SENORITA ALVERADO.
But the next minute, to their infinite relief, they decided that it was
only a false alarm. In all probability, so Jack surmised, it signified
that the Mexicans had broken through the roof and were firing a volley
of shots into the garret to terrify its supposed inmates. He could
hardly forbear a chuckle as he pictured the outlaws’ astonishment,
when, tired of their attempts to terrify, they should penetrate the
garret and find it empty of life.
“Providence willing, we’ll be far away by then,” he thought to himself
as, with a wave of his arm, he signalled to the others crouching in the
shadows of the rancho, that all was ready.
The senorita laughed at the idea of a side saddle, when Jack
apologetically indicated to her the ordinary Mexican affair which had
been the only one they could raise.
“A girl born and brought up on a Mexican hidalgo’s estancia can ride in
any saddle, senor,” she said, “more particularly to oblige such gallant
rescuers.”
Jack felt himself coloring under his minstrel-like coating of soot as
the girl spoke. The lad was somewhat susceptible, and the dark eyes of
the senorita had made quite an impression on him.
“The pleasure is all ours, senorita,” he said, with a vague
recollection of having seen that phrase in print somewhere.
The young Mexican girl sat her saddle as lightly as a bird on a
bough, and the mount they had selected for her,—“borrowing” one of
the outlaws’ animals for the purpose,—was a fine, springy-stepping
creature, full of life and action.
“I guess our best plan is to head for Don Alverado’s estancia,” said
Jack, as they crept as noiselessly as possible forward.
But, as a matter of fact, much caution was not necessary, for the
Mexicans in the rancho, confident of having bottled up the Americans,
were making so much noise that the light amble of the horses could not
be heard above the roar. Their chief danger lay in being seen.
This, however, was not so probable as might be imagined. The corral was
separated from the house by quite a small plantation of willows and
cottonwoods, among whose branches the moonlight filtered thinly. Once
they had rounded the corral they would be practically invisible.
The senorita informed them that it was ten miles from there to Santa
Anita, in the suburbs of which her father lived. This, as we are aware,
Jack already knew, and the corral once rounded their steeds were set at
a lively gait.
“Are there any police in Santa Anita, senorita?” asked the professor,
as they rode rapidly through the night, the well-fed horses, refreshed
by their rest, pacing strongly forward. The professor was a great
stickler for law and order.
“No police, senor,” was the rejoinder, “but it is the headquarters of
the Mexican Rangers who have charge of the district. My father is the
local magistrate and administrator, and has charge of them.”
“I sincerely hope that he will set them on the track of those
ruffians,” said the man of science severely, “Mexico should be known as
a land of law and order like the United States.”
“Yet I have heard that you occasionally have train robbers and all
sorts of terrible criminals in the United States, senor.”
The senorita spoke gently, but like all of her race, she was patriotic
and a flash of fire was in her eye as she spoke.
“But we try to get rid of them, senorita,” stammered the scientist,
somewhat taken aback at this self-possessed young lady’s reply.
“And so do we, senor,” was the answer, which caused Coyote Pete to
chuckle, “but you see, they won’t always wait to be caught.”
“You speak English charmingly, senorita,” said the professor, in an
endeavor to change the subject and pay a compliment at the same time.
“That is to the credit of one of your American colleges, senor. I was
educated at Vassar University.”
The boys exchanged glances. So that explained the senorita’s poise and
self-possession, which were far more those of an American girl than of
a languishing Spanish beauty.
“I must compliment Vassar,” said the professor, bowing his angular
form. But he had forgotten that he was riding bareback and was not the
most accomplished of horsemen in any event. His attempt at courtliness
almost caused his downfall, for, losing his balance, he would have
slipped from his gaunt steed if he had not grasped it desperately by
the wither lock with one hand while his arm encircled its neck.
From this undignified position he was rescued by Coyote Pete, who
spurred swiftly to his side,—it will be recalled that Coyote had
saved his spurs out of the general loss of property—and aided him to
recover his balance.
They all had the grace to refrain from laughing, although the
temptation was a sore one. The man of science, glancing suspiciously
about him, was unable to detect the shadow of a smile on any of their
faces, although the senorita did find it necessary to lean over and
adjust her stirrup leather. When she looked up, however, her face was
quite demure.
From time to time, as they rode forward over the level savannah, they
glanced behind them. But the intervals grew longer as the distance
between them and the Mexicans increased, and there was still no sign of
pursuit.
“I guess they’ve discovered our escape, all right,” said Jack, “but
don’t venture to chase us toward the town.”
“That’s it, I reckon,” said Coyote Pete, “and in any event, with our
horses we could outdistance them all with a mile start.”
“All of them except that big black of Ramon’s,” said Jack.
