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[Illustration: Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the
current. Frontispiece. Page 30]
A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS
_A Story of New Mexico Today_
BY
WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE
AUTHOR OF
WYOMING, BUCKY O'CONNOR, MAVERICKS, A TEXAS RANGER, BRAND BLOTTERS,
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
D.C. HUTCHISON
[Illustration: Colophon.]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_A Daughter of the Dons._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF 5
II. THE TWO GRANTS 15
III. FISHERMAN'S LUCK 27
IV. AT THE YUSTE HACIENDA 42
V. "AN OPTIMISTIC GUY" 61
VI. JUANITA 76
VII. TWO MESSAGES 88
VIII. TAMING AN OUTLAW 101
IX. OF DON MANUEL AND MOONLIGHT 111
X. MR. AINSA DELIVERS A MESSAGE 123
XI. THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY AND THE TWENTIETH 137
XII. "I BELIEVE YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH HER TOO" 149
XIII. AMBUSHED 159
XIV. MANUEL TO THE RESCUE 173
XV. ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD 193
XVI. VALENCIA MAKES A PROMISE 201
XVII. AN OBSTINATE MAN 213
XVIII. MANUEL INTERFERES 230
XIX. VALENCIA ACCEPTS A RING 240
XX. DICK LIGHTS A CIGARETTE 246
XXI. WHEN THE WIRES WERE CUT 259
XXII. THE ATTACK 269
XXIII. THE TIN BOX 287
XXIV. DICK GORDON APOLOGIZES 298
XXV. THE PRINCE CONSORT 307
A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS
CHAPTER I
DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF
For hours Manuel Pesquiera had been rolling up the roof of the continent
in an observation-car of the "Short Line."
His train had wound in and out through a maze of bewildering scenery,
and was at last dipping down into the basin of the famous gold camp.
The alert black eyes of the young New Mexican wandered discontentedly
over the raw ugliness of the camp. Towns straggled here and there
untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky
"strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a network
of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the open tunnel
mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray Titan dump
beards.
The magic that had wonderfully brought all these manifold activities
into being had its talisman in the word "Gold"; but, since Pesquiera had
come neither as a prospector nor investor, he heard with only
half-concealed impatience the easy gossip of his fellow travelers about
the famous ore producers of the district.
It was not until his inattentive ears caught the name of Dick Gordon
that he found interest in the conversation.
"Pardon, sir! Are you acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon?" he asked, a
touch of the gentle Spanish accent in his voice.
The man to whom he had spoken, a grizzled, weather-beaten little fellow
in a corduroy suit and white, broad-brimmed felt hat, turned his steady
blue eyes on his questioner a moment before he answered:
"I ought to know him, seeing as I'm his partner."
"Then you can tell me where I may find him?"
"Yes, sir, I can do that. See that streak of red there on the hill--the
one above the big dump. That's the shafthouse of the Last Dollar. Drop
down it about nine hundred feet and strike an airline west by north for
about a quarter of a mile, and you'd be right close to him. He's down
there, tackling a mighty uncertain proposition. The shaft and the
workings of the Last Dollar are full of water. He's running a crosscut
from an upraise in the Radley drift, so as to tap the west tunnel of the
Last Dollar."
"It is dangerous, you inform me?"
"Dangerous ain't the word. It's suicide, the way I look at it. See here,
my friend. His drill goes through and lets loose about 'steen million
gallons of water. How is he going to get in out of the rain about that
time?"
The New Mexican showed a double row of pearly teeth in a bland smile.
"Pardon, sir. If you would explain a leetle more fully I would then
comprehend."
"Sure. Here's the way it is. Dick and his three men are plugging away at
the breast of the drift with air-drills. Every day he gits closeter to
that lake dammed up there. Right now there can't be more'n a few feet of
granite 'twixt him and it. He don't know how many any more'n a rabbit,
because he's going by old maps that ain't any too reliable. The question
is whether the wall will hold till he dynamites it through, or whether
the weight of water will crumple up that granite and come pouring out in
a flood."
"Your friend, then, is in peril, is it not so?"
"You've said it. He's shooting dice with death. That's the way I size it
up. If the wall holds till it's blown up, Dick has got to get back along
the crosscut, lower himself down the upraise, and travel nearly a mile
through tunnelings before he reaches a shaft to git out. That don't
leave them any too much time at the best. But if the water breaks
through on them, it's Heaven help Dick, and good-by to this world."
"Then Mr. Gordon is what you call brave?"
"He's the gamest man that ever walked into this camp. There ain't an
inch of him that ain't clear grit through and through. Get into a tight
place, and he's your one best bet to tie to."
"Mr. Gordon is fortunate in his friend," bowed the New Mexican politely.
The little miner looked at him with shining eyes.
"Nothing like that. Me, I figure the luck's all on my side. Onct you
meet Dick you'll see why we boost for him. Hello, here's where we get
off at. If you're looking for Dick, stranger, you better follow me. I'm
going right up to the mine. Dick had ought to be coming up from below
any minute now."
Pesquiera checked his suitcase at the depot newsstand and walked up a
steep hill trail with his guide. The miner asked no questions of the New
Mexican as to his business with Gordon, nor did the latter volunteer any
information. They discussed instead the output of the camp for the
preceding year, comparing it with that of the other famous gold
districts of the world.
