MANUEL TO THE RESCUE
Valencia Valdés did not conform closely to the ideal her preceptress at
the Washington finishing school had held as to what constitutes a
perfect lady. Occasionally her activities shocked Manuel, who held to
the ancient view that maidens should come to matrimony with the
innocence born of conventual ignorance. He would have preferred his wife
to be a clinging vine, but in the case of Valencia this would be
impossible.
No woman in New Mexico could ride better than the heiress of the Rio
Chama. She could throw a rope as well as some of her _vaqueros_. At
least one bearskin lay on the floor of her study as a witness to her
prowess as a Diana. Many a time she had fished the river in waders and
brought back with her to the ranch a creel full of trout. Years in the
untempered sun and wind of the southwest had given her a sturdiness of
body unusual in a girl so slenderly fashioned. The responsibility of
large affairs had added to this an independence of judgment that would
have annoyed Don Manuel if he had been less in love.
Against the advice of both Pesquiera and her foreman she had about a
year before this time largely increased her holdings in cattle, at the
same time investing heavily in improved breeding stock. Her
justification had been that the cost of beef, based on the law of supply
and demand, was bound to continue on the rise.
"But how do you know, _Doña_?" her perplexed major domo had asked.
"Twenty--fifteen years ago everybody had cattle and lost money. Prices
are high to-day, but _mañana_----"
"To-morrow they will be higher. It's just a matter of arithmetic,
Fernando. There are seventeen million less cattle in the country than
there were eight years ago. The government reports say so. Our
population is steadily increasing. The people must eat. Since there are
fewer cattle they must pay more for their meat. We shall have meat to
sell. Is that not simple?"
"_Si, Doña_, but----"
"But in the main we have always been sheep-herders, so we ought always
to be? We'll run cattle and sheep, too, Fernando. We'll make this ranch
pay as it never has before."
"But the feed--the winter feed, _Señorita_?"
"We'll have to raise our feed. I'm going to send for engineers and find
what it will cost to impound, water in the _cordilleras_ and run ditches
into the valley. We ought to be watering thousands of acres for alfalfa
and grain that now are dry."
"It never has been done--not in the time of Don Alvaro or even in that
of Don Bartolomé."
"And so you think it never can?" she asked, with a smile.
"The Rio Chama Valley is grazing land. It is not for agriculture.
Everybody knows that," he insisted doggedly.
"Everybody knows we were given two legs with which to walk, but it is an
economy to ride. So we use horses."
Fernando shrugged his shoulders. Of what use to argue with the _doña_
when her teeth were set? She was a Valdés, and so would have her way.
That had been a year ago. Now the ditches were built. Fields had been
planted to alfalfa and grain. Soon the water would be running through
the laterals to irrigate the growing crops. Quietly the young woman at
the head of things was revolutionizing the life of the valley by
transforming it from a pastoral to a farming community.
This morning, having arranged with the major domo the work of the day,
Valencia appeared on the porch dressed for riding. She was going to see
the water turned on to the new ditches from the north lateral.
The young mistress of the ranch swung astride the horse that had just
been brought from the stables, for she rode man-fashion after the
sensible custom of the West. Before riding out of the plaza she stopped
to give Pedro some directions about a bunch of yearlings in the corral.
The mailman in charge of the R.F.D. route drove into the yard and handed
Valencia a bunch of letters and papers. One of the pieces given her was
a rather fat package for which she had to sign a registry receipt.
She handed the mail to Juan and told him to put it on the desk in her
office library; then she changed her mind, moved by an impulse of
feminine curiosity.
"Give me back that big letter, Juan. I'll just see what it is before I
go."
Five minutes later she descended to the porch. "I'm not going riding
just now. Keep the horse saddled, Pedro." She had read Dick Gordon's
note and the letter marked Exhibit A. Even careless Juan noticed that
his mistress was much agitated. Pedro wondered savagely whether that
splendid devil _Americano_ had done something fresh to annoy the dear
saint he worshiped.