“Guess you’re right,” agreed Coyote, “I’d like to know if there air any
relatives of that animal hangin’ around. I’d buy ’em if it bust me.
You don’t meet up with a bit of horseflesh like that every day of your
life.”
An hour later, without any incident worthy of mention having occurred,
they clattered through the sleeping town of Santa Anita, and, as
daylight broke wanly, they found themselves outside the white walls
surrounding the princely hacienda of the wealthy Don Alverado. But if
the town was asleep, all seemed to be awake here. Lights could be seen
flashing in the house which stood on a small eminence some distance
from the outer walls.
As they neared the gate of the estate, it flew open and a dozen
horsemen, fully armed, dashed out.
“Surrender, caballeros,” they cried in Mexican, “or we shall kill you
without mercy.”
“Hold your horses,” hailed back Coyote Pete, quite oblivious of the
fact that, in all probability, none of the horsemen understood that
free and easy form of English.
But to the boys’ surprise the cow-puncher’s words were greeted with a
shout of laughter from the advancing ranks, and a fresh young voice
cried:
“Who are you,—for the love of Mike?”
“We are Americans who have brought back the Senorita Alverado,” cried
Pete, and was going on, but his words were drowned in a ringing cheer.
The next minute explanations ensued. It appeared that the party which
had sallied out at their approach was made up of young American mining
engineers, resident in the neighborhood, who, on hearing of Don
Alverado’s loss, had at once formed themselves into a posse.
They had been starting out on a hunt for the abductors of the Don’s
beautiful daughter when they heard the advance of our party. Surmising
that it might be the outlaws returning to commit further outrages, they
had concealed themselves and dashed out intent on capturing or killing
the disturbers of law and order.
Their enthusiasm over the news of Senorita Isabella Alverado’s rescue
knew no bounds. Wheeling their horses they dashed off up the broad
drive leading to the house to inform the Don,—who was anxiously pacing
his library,—of the good news. They were followed, at a more sober
gait, by the Border Boys and their party.
“My poor father! He must have known heavy grief in the past few hours,”
breathed the senorita, as they approached the house. Jack was struck
by the unselfishness of the thought. Of herself the senorita made no
mention nor of all that she had endured at the hands of the outlaws. It
was only of her father that she appeared to think.
Don Alverado, a tall, dignified looking old Spanish gentleman, with
a gray goatee and aristocratically pointed moustaches, stood on the
steps of the porch as they came up. His daughter threw herself from
her mount as they drew close, and rushing into her father’s arms, was
held there for a brief interval. After his first emotion at recovering
his daughter had subsided, Don Alverado bade the servants take the
Americans’ horses, and came forward, warmly thanking them for their
services. It made the boys feel rather shamefaced to be thanked in such
emotional fashion, for the Don would insist on kissing each of them,
and by the time he got through his face was almost as black as their
own sooty countenances.
Then they entered the house where, after they had enjoyed refreshing
baths, a hasty breakfast, but magnificent in its appointments, was
served. In the meantime, Senorita Alverado had slipped upstairs and
donned a clinging gown of black, in the bosom of which flashed an
immense diamond. The boys gazed at the wearer of the gem with more
admiration than at the stone itself. If Senorita Alverado had looked
beautiful in the lone rancho she appeared absolutely regal now.
“I see you regarding that diamond with interest, gentlemen,” said Don
Alverado, “it has an interesting history. It was the present to me many
years since of a man who had received it from an Indian sheep herder.
This man, according to my friend, had found a wonderful cave in some
mountain that he called the Trembling Mountain. My friend tried to get
him to give some detail, but the Indian declared that devils lived in
the mountain who would kill him if they knew he had revealed the secret
of their dwelling place to the outside world; so that except for the
fact that there is the stone,—and you can see for yourselves it is a
beautiful one,—I regret I can tell you no more details. But, even as
it is, the diamond is doubly interesting outside of its intrinsic value
on account of its history.”
As the professor made no mention of their own peculiar interest in
the legend of the Trembling Mountain, Jack and the rest said nothing
about it. But, perhaps, all their hearts beat a little faster at this
convincing proof that the strange story of Mr. Stetson’s dead protege
was true.
But it had been a long night and the lads could hardly keep their
eyes open, even their sense of politeness flagging under the leaden
feeling that had come into their eyelids. The Don noted this, and at
once suggested bed. It was high time, too, as the early sun was already
beginning to light up the magnificent grounds about the place, and the
boys felt like regular night owls.
Servants in gorgeous livery escorted each lad to a bedroom furnished
with the gloomy magnificence characteristic of the Spanish race.
But not one of them noted his surroundings as, tumbling into the
deliciously cool, clean sheets and sinking into the downy mattresses,
they dropped into slumber as profound as it was dreamless.