Just as they entered the shafthouse the cage shot to the surface. From
it stepped two men.
Several miners crowded toward them with eager greetings, but they moved
aside at sight of Pesquiera's companion, who made straight for those
from below.
"What's new, Tregarth?" he asked of one of them, a huge Cornishman.
"The drill have brook into the Last Dollar tunnel. The watter of un do
be leaking through, Measter Davis. The boss sent us oop while Tom and
him stayed to put the charges in the drill holes to blow oot the wall.
He wouldna coom and let me stay."
Davis thought a moment.
"I'll go down the shaft and wait at the foot of it. There'll be
something doing soon. Keep your eye peeled for signals, Smith, and when
you git the bell to raise, shoot her up sudden. If the water's coming,
we'll be in a hurry, and don't you forget it. Want to come down with me,
Tregarth?"
"I do that, sir." The man stepped into the cage and grinned. "We'll
bring the byes back all right. Bet un we do, lads."
The cage shot down, and the New Mexican sat on a bench to wait its
return. Beside him was a young doctor, who had come prepared for a
possible disaster. Such conversation as the men carried on was in low
tones, for all felt the strain of the long minutes. The engineer's eye
was glued to his machinery, his hand constantly on the lever.
It must have been an hour before the bell rang sharply in the silence
and the lever swept back instantly. A dozen men started to their feet
and waited tensely. Next moment there was a wild, exultant cheer.
For Tregarth had stepped from the cage with a limp figure in his arms,
and after him Davis, his arm around the shoulder of a drenched,
staggering youth, who had a bleeding cut across his cheek. Through all
the grime that covered the wounded miner the pallor of exhaustion showed
itself.
But beaten and buffeted as the man had plainly been in his fight for
life, the clean, supple strength and the invincible courage of him still
shone in his eye and trod in his bearing. It was even now the salient
thing about him, though he had but come, alive and no more, from a
wrestle with death itself.
He sank to a bench, and looked around on his friends with shining eyes.
"'Twas nip and tuck, boys. The water caught us in the tunnel, and I
thought we were gone. It swept us right to the cage," he panted.
"She didn't sweep Tom there, boss; ye went back after un," corrected the
Cornishman.
"Anyhow, we made it in the nick o' time. Tom all right, Doctor?"
The doctor looked up from his examination.
"No bones broken. He seems sound. If there are no internal injuries it
will be a matter of only a day or two in bed."
"Good. That's the way to talk. You got to make him good as new, Doctor.
You ought to have seen the way he stayed by that drill when the water
was pouring through the cracks in the granite. Have him taken to the
hospital, and send the bill to me."
Tregarth boomed out in a heavy bass:
"What's the matter with the boss? Both of un? They be all right. Bean't
they, lads?"
It was just after the answering chorus that Pesquiera came forward and
bowed magnificently to the young mine operator. The New Mexican's eyes
were blazing with admiration, for he was of Castilian blood and
cherished courage as the chief of virtues.
"I have the honor to salute a hero, _señor_" he cried enthusiastically.
"Your deed is of a most fine bravery. I, Manuel Pesquiera, say it. Have
I the right in thinking him of the name of Mr. Richard Gordon?"
Something that was almost disgust filmed the gray eyes of the young
miner. He had the Anglo-Saxon horror of heroics. What he had done was
all in the day's work, and he was the last man in the world to enjoy
having a fuss made over it.
"My name is Gordon," he said quietly.
The Spaniard bowed again.
"I have the honor to be your servant to command, Don Manuel Pesquiera. I
believe myself to be, sir, a messenger of fortune to you--a Mercury from
the favoring gods, with news of good import. I, therefore, ask the honor
of an audience at your convenience."
Dick flung the wet hat from his curly head and took a look at the card
which the Spaniard had presented him. From it his humorous gaze went
back to the posturing owner of the pasteboard. Suppressing a grin, he
answered with perfect gravity.
"If you will happen round to the palace about noon to-morrow, _Señor_
Pesquiera, you will be admitted to the presence by the court flunkies.
When you're inquiring for the whereabouts of the palace, better call it
room 14, Gold Nugget Rooming-House."
He excused himself and stepped lightly across to his companion in the
adventure, who had by this time recovered consciousness.
"How goes it, Tom? Feel as if you'd been run through a sausage-grinder?"
he asked cheerily.
The man smiled faintly. "I'm all right, boss. The boys tell me you went
back and saved me."
"Sho! I just grabbed you and slung you in the cage. No trick at all,
Tom. Now, don't you worry, boy. Just lie there in the hospital and rest
easy. We're settling the bill, and there's a hundred plunks waiting you
when you get well."
Tom's hand pressed his feebly.
"I always knew you were white, boss."
The doctor laughed as he came forward with a basin of water and
bandages.
"I'm afraid he'll be whiter than he need be if I don't stop that
bleeding. I think we're ready for it now, Mr. Gordon."
"All right. It's only a scratch," answered Gordon indifferently.
Pesquiera, feeling that he was out of the picture, departed in search of
a hotel for the night. He was conscious of a strong admiration for this
fair brown-faced Anglo-Saxon who faced death so lightly for one of his
men. Whatever else he might prove to be, Richard Gordon was a man.
The New Mexican had an uneasy prescience that his mission was foredoomed
to failure and that it might start currents destined to affect potently
the lives of many in the Rio Chama Valley.