AT THE YUSTE HACIENDA
The wrench to the fisherman's knee proved more serious than he had
anticipated. The doctor pronounced it out of the question that he should
be moved for some days at least.
The victim was more than content, because he was very much interested in
the young woman who had been his rescuer, and because it gave him a
chance to observe at first hand the remains of the semifeudal system
that had once obtained in New Mexico and California.
It was easy for him to see that Señorita Maria Yuste was still
considered by her dependents as a superior being, one far removed from
them by the divinity of caste that hedged her in. They gave her service;
and she, on her part, looked out for their needs, and was the patron
saint to whom they brought all their troubles.
It was an indolent, happy life the peons on the estate led, patriarchal
in its nature, and far removed from the throb of the money-mad world.
They had enough to eat and to wear. There was a roof over their heads.
There were girls to be loved, dances to be danced, and guitars to be
strummed. Wherefore, then, should the young men feel the spur of an
ambition to take the world by the throat and wring success from it?
It had been more years than he could remember since this young American
had taken a real holiday except for an occasional fishing trip on the
Gunnison or into Wyoming. He had lived a life of activity. Now for the
first time he learned how to be lazy. To dawdle indolently on one of the
broad porches, while Miss Yuste sat beside him and busied herself over
some needlework, was a sensuous delight that filled him with content. He
felt that he would like to bask there in the warm sunshine forever.
After all, why should he pursue wealth and success when love and
laughter waited for him in this peaceful valley chosen of the gods?
The fourth morning of his arrival he hobbled out to the south porch
after breakfast, to find his hostess in corduroy skirt, high laced
boots, and pinched-in sombrero. She was drawing on a pair of driving
gauntlets. One of the stable boys was standing beside a rig he had just
driven to the house.
The young woman flung a flashing smile at her guest.
"Good day, Señor Muir. I hope you had a good night's rest, and that your
knee did not greatly pain you?"
"I feel like a colt in the pasture--fit for anything. But the doctor
won't have it that way. He says I'm an invalid," returned the young man
whimsically.
"The doctor ought to know," she laughed.
"I expect it won't do me any harm to lie still for a day or two. We
Americans all have the git-up-and-dust habit. We got to keep going,
though Heaven knows what we're going for sometimes."
Though he did not know it, her interest in him was considerable, though
certainly critical. He was a type outside of her experience, and, by the
law of opposites, attracted her. Every line of him showed tremendous
driving power, force, energy. He was not without some touch of Western
swagger; but it went well with the air of youth to which his boyish
laugh and wavy, sun-reddened hair contributed.
The men of her station that she knew were of one pattern, indolent,
well-bred aristocrats, despisers of trade and of those who indulged in
it more than was necessary to live. But her mother had been an American
girl, and there was in her blood a strong impulse toward the great
nation of which her father's people were not yet in spirit entirely a
part.
"I have to drive to Antelope Springs this morning. It is not a rough
trip at all. If you would care to see the country----"
She paused, a question in her face. Her guest jumped at the chance.
"There is nothing I should like better. If you are sure it will be no
inconvenience."
"I am sure I should not have asked you if I had not wanted you," she
said; and he took it as a reproof.
She drove a pair of grays that took the road with the spirit of racers.
The young woman sat erect and handled the reins masterfully, the while
Muir leaned back and admired the steadiness of the slim, strong wrists,
the businesslike directness with which she gave herself to her work, the
glow of life whipped into her eyes and cheeks by the exhilaration of the
pace.
"I suppose you know all about these old land-grants that were made when
New Mexico was a Spanish colony and later when it was a part of Mexico,"
he suggested.
Her dark eyes rested gravely on him an instant before she answered:
"Most of us that were brought up on them know something of the facts."
"You are familiar with the Valdés grant?"
"Yes."
"And with the Moreño grant, made by Governor Armijo?"
"Yes."
"The claims conflict, do they not?"
"The Moreño grant is taken right from the heart of the Valdés grant. It
includes all the springs, the valleys, the irrigable land; takes in
everything but the hilly pasture land in the mountains, which, in
itself, is valueless."
"The land included in this grant is of great value?"
"It pastures at the present time fifty thousand sheep and about twelve
thousand head of cattle."
"Owned by Miss Valdés?"
"Owned by her and her tenants."
"She's what you call a cattle queen, then. Literally, the cattle on a
thousand hills are hers."
"As they were her father's and her grandfather's before her, to be held
in trust for the benefit of about eight hundred tenants," she answered
quietly.
"Tell me more about it. The original grantee was Don Bartolomé de
Valdés, was he not?"