Gordon had not overemphasized the effect upon her of his action. Her
pride had clung to a belief in his unworthiness as the justification for
what she had said and done. Now, with a careless and mocking laugh, he
had swept aside all the arguments she had nursed. He had sent to her, so
that she might destroy it, the letter that would have put her case out
of court. If he had wanted a revenge for her bitter words the American
had it now. He had repaid her scorn and contempt with magnanimity. He
had heaped coals of fire upon her head, had humiliated her by proving
that he was more generous of spirit than she.
Valencia paced the floor of her library in a stress of emotion. It was
not her pride alone that had been touched, but the fine instincts of
justice and fair play and good will. She had outraged hospitality and
sent him packing. She had let him take the long tramp in spite of his
bad knee. Her dependents had attempted to murder him. Her best friend
had tried to fasten a duel upon him. All over the valley his name had
been bandied about as that of one in league with the devil. As an answer
to all this outrage that had been heaped upon him he refused to take
advantage of this chance-found letter of Bartolomé merely because it was
her letter and not his. Her heart was bowed down with shame and yet was
lifted in a warm glow of appreciation of his quality. Something in her
blood sang with gladness. She had known all along that the hateful
things she had said to him could not be true. He was her enemy, but--the
brave spirit of her went out in a rush to thank God for this proof of
his decency.
The girl was all hot for action. She wanted to humble herself in
apology. She wanted to show him that she could respond to his
generosity. But how? Only one way was open just now.
She sat down and wrote a swift, impulsive letter of contrition. For the
wrong she had done him Valencia asked forgiveness. As for the letter he
had so generously sent, she must beg him to keep it and use it at the
forthcoming trial. It would be impossible for her to accept such a
sacrifice of his rights. In the meantime she could assure him that she
would always be sorry for the way in which she had misjudged him.
The young woman called for her horse again and rode to Corbett's, which
was the nearest post-office. In the envelope with her letter was also
the one of her grandfather marked "Exhibit A." She, too, carefully
registered the contents before mailing.
As she stood on the porch drawing up her gauntlets a young man cantered
into sight. He wore puttees, riding breeches, and a neat corduroy coat.
One glance told her it was Manuel. No other rider in the valley had
quite the same easy seat in the saddle as the young Spaniard. He drew up
sharply in front of Valencia and landed lightly on his feet beside her.
"_Buenos, Señorita_."
"_Buenos,_ cousin." Her shining eyes went eagerly to his. "Manuel, what
do you think Mr. Gordon has done?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "How can I guess? That mad American might do
anything but show the white feather."
In four sentences she told him.
Manuel clapped his hands in approval. "Bravo! Done like a man. He is at
least neither a spy nor a thief."
Valencia smiled with pleasure. Manuel, too, had come out of the test
with flying colors. He and Gordon were foes, but he accepted at face
value what the latter had done, without any sneers or any sign of
jealousy.
"And what shall I do with the letter?" his cousin asked.
"Do with it? Put it in the first fire you see. Shall I lend you a
match?"
She shook her head, still with the gleam of a smile on her vivid face.
"Too late, Manuel. I have disposed of the dangerous evidence."
"So? Good. You took my advice before I gave it, then."
"Not quite. I couldn't be less generous than our enemy. So I have sent
the letter back to him and told him to use it."
The young man gave her his best bow. "Magnificent, but not war. I might
have trusted the daughter of Don Alvaro to do a thing so royal. My
cousin, I am proud of you."
"What else could I have done and held my self-respect? I had insulted
him gratuitously and my people had tried to kill him. The least I could
do now was to meet him in a spirit like his own."
"Honors are easy. Let us see what Mr. Gordon will now do."
The sound of a light footfall came to them. A timid voice broke into
their conversation.
"May I see _Doña_ Valencia--alone--for just a minute?"
Miss Valdés turned. A girl was standing shyly in the doorway. Her soft
brown eyes begged pardon for the intrusion.
"You are Juanita, are you not?" the young woman asked.
"_Si, Doña_."
