DICK GORDON APOLOGIZES
Don Manuel was at first too spent a man even to wish to get well. As his
cousin's nursing dragged him farther and farther back into this world
from which he had so nearly slipped, he was content to lie still and
take the goods the gods provided.
She was with him for the present. That sufficed. Whether he lived or
died he did not care a hand's turn; but the while Fate flipped a coin to
determine whether it should be life or death for him, he had Valencia's
love as he feared he would never have it in case he recovered.
For these days she lived for him alone. Her every thought and desire had
been for him. On this his soul fed, since he felt that, as they slipped
back into the ordinary tide of life, she would withdraw herself gently
but surely from him.
He had fought against the conviction that she loved his rival, the
Colorado claimant to the valley. He had tried to persuade himself that
her interest in the miner was natural under the circumstances and
entirely independent of sentiment. But in the bottom of his heart such
assurances did not convince.
"You will be able to sit up in a few days. It's wonderful how you have
improved," she told him one day as she finished changing his pillow.
"Yes, I shall be well soon. You will be relieved of me," he said with a
kind of gentle sadness.
"As if I wanted to be," she reproved softly, her hand smoothing down his
hair.
"No. You're very good to me. You don't want to be rid of me. But it's
best you should be. I have had all of you that's good for me, my cousin,
unless I could have more than I dare hope."
She looked through the window at the sunlit warmth of the land, and,
after a long time, said:
"Must we talk of that, Manuel?"
"No, _niña_--not if I am once sure. I have guessed; but I must be
certain beyond the possibility of mistake. Is my guess right? That it
can never be."
She turned dim eyes on him and nodded. A lump had risen to her throat
that forbade speech.
"I can still say, dearest, that I am glad to have loved you," he
answered cheerfully, after an instant's silence. "And I can promise that
I shall trouble you no more. Shall we talk of something else?"
"There is one thing I should like to tell you first," she said with
pretty timidity. "How proud I am that such a man could have loved me.
You are the finest man I know. I must be a foolish girl not to--care for
you--that way."
"No. A woman's heart goes where it must. If a man loses, he loses."
She choked over her words. "It doesn't seem fair. I promised. I wore
your ring. I said that if you saved ... him ... I would marry you.
Manuel, I ... I'll keep faith if you'll take me and be content to wait
for ... that kind of love to grow."
"No, my cousin. I have wooed and lost. Why should you be bound by a
pledge made at such a time? As your heart tells you to do, so you must
do." He added after a pause: "It is this American, is it not?"
Again she nodded twice, not looking at him lest she see the pain in his
eyes.
"I wish you joy, Valencia--a world full of it, so long as life lasts."
He took her fingers in his, and kissed them before he passed lightly to
another subject:
"Have you heard anything yet of the tin box of Mr. Gordon's?"
She accepted the transition gratefully, for she was so moved she was
afraid lest she break down.
"Not yet. It is strange, too, where it has gone. I have had inquiries
made every where."
"For me, I hope it is never found. Why should you feel responsibility to
search for these papers that will ruin you and your tenants?"
"If my men had not attacked and tried to murder him he would still have
his evidence. I seek only to put him in the position he was in before we
injured him."
"You must judge for yourself, Valencia. But, if you don't mind, I shall
continue to wish you failure in your search," he replied.
It was now that Jimmie Corbett came into the room to say that Mr. Gordon
would like to call on Don Manuel, if the latter felt able to receive
him.
Pesquiera did not glance at his cousin. He answered the boy at once.
"Tell Mr. Gordon I shall be very glad to see him," he said quietly.
Nor did he look at her after the boy had left the room, lest his gaze
embarrass her, but gave his attention wholly to propping himself up on
his elbow.
Dick stood a moment filling the doorway before he came limping into the
room. From that point he bowed to Miss Valdés, then moved forward to the
bed.
He did not offer to shake hands, but stood looking down at his rival,
with an odd look of envy on his face. But it was the envy of a brave and
generous man, who acknowledged victory to his foe.
"I give you best, Don Manuel," he finally said. "You've got me beat at
every turn of the road. You saved my life again, and mighty near paid
with your own. There ain't anything to say that will cover that, I
reckon."
The Spaniard's eyes met his steadily, but Pesquiera did not say a word.
He was waiting to see what the other meant.
"You're a gamer man than I am, and a better one. All I can say is that
I'm sorry and ashamed of myself for the way I treated you. If you still
want to fight me, I'll stand up and give you a chance to pepper me.
Anything you think right."