"Yes. He was the great-great-grandson of Don Alvaro de Valdés y
Castillo, who lost his head because he was a braver and a better man
than the king. Don Bartolomé, too, was a great soldier and ruler. He was
generous and public-spirited to a fault; and when the people of this
province suffered from Indian raids he distributed thousands of sheep to
relieve their distress."
"Bully for the old boy. He was a real philanthropist."
"Not at all. He _had_ to do it. His position required it of him."
"That was it, eh?"
Her dusky eyes questioned him.
"You couldn't understand, I suppose, since you are an American, how he
was the father and friend of all the people in these parts; how his
troopers and _vaqueros_ were a defense to the whole province?"
"I think I can understand that."
"So it was, even to his death, that he looked out for the poor peons
dependent upon him. His herds grew mighty; and he asked of Facundo
Megares, governor of the royal province, a grant of land upon which to
pasture them. These herds were for his people; but they were in his name
and belonged to him. Why should he not have been given land for them,
since his was the sword that had won the land against the Apaches?"
"You ain't heard me say he shouldn't have had it"
"So the _alcalde_ executed the act of possession for a tract, to be
bounded on the south by Crow Spring, following its cordillera to the Ojo
del Chico, east to the Pedornal range, north to the Ojo del Cibolo
--Buffalo Springs--and west to the great divide. It was a princely
estate, greater than the State of Delaware; and Don Bartolomé held it
for the King of Spain, and ruled over it with powers of life and death,
but always wisely and generously, like the great-hearted gentleman he
was."
"Bully for him."
"And at his death his son ruled in his stead; and _his_ only son died in
the Spanish-American War, as a lieutenant of volunteers in the United
States Army. He was shot before Santiago."
The voice died away in her tremulous throat; and he wondered if it could
be possible that this girl had been betrothed to the young soldier. But
presently she spoke again, cheerfully and lightly:
"Wherefore, it happens that there remains only a daughter of the house
of Valdés to carry the burden that should have been her brother's, to
look out for his people, and to protect them both against themselves and
others. She may fail; but, if I know her, the failure will not be
because she has not tried."
"Good for her. I'd like to shake her aristocratic little paw and tell
her to buck in and win."
"She would no doubt be grateful for your sympathy," the young woman
answered, flinging a queer little look of irony at him.
"But what's the hitch about the Valdés grant? Why is there a doubt of
its legality?"
She smiled gaily at him.
"No person who desires to remain healthy has any doubts in this
neighborhood. We are all partizans of Valencia Valdés; and many of her
tenants are such warm followers that they would not think twice about
shedding blood in defense of her title. You must remember that they hold
through her right. If she were dispossessed so would they be."
"Is that a threat? I mean, would it be if I were a claimant?" he asked,
meeting her smile pleasantly.
"Oh, no. Miss Valdés would regret any trouble, and so should I." A
shadow crossed her face as she spoke. "But she could not prevent her
friends from violence, I am afraid. You see, she is only a girl, after
all. They would move without her knowledge. I know they would."
"How would they move? Would it be a knife in the dark?"
His gray eyes, which had been warm as summer sunshine on a hill, were
now fixed on her with chill inscrutability.
"I don't know. It might be that. Very likely." He saw the pulse in her
throat beating fast as she hesitated before she plunged on. "A warning
is not a threat. If you know this Señor Gordon, tell him to sell
whatever claim he has. Tell him, at least, to fight from a distance; not
to come to this valley himself. Else his life would be at hazard."
"If he is a man that will not keep him away. He will fight for what is
his all the more because there is danger. What's more, he'll do his
fighting on the ground--unless he's a quitter."
She sighed.
"I was afraid so."
"But you have not told me yet the alleged defect in the Valdés claim.
There must be some point of law upon which the thing hangs."
"It is claimed that Don Bartolomé did not take up his actual residence
on the grant, as the law required. Then, too, he himself was later
governor of the province, and while he was president of the Ayuntamiento
at Tome he officially indorsed some small grants of land made from this
estate. He did this because he wanted the country developed, and was
willing to give part of what he had to his neighbors; but I suppose the
contestant will claim this showed he had abandoned his grant."
"I see. Title not perfected," he summed up briefly.
"We deny it, of course--I mean, Miss Valdés does. She shows that in his
will the old _don_ mentions it, and that her father lived there without
interruption, even though Manuel Armijo later granted the best of it to
José Moreño."
"It would be pretty tough for her to be fired out now. I reckon she's
attached to the place, her and her folks having lived there so long,"
the young man mused aloud.
"Her whole life is wrapped up in it. It is the home of her people. She
belongs to it, and it to her," the girl answered.
"Mebbe this Gordon is a white man. I reckon he wouldn't drive her out.
