and specifications and
came out with a friend about fifteen years ago," added Rhodes. "They
never got anywhere, but he sort of worked the fever off, bought some
land and hit the trail back home. So I've been fairly well fed up on
your sort of dope, Captain, and when I've mended that gone feeling in
my pocketbook I may 'call' you on the gold trail proposition. Even if
you're bluffing there'll be no come back; I can listen to a lot of
'lost mine' vagaries. It sounds like home sweet home to me!"
"Bluff nothing! we'll start next week."
"No we won't, I've got a job and made a promise, got to help clean up
the work here for the winter. Promised to take the next load of horses
East."
"That's a new one," observed his new friend. "Conrad himself has
always gone East with the horses, or sent Brehmen, his secretary. But
never mind, Bub, the eastern trip won't take long. I'll be devilin'
around getting our outfit and when the chance comes--us for the Three
Hills of Gold!"
"It listens well," agreed K. Rhodes, "cheeriest little _pasear_ I've
struck in the county. We'll have some great old powwows, even if we
don't make a cent, and some day you'll tell me about the mental kinks
in the makeup of our Prussian friend, Conrad. He sounds interesting to
me."
Captain Pike uttered a profane and lurid word or two concerning Mr.
Conrad, and stated he'd be glad when Billie was of age. Singleton, and
therefore Conrad, would only have the management up to that time.
Billie would know horses if nothing else, and--Then he interrupted
himself and stared back the way he had come.
"I'm a forgetful old fool!" he stated with conviction. "I meandered
out to take a look around for her, and I didn't like the looks of that
little dab of a saddle Conrad had put on Pat. You didn't see anything
of her, did you?"
"What does she look like?"
"A slip of a girl who rides like an Indian, rides a black horse."
"No, I've seen no one," said the young chap truthfully enough. "But
who did you say your girl was?"
"You'll find out if you hold your job long enough for her to be of
age," said Pike darkly. "She'll be your boss instead of Conrad. It's
Billie Bernard, the owner of Granados and La Partida."
"Billie?"
"Miss Wilfreda, if you like it better."
But K. Rhodes said he didn't. Billie seemed to fit the sort of girl
who would garb herself in Pedro's shirt and whistle at him through the
bars of the little window.