The Rancho Sierra had long been the rendezvous of the _contrabandista_,
a sanctuary for outlaws of every type and description for many years.
Steve Guadalupe welcomed them all, took their gold freely, and asked no
questions.
Situated in the heart of the hills, half-hidden by the overhanging bluff
against which it had been built, and commanding a view in three
directions, it would be impossible of undetected approach, except at
night.
The ranch-house was an L-shaped, one-story adobe structure, and so
weathered with age that it seemed part of the bluff, which was covered
with a growth of mesquite and manzanita. South of the ranch-house
extended a long, low, adobe shed, surrounded on the west by a big pole
corral, capable of holding many horses.
The ranch-house was roomy, with thick walls, and the windows were
barred, like those of a prison. The floor of adobe had been walked upon
until it was flintlike in texture, and the furnishings were of the most
crude construction.
In one end of the L was the kitchen, where a frowzy old Mexican,
overalled, half-shirted, barefooted, cooked food in big black kettles in
an open fireplace. There was little idea of sanitation. The floor of the
kitchen reeked of ancient spillings. Strings of chili peppers hung in
festoons from the ceiling, a half-eaten haunch of venison on the table
attracted a myriad of flies, while more of the insects buzzed about the
head of the half-asleep cook.
In the angle of the L, facing each other across a rough table, on which
stood a bottle of mescal and two tin cups, sat Pedro Torres and Steve
Guadalupe. Big Medicine’s description fitted Guadalupe well. His dirty
gray hair, matted in some spots and in others standing upright like a
handful of fox-tail grass, framed a thin, evil countenance, aged to the
texture of dirty parchment, almost belying the brilliancy of his two
little eyes, which age had failed to dim.
His mouth was wide and the lips so thin that it appeared more like a
gash than a mouth. His raiment was little better than that of his cook,
except that his shoulders were draped with a bright-colored serape, and
on the index finger of his right hand he wore a huge emerald ring.
His general appearance was a direct contrast with that of the dapper
Torres, who was drinking almost too much of the potent liquor to suit
Guadalupe. Guadalupe drank little. He swept the bottle off the table and
shoved it inside his serape.
“_Idiota!_” he snarled.
“_Ladron!_” snapped Torres, reaching across the table, motioning for
Guadalupe to return the bottle.
“You are a fool,” declared Guadalupe in Spanish.
“You drink so much you cannot talk sense.”
“The bottle,” ordered Torres harshly.
Guadalupe grinned and put it back on the table.
“That is as it should be,” muttered Torres, somewhat mollified. “I pay
well, do I not, Steve?”
“Of that I am always sure,” grinned Guadalupe. “Few men fail to pay
Guadalupe. Some have failed to pay--in gold.”
Torres gulped another drink and nodded vehemently.
“But they paid, eh, _compadre_? Oh, you know how, my friend. Guadalupe
is no fool.”
“When you say it, I wonder,” grinned Guadalupe. “But I do not like your
scheme, Torres. A priest is not a good thing to bring to the Rancho
Sierra. None have ever entered, although there have been times when----”
Guadalupe crossed himself piously and grinned at Torres.
“Nor have I ever paid for many candles,” grinned Torres. “I have never
felt the need. But this is different.”
“Fool!” grunted Guadalupe. “You have the girl. Marriage is only for
those who are too weak to steal and keep a girl. You have stolen her.
Are you afraid to hold her?”
“I fear nothing. To steal a girl is nothing. I have done it before, my
friend. But”--Torres poured out a fresh drink--“I want to stand up
before a priest and laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I want this girl for my wife,
do you understand? I want it known that she is the wife of Torres.”
“Revenge, eh?” smiled Guadalupe. “To laugh at someone, you are willing
to marry what you might have without marriage. Is that it, Torres?”
“That is for me to know. I am willing to pay one hundred dollars in
gold, Guadalupe. Bring me a priest. Somewhere we will find someone to
play the guitar, the mandolin. We will open a cask of wine, while Lopez
roasts us much meat, and we will hold a marriage _fiesta_ at the Rancho
Sierra.”
Torres staggered to his feet and slapped Guadalupe on the back.
“The first marriage in the Rancho Sierra, eh, old one? What care we for
the blabbing tongues of the priests? What harm could they do to us? Send
Felipe to Santa Isabella and have him bring back a mumbling priest to
say his words over Torres and his bride.”
“It will not take him more than a night and a day. Drink one more cup of
mescal, old wolf. Warm up your cold bones. Where is Felipe, the
half-wit? Call him. We waste time, and the bridegroom waits.”
They drank another cup of the mescal, holding their cups high above
their heads in a leering toast. Torres was getting drunk. Guadalupe
flung his cup aside, upset the bottle to see if it contained any more
liquor, and started toward the door to call Felipe.
Lopez shuffled in swiftly from the kitchen.
“Gonzales,” he said warningly.
Torres swore feelingly and leaned against the table. He did not want
Gonzales to come now--Gonzales, the unprincipled pig of a ruffian, who
supplied Guadalupe with the goods which were to be smuggled; Gonzales,
whose mustaches reached below his chin, and who wanted to fight after
the second drink of _tequila_.
Guadalupe swung open the door and blinked into the sunlight. The huge
Gonzales, resplendent in a red silk shirt, the widest and tallest hat he
had been able to purchase, leather breeches, and heavy boots, while his
waist was circled by an ornate cartridge belt, which sparkled with
silver trimming and brass cartridge heads, stood near, holding a
weary-looking horse.
There were two more wide-hatted Mexicans with him, also heavily armed,
and two mules packed.