Pesquiera eliminated himself by going in to get his mail.
"What is it that I can do for you?" asked Valencia.
The Mexican girl broke into an emotional storm. She caught one of her
hands in the brown palm of the other with a little gesture of despair.
"They have gone to kill him. Doña. I know it. Something tells me. He
will never come back alive." The feeling she had repressed was finding
vent in long, irregular sobs.
Valencia felt as if she were being drowned in icy water. The color
washed from her cheeks. She had no need to ask who it was that would
never come back alive, but she did.
"Who, child? Whom is it that they have gone to kill?"
"The American--_Señor_ Gordon."
"Who has gone? And when did they go? Tell me quick."
"Sebastian and Pablo--maybe others--I do not know."
Miss Valdés thought quickly. It might be true. Both the men mentioned
had asked for a holiday to go to Santa Fé. What business had they there
at this time of the year? Could it be Pablo who had shot at Gordon from
ambush? If so, why was he so bitter against the common enemy?
"Juanita, tell me everything. What is it that you know?"
The sobs of the girl increased. She leaned against the door jamb and
buried her face in the crook of her arm.
The older girl put an arm around the quivering shoulders and spoke
gently. "But listen, child. Tell me all. It may be we can save him yet."
A name came from the muffled lips. It was "Pablo."
Valencia's brain was lit by a flash of understanding. "Pablo is your
lover. Is it not so, _niña_?"
The dark crown of soft hair moved up and down in assent. "Oh, _Doña_, he
was, but--"
"You have quarreled with him?"
Miss Valdés burned with impatience, but some instinct told her she could
not hurry the girl.
"_Si, Señorita_. He quarreled. He said--"
"Yes?"
"----that ... that _Señor_ Gordon ..."
Again, groping for the truth, Valencia found it swiftly.
"You mean that Pablo was jealous?"
"Because I had nursed _Señor_ Gordon, because he was kind to me,
because----" Juanita had lifted her face to answer. As she spoke the
color poured into her cheeks even to her throat, convicting evidence of
the cruel embarrassment she felt.
Valencia's hand dropped to her side. When she spoke again the warmth had
been banished from her voice. "I see. You nursed Mr. Gordon, did you?"
Juanita's eyes fell before the cold accusation in those of Miss Valdés.
"_Si, Señorita._"
"And he was kind to you? In what way kind?"
The slim Mexican girl, always of the shyest, was bathed in blushes. "He
called me ... _niña_. He ..."
"----made love to you."
A sensation as if the clothes were being torn from her afflicted
Juanita. Why did the _Doña_ drag her heart out to look at it? Nor did
the girl herself know how much or how little Richard Gordon's gay
_camaraderie_ meant. She was of that type of women who love all that are
kind to them. No man had ever been so considerate as this handsome
curly-headed American. So dumbly her heart went out to him and made the
most of his friendliness. Had he not once put his arm around her
shoulder and told her to "buck up" when he came upon her crying because
of Pedro? Had he not told her she was the prettiest girl in the
neighborhood? And had he not said, too, that she was a little angel for
nursing him so patiently?
"_Doña_, I--do--not--know." The words came out as if they were being
dragged from her. Poor Juanita would have liked the ground to open up
and swallow her.
"Don't you know, you little stupid, that he is playing with you, that he
will not marry you?"
"If _Doña_ Valencia says so," murmured the Mexican submissively.
"Men are that way, heartless ... selfish ... vain. But I suppose you led
him on," concluded Valencia cruelly.
With a little flare of spirit Juanita looked up. Her courage was for her
friend, not for herself.
"_Señor_ Gordon is good. He is kind."
"A lot you know about it, child. Have nothing to do with him. His love
can only hurt a girl like you. Go back to your Pablo and forget the
American. I will see he does not trouble you again."
Juanita began to cry again. She did not want _Señorita_ Valdés or
anybody else interfering between her and the friend she had nursed. But
she knew she could not stop this imperative young woman from doing as
she pleased.