Like as not he'd fix up a compromise. There's enough for both."
She shook her head decisively.
"No. It would have to be a money settlement. Miss Valdés's people are
settled all over the estate. Some of them have bought small ranches. You
see, she couldn't--throw them down--as you Americans say."
"That's right," he agreed. "Well, I shouldn't wonder but it can be fixed
up some way."
They had been driving across a flat cactus country, and for some time
had been approaching the grove of willows into which she now turned.
Some wooden barns, a corral, an adobe house, and outhouses marked the
place as one of the more ambitious ranches of the valley.
An old Mexican came forward with a face wreathed in smiles.
_"Buenos,_ Doña Maria," he cried, in greeting.
"_Buenos,_ Antonio. This gentleman is Mr. Richard Muir."
"_Buenos, señor_. A friend of Doña Maria is a friend of Antonio."
"The older people call me '_doña,_'" the girl explained. "I suppose they
think it strange a girl should have to do with affairs, and so they
think of me as '_doña,_' instead of '_señorita,_' to satisfy
themselves."
A vague suspicion, that had been born in the young man's mind
immediately after his rescue from the river now recurred.
His first thought then had been that this young woman must be Valencia
Valdés; but he had dismissed it when he had seen the initial M on her
kerchief, and when she had subsequently left him to infer that such was
not the case.
He remembered now in what respect she was held in the home _hacienda_;
how everybody they had met had greeted her with almost reverence. It was
not likely that two young heiresses, both of them beautiful orphans,
should be living within a few miles of each other.
Besides, he remembered that this very Antelope Springs was mentioned in
the deed of conveyance which he had lately examined before leaving the
mining camp. She was giving orders about irrigating ditches as if she
were owner.
It followed then that she must be Valencia Valdés. There could be no
doubt of it.
He watched her as she talked to old Antonio and gave the necessary
directions. How radiant and happy she was in this life which had fallen
to her; by inheritance! He vowed she should not be disinherited through
any action of his. He owed her his life. At least, he could spare her
this blow.
They drove home more silently than they had come. He was thinking over
the best way to do what he was going to do. The evening before they had
sat together in front of the fire in the living-room, while her old
duenna had nodded in a big arm-chair. So they would sit to-night and
to-morrow night.
He would send at once for the papers upon which his claim depended, and
he would burn them before her eyes. After that they would be
friends--and, in the end, much more than friends.
He was still dreaming his air-castle, when they drove through the gate
that led to her home. In front of the porch a saddled bronco trailed its
rein, and near by stood a young man in riding-breeches and spurs. He
turned at the sound of wheels; and the man in the buggy saw that it was
Manuel Pesquiera.
The Spaniard started when he recognized the other, and his eyes grew
bright. He moved forward to assist the young woman in alighting; but, in
spite of his bad knee, the Coloradoan was out of the rig and before him.
"_Buenos, amigo_" she nodded to Don Manuel, lightly releasing the hand
of Muir.
"_Buenos, señorita_" returned that young man. "I behold you are already
acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon, whose arrival is to me very
unexpect'."
She seemed to grow tall before her guest's eyes; to stand in a kind of
proud splendor that had eclipsed her girlish slimness. The dark eyes
under the thick lashes looked long and searchingly at him.
"Mr. Richard Gordon? I understand this gentleman's name to be Muir," she
made voice gently.
Dick laughed with a touch of shame. Now once in his life he wished he
could prove an alibi. For, under the calm judgment of that steady gaze,
the thing he had done seemed scarce defensible.
"Don Manuel has it right, _señorita_. Gordon is my name; Muir, too, for
that matter. Richard Muir Gordon is what I was christened."
The underlying red of her cheeks had fled and left them clear olive. One
might have thought the scornful eyes had absorbed all the fire of her
face.
"So you have lied to me, sir?"
"Let me lay the facts before you, first. That's a hard word,
_señorita_."
"You gave your name to me as Muir, You imposed yourself on my
hospitality under false pretenses. You are only a spy, come to my house
to mole for evidence against me."
"No--no!" he cried sharply. "You will remember that I did not want to
come. I foresaw that it might be awkward, but I did not foresee this."
"That you would be found out before you had won your end? I believe you,
sir," she retorted contemptuously.
"I see I'm condemned before I'm heard."
"Will any explanation alter the facts? Are you not a liar and a cheat?
You gave me a false name to spy out the land."
"Am I the only one that gave a wrong name?" he asked.
"That is different," she flamed. "You had made a mistake and, half in
sport, I encouraged you in it. But you seem to have found out my real
name since. Yet you still accepted what I had to offer, under a false
name, under false pretenses. You questioned me about the grants. You
have lived a lie from first to last."