Felipe, the half-wit, was waiting for Gonzales to hand him the bridle
reins. The air was dusty from the trampling animals.
“_Buenos dias_,” greeted Guadalupe.
“The day is good enough,” replied Gonzales gruffly, as he flung his
reins to the waiting Felipe and strode up to the doorway.
“Get us food and drink,” he ordered.
His wide shoulders brushed the sides of the doorway as he entered.
“Food and drink you shall have,” grinned Guadalupe. “You come at a good
time, Gonzales.”
“Any time is good,” replied Gonzales, catching sight of Torres.
He chuckled deeply in his throat and tossed his hat to the table.
“_Tequila_,” he grunted. “_Tequila_ first and then food. Good day,
Torres.”
“Good day,” said Torres unevenly.
There was little friendship between them. Lopez entered, bearing several
bottles of the white liquor, and placed them on Gonzales’ table,
together with some empty cups.
Gonzales smashed the neck from a bottle across the edge of a table and
poured a cupful.
“Come and drink, Torres,” he ordered.
Torres came to the table and accepted a cup. He knew it would not be
well to refuse Gonzales.
“What is the news?” asked Gonzales, turning to Guadalupe.
“News is never plentiful at the Rancho Sierra,” replied the old Mexican.
“But you come in time for our little _fiesta_. Felipe leaves at once for
Santa Isabella to fetch a priest.”
“_Madre de Dios!_” swore Gonzales. “And why a priest, old man? Is it
that someone is dying?”
Guadalupe laughed and shook his head.
“A priest for the wedding of our Torres, Gonzales.”
Gonzales threw back his head and stared at Torres, stroking his black
mustaches violently.
“For the wedding of Torres, eh? Ho, ho, ho, ho! A _fiesta_ for the
wedding of Torres at Rancho Sierra! Now and then he must have his little
joke. And who would marry Torres?”
Torres squirmed in his chair. He was less drunk now.
“And why not?” he demanded. “Have I not the right, Gonzales?”
“My question is not answered,” reminded Gonzales. “Does he marry some
flat-faced daughter of a peon, or a dancing girl from the dives of the
south?”
“A gringo bride,” laughed Guadalupe. “She came to him across a saddle,
roped, that she might not fail to be here at the wedding.
And”--Guadalupe laughed softly, silently--“on another horse came the
mother, also roped. Have you a musician, Gonzales?”
Gonzales roared with laughter and opened another bottle, while Torres
scowled heavily and fingered the knife in his sleeve.
“A musician?” queried Gonzales, after he recovered from his fit of
merriment. “I have Manuelo, who is never far from his beloved guitar.
But that is of little importance. Where is the bride?”
Torres scowled and helped himself to another drink, while Guadalupe
waited for him to speak. Gonzales grew impatient.
“Have you hidden her away where she may not look upon men?” he demanded.
“Let us see if she is worthy of you, _ladron_.”
“She is worthy of any man,” grunted Torres. “Let us drink and forget the
women.”
But Gonzales was not to be put off. He surged to his feet and flung a
broken-necked bottle at Guadalupe’s head. Fortunately for Guadalupe,
Gonzales’ aim was very poor.
“Bring her out, Guadalupe,” he ordered. “Hell, do I have to make my
request more plain?”
Torres slumped in his chair, glowering at the bottles, while Guadalupe
shuffled to the end of the room against the bluff, where he drew aside a
cow-hide-covered bunk, which concealed a trap door. Flinging this back,
he disappeared down a short flight of stairs.
Gonzales drank gulpingly and laughed at Torres. “So, you stole a gringo
girl, eh?” he mocked. “Fool! When you go back across the line they will
cut off your ears.”
“Who spoke of going back?” demanded Torres. “The world is wide.
Anyway”--Torres shrugged his shoulders--“what is one girl, more or
less?”
Gonzales’ two men came in and he motioned them to sit down at another
table. Garcia came in, his scowling face half-concealed in the dirty
serape, and sat down against the wall.
Gonzales tossed a bottle of _tequila_ across to his men, who thanked him
profusely and proceeded to empty it. Voices came from within the trap
door, and a moment later Wanna Hawkworth came slowly up the ladder,
closely followed by Guadalupe.
The girl was not bound now. Her wealth of blueblack hair hung in
profusion about her face, which was slightly pale. Her calico dress had
been badly torn, but she never looked more beautiful than standing there
at the edge of the trap door, her hands clenched at her sides, staring
her hate at Torres.
Gonzales half-rose from his chair as he stared at her. He had expected
nothing like this. Torres reached for another bottle.
With a mighty oath, Gonzales attempted to bow and almost struck his
forehead on the table. He shoved it roughly aside and went toward Wanna,
who backed away.
“Let her alone,” ordered Guadalupe. “She belongs to Torres.”
Gonzales stopped and leered at Guadalupe.
“Belongs to Torres!” he roared. “To that?” He pointed at Torres, who was
shakily pouring a drink. “_Dios!_ Here is a mate for a man!”
But Gonzales did not advance farther. He seemed content for the moment
merely to look at her. It was Lopez who broke the spell, as he shuffled
quickly in from the kitchen.
“_Vaqueras!_” he said shrilly, pointing toward the north.
“_Americanos!_”
“_Diablo!_” swore Guadalupe. “Who can this be?”
He grasped Wanna by the arm, whirled her around, and hurried her down
the ladder, while Gonzales turned and walked drunkenly back toward the
doorway, passing Torres, who had slumped at the word _Americanos_. He
was too drunk to flee, and he felt sure, deep in his crooked soul, that
retribution had overtaken him.