"Now tell me how you know that Pablo has gone to injure the American.
Did he tell you so?"
"No-o."
"Well, what did he say? What is it that you know?" Valencia's shoe
tapped the floor impatiently. "Tell me--tell me!"
"He--Pablo--met me at the corral the day he left. I was in the kitchen
and he whistled to me." Juanita gave the information sullenly. Why
should _Señorita_ Valdés treat her so harshly? She had done no wrong.
"Yes. Go on!"
If she had had the force of character Juanita would have turned on her
heel and walked away. But all her life it had been impressed upon her
that the will of a Valdés was law to her and her class.
"I do not know ... Pablo told me nothing ... but he laughed at me, oh,
so cruelly! He asked if I ... had any messages for my Gringo lover."
"Is that all?"
"All ... except that he would show me what happened to foreign devils
who stole my love from him. Oh, _Señorita_, do you think he will kill
the American?"
Valencia, her white lips pressed tightly together, gave no answer. She
was thinking.
"I hate Pablo. He is wicked. I will never speak to him again," moaned
Juanita helplessly.
Manuel, coming out of the post-office with his mail, looked at the
weeping girl incuriously. It was, he happened to know, a habit of the
sex to cry over trifles.
Juanita found in a little nod from Miss Valdés permission to leave. She
turned and walked hurriedly away to the adobe cabin where she slept.
Before she reached it the walk had become a run.
"Has the young woman lost a ribbon or a lover?" commented Pesquiera,
with a smile.
"Manuel, I am worried," answered Valencia irrelevantly.
"What about, my cousin?"
"It's this man Gordon again. Juanita says that Pablo and Sebastian have
gone to kill him."
"Gone where?"
"To Santa Fé. They asked for a leave of absence. You know how sullen and
suspicious Sebastian is. It is fixed firmly in his head that Mr. Gordon
is going to take away his farm."
Manuel's black eyes snapped. He did not propose to let any peons steal
from him the punishment he owed this insolent Gordon.
"But Pablo is not a fool. Surely he knows he cannot do such a mad
thing."
"Pablo is jealous--and hot-headed." The angry color mounted to the
cheeks of the young woman. "He is in love with Juanita and he found out
this stranger has been philandering with her. It is abominable. This
Gordon has made the silly little fool fall in love with him."
"Oh, if Pablo is jealous----" Pesquiera gave a little shrug of his
shoulders. He understood pretty well the temperament of the ignorant
Mexican. The young lover was likely to shoot first and think afterward.
Valencia was still thinking of the American. Beneath the olive of her
cheeks two angry spots still burned. "I detest that sort of thing. I
thought he was a gentleman--and he is only a male flirt ... or worse."
"Perhaps--and perhaps not, my cousin. Did Juanita tell you----?"
"She told me enough. All I need to know."
Again the young man's shoulders lifted in a little gesture of humorous
resignation. He knew the uncompromising directness of Miss Valdés and
the futility of arguing with her. After all, the character of Gordon was
none of his business. The man might have made love to Juanita, though he
did not look like that kind of a person. In any case the important thing
was to save his life.
After a moment's thought he announced a decision. "I shall take the
stage for Santa Fé this afternoon. When I have warned the American I'll
round up your man-hunters and bring them back to you."
His lady's face thanked him, though her words did not. "You may tell
them I said they were to come back at once."
At her cousin's urgent request Miss Valdés stayed to eat luncheon with
him at Corbett's, which was a half-way station for the stage and
maintained a public eating-house. Even Valencia hesitated a little at
this, though she was at heart an emancipated American girl and not a
much-chaperoned Spanish maid. But she wanted to repay him for the
service he was undertaking so cheerfully, and therefore sacrificed her
scruples.
As they were being served by Juanita the stage rolled up and disgorged
its passengers. They poured into the dining-room--a mine-owner and his
superintendent, a storekeeper from the village at the other end of the
valley, a young woman school-teacher from the Indian reservation, a
cattleman, and two Mexican sheepmen.
