Betsy Clossen had hardly slept a wink the night following her
discovery of the real identity of the mysterious Trujillo. She kept
thinking and thinking of a possible hiding place for the lost papers
which, when found, would restore to the family of Don Carlos Spinoza
their rightful estate.
“How I do hope I may be the one to find them,” was her last
conscious thought at night and her first on waking the next morning.
It was not yet daybreak, but Betsy quietly arose, dressed and
tiptoed out of the room without having disturbed Margaret from her
peaceful slumber.
Reaching the kitchen, Betsy stood for a moment trying to think where
she would begin her search. Then, suddenly, she remembered
something. The peon had been trying to pry the stones from the walls
of the great old fireplace. There might be a secret opening with a
stone fitted in to conceal it. Lighting a lantern, for it was still
dark, Betsy stole into the long silent front room, not without many
a tremor of fear, for, even now, when the mystery was nearly solved,
the place seemed haunted with the many foreign faces gazing down at
her from the walls.
Trying not to look at them as they were revealed one by one in the
dim light of her lantern, Betsy went at once to the fireplace. She
did not attempt to pry out the stones, but tried to find one that
looked as though it had not been securely fastened and could easily
be removed.
However, each stone within her reach was cemented to its neighbor,
and, convinced at last that her search at the fireplace was to be
unrewarded, she turned away. Walking to the center of the room, she
stood looking about, trying to recall all of the detective stories
she had ever read.
There was always a secret panel in