"It ain't as bad as you say, ma'am. Don Manuel had told me it wasn't
safe to come here in my own name. I didn't care about the safety, but I
wanted to see the situation exactly as it was. I didn't know who you
were when I came here. I took you to be Miss Maria Yuste. I----"
"My name is Maria Yuste Valencia Valdés," the young woman explained
proudly. "When, may I ask, did you discover who I was?"
"I guessed it at Antelope Springs."
"Then why did you not tell me then who you are? Surely that was the time
to tell me. My deception did you no harm; yours was one no man of honor
could have endured after he knew who I was."
"I didn't aim to keep it up very long. I meant, in a day or two----"
"A day or two," she cried, in a blaze of scorn. "After you had found out
all I had to tell; after you had got evidence to back your robber-claim;
after you had made me breathe the same air so long with a spy?"
Her face was very white; but she faced him in her erect slimness, with
her dark eyes fixed steadily on him.
"You ain't quite fair to me; but let that pass for the present. When I
asked you about the grants didn't you guess who I was? Play square with
me. Didn't you have a notion?"
A flood of spreading color swept back into her face.
"No, I didn't. I thought perhaps you were an agent of the claimant; but
I didn't know you were passing under a false name, that you were aware
in whose house you were staying. I thought you an honest man, on the
wrong side--nothing so contemptible as a spy."
"That idea's fixed in your mind, is it?" he asked quietly.
"Beyond any power of yours to remove it," she flashed back.
"The facts, Señor Gordon, speak loud," put in Pesquiera derisively.
Dick Gordon paid not the least attention to him. His gaze was fastened
on the girl whose contempt was lashing him.
"Very well, Miss Valdés. Well let it go at that just now. All I've got
to say is that some day you'll hate yourself for what you have just
said."
Neither of them had raised their voices from first to last. Hers had
been low and intense, pulsing with the passion that would out. His had
held its even way.
"I hate myself now, that I have had you here so long, that I have been
the dupe of a common cheat."
"All right. 'Nough said, ma'am. More would certainly be surplusage. I'll
not trouble you any longer now. But I want you to remember that there's
a day coming when you'll travel a long way to take back all of what
you've just been saying. I want to thank you for all your kindness to
me. I'm always at your service for what you did for me. Good-bye, Miss
Valdés, for the present."
"I am of impression, sir, that you go not too soon," said Pesquiera
suavely.
Miss Valdés turned on her heel and swept up the steps of the porch; but
she stopped an instant before she entered the house to say over her
shoulder:
"A buggy will be at your disposal to take you to Corbett's. If it is
convenient, I should like to have you go to-night."
He smiled ironically.
"I'll not trouble you for the buggy, _señorita_. If I'm all you say I
am, likely I'm a horse thief, too. Anyhow, we won't risk it. Walking's
good enough for me."
"Just as you please," she choked, and forthwith disappeared into the
house.
Gordon turned from gazing after her to find the little Spaniard bowing
before him.
"Consider me at your service, Mr. Gordon----"
"Can't use you," cut in Dick curtly.
"I was remarking that, as her kinsman, I, Don Manuel Pesquiera, stand
prepared to make good her words. What the Señorita Valdés says, I say,
too."
"Then don't say it aloud, you little monkey, or I'll throw you over the
house," Dick promised immediately.
Don Manuel clicked his heels together and twirled his black mustache.
"I offer you, sir, the remedy of a gentleman. You, sir, shall choose the
weapons."
The Anglo-Saxon laughed in his face.
"Good. Let it be toasting-forks, at twenty paces."
The challenger drew himself up to his full five feet six.
"You choose to be what you call droll. Sir, I give you the word,
poltroon--_lâche_--coward."
"Oh, go chase yourself."
One of Pesquiera's little gloved hands struck the other's face with a
resounding slap. Next instant he was lifted from his feet and tucked
under Dick's arm.
There he remained, kicking and struggling, in a manner most undignified
for a blue blood of Castile, while the Coloradoan stepped leisurely
forward to the irrigating ditch which supplied water for the garden and
the field of grain behind. This was now about two feet deep, and running
strong. In it was deposited, at full length, the clapper little person
of Don Manuel Pesquiera, after which Dick Gordon turned and went limping
down the road.
From the shutters of her room a girl had looked down and seen it all.
She saw Don Manuel rescue himself from the ditch, all dripping with
water. She saw him gesticulating wildly, as he cursed the retreating
foe, before betaking himself hurriedly from view to the rear of the
house, probably to dry himself and nurse his rage the while. She saw
Gordon go on his limping way without a single backward glance.
Then she flung herself on her bed and burst into tears.