While the fresh horses were being hitched to the stage Pesquiera and his
guest stood back a little apart from the others. Corbett brought out a
sack containing mail and handed it to the driver. The passengers found
again their places.
Pesquiera shook hands with Valencia. His gaze rested for a moment in her
dark eyes.
"_Adios, linda_," he said, in a low voice.
The color deepened in her cheeks. She understood that he was telling her
how very much he was her lover now and always. "Good-bye, _amigo_," she
answered lightly.
Pesquiera took his place on the back seat. The whip of the driver
cracked. In a cloud of white dust the stage disappeared around a bend in
the road.
Valencia ordered her horse brought, and left for the ranch. Having
dispatched Manuel to the scene of action, it might be supposed that she
would have awaited the issue without farther activity. But on the way
home she began to reflect that her cousin would not reach Santa Fé until
next morning, and there was always a chance that this would be too late.
As soon as she reached the ranch she called up the station where the
stage connected with the train. To the operator she dictated a message
to be wired to Richard Gordon. The body of it ran thus:
"Have heard that attack may be made upon your life. Please do not
go out alone or at night at all. Answer."
She gave urgent instructions that if necessary to reach Gordon her
telegram be sent to every hotel in the city and to his lawyer, Thomas M.
Fitt.
Now that she had done all she could the young woman tried to put the
matter out of her mind by busying herself with the affairs of the ranch.
She had a talk with a cattle buyer, after which she rode out to see the
engineer who had charge of the building of the irrigation system she had
installed. An answer would, she was sure, be awaiting her upon her
return home.
Her anticipation was well founded. One of the housemaids told her that
the operator at San Jacinto had twice tried to get her on the telephone.
The mistress of the ranch stepped at once to the receiver.
"Give me San Jacinto," she said to the operator.
As soon as she was on the wire with the operator he delivered the
message he had for her. It was from Santa Fé and carried the signature
of Stephen Davis:
"Gordon has been missing since last night. I fear the worst. For
God's sake, tell me what you know."
Valencia leaned against the telephone receiver and steadied herself. She
felt strangely faint. The wall opposite danced up and down and the floor
swayed like the deck of a vessel in a heavy sea. She set her teeth hard
to get a grip on herself. Presently the wave of light-headedness passed.
She moved across the room and sank down into a chair in front of her
desk. They had then murdered him after all. She and her people were
responsible for his death. There was nothing to be done now--nothing at
all.
Then, out of the silence, a voice seemed to call to her--the voice of
Richard Gordon, faint and low, but clear. She started to her feet and
listened, shaken to the soul by this strange summons from that world
which lay beyond the reach of her physical senses. What could it mean?
She had the body of a healthy young animal. Her nerves never played her
any tricks. But surely there had come to her a call for help not born of
her own excited fancy.
In an instant she had made up her mind. Her finger pressed an electric
button beside the desk, and almost simultaneously a second one. The maid
who appeared in the doorway in answer to the first ring found her
mistress busily writing.
Valencia looked up. "Rosario, pack a suitcase for me with clothes for a
week. Put in my light brown dress and a couple of shirt-waists. I'll be
up presently." Her gaze passed to the major domo who now stood beside
the maid. "I'm going to Santa Fé to-night, Fernando. Order the grays to
be hitched to the buggy."
"To-night! But, _Señorita_, the train has gone."
"Juan will go with me. We'll drive right through. My business is
important."
"But it is seventy miles to Santa Fé, and part of the way over mountain
roads," he protested.
"Yes. We should reach there by morning. I mean to travel all night. Make
the arrangements, please, and tell Juan. Then return here. I want to
talk over with you the ranch affairs. You will have charge of the
ditches, too, during my absence. Don't argue, Fernando, but do as I
say."
The old man had opened his mouth to object, but he closed it without
voicing his views. A little smile, born of his pride in her wilfulness,
touched his lips and wrinkled the parchment skin. Was she not a Valdés?
He had served her father and her grandfather. To him, therefore, she
could do no wrong.