"If you put it so, sir, I have no choice but to join you in regrets and
hopes of future amity."
"I can understand that you'd like to spill me over a ten-acre lot, and
that you don't listen to my apologies with any joy," said the
Coloradoan, smiling whimsically down at his former foe.
"I do not forget that the first offense was mine, _Señor Gordon_," the
Spaniard answered.
Then came Jimmie Corbett again with a message for Miss Valdés.
"Pablo wants to see you, ma'am. Just rode over from the ranch. Says it's
important."
The hands of the two men met in a strong grip as Valencia left the room,
and so, too, did their steady gazes. Each of them knew that the other
was his rival for the heart of the girl. Oddly enough, each thought the
other was the successful suitor. But there was in each some quality of
manliness that drew them together in spite of themselves.
Valencia found Pablo sitting on the porch. A rifle lay across his knees
ready for emergencies. The deputies had ridden away to the other end of
the valley that morning, but Menendez did not intend to be caught
napping in case of their unexpected return.
Miss Valdés smiled. "You needn't be so careful, Pablo. I bring you good
news--better than you deserve. Mr. Gordon has promised to drop the cases
against you and Sebastian. Even if the officers arrest you, nothing can
come of it except a trip to Santa Fé for a few days. If I were you I
would give myself up. The rewards have been withdrawn, so it is not
likely your friends will betray you."
"But, _Doña_, are you sure? Will this _Americano_ keep his word? Is it
certain they will not hold me in prison?"
"I tell you it is sure. Is that not enough? Did you find Mr. Gordon so
ready to give you his word and break it when he was your prisoner?"
"True, _Doña_. He laughed at us and told us to kill him. He is a brave
man."
"And brave men do not lie."
Pablo turned to his horse and took down from the horn of the saddle a
gunny sack tied to it. This he opened. From it he drew a tin box that
had been badly blistered with heat.
"It is _Señor_ Gordon's tin box. After you carried him to the house here
the other night I found it under a cottonwood. So I took it home with
me. They are papers. Important---- Is it not so?"
"Yes. I have been looking everywhere for them. You did right to bring
them back to me."
"Perhaps they may help you win the land. Eh, _Doña_?"
"Perhaps. You know I offered a reward of twenty-five dollars for the
box. It is yours. Buy some furniture with it when you and Juanita go to
housekeeping."
"That is all past, alas, _Señorita_. Juanita looks down her nose when I
am near. She does not speak to me."
"Foolish boy! That is a sign she thinks much of you. Tell her you did
wrong to accuse her. Beg her to forgive you. Do not sulk, but love her
and she will smile on you."
"But--this _Señor_ Gordon?"
"All nonsense, Pablo. I have talked with Juanita. It is you she loves.
Go to her and be good to her. She is back there in the milkhouse
churning. But remember she is only a girl--so young, and motherless,
too. It is the part of a man to be kind and generous and forbearing to a
woman. He must be gentle--always gentle, if he would hold her love. Can
you do that, Pablo? Or are you only a hot-headed, selfish, foolish boy?"
"I will try, _Doña_," he answered humbly. "For always have I love' her
since she was such a little _muchacha_."
"Then go. Don't tell her I sent you. She must feel you have come because
you could no longer stay away."
Pablo flashed his teeth in a smile of understanding and took the path
that led round the house. He followed it to the sunken cellar that had
been built for a milkhouse. Noiselessly he tiptoed down the steps and
into the dark room. The plop-plop of a churn dasher told him Juanita was
here even before his eyes could make her out in the darkness.
Presently he saw more clearly the slender figure bent a little wearily
over the churn. Softly he trod forward. His hand went out and closed on
the handle above hers. In startled surprise she turned.
"You--Pablo!" she cried faintly.
"I have so longed to see you--to come to you and tell you I was wrong,
_niña_---- Oh, you don't know how I have wanted to come. But my
pride--my hard, foolish pride--it held me back. But no longer, heart of
my heart, can I wait. Tell me that you forgive--that you will love me
again--in spite of what I said and have done. I cannot get along without
my little Juanita," he cried in the soft Spanish that was native to them
both.
She was in his arms, crying softly, nestling close to him so that his
love might enfold her more warmly. Always Juanita had been a soft,
clinging child, happy only in an atmosphere of affection. She responded
to caresses as a rose does to the sunlight. Pablo had been her first
lover, the most constant of them all. She had relied upon him as a child
does upon its mother. When he had left her in anger and not returned she
had been miserably unhappy. Now all was well again, since Pablo had come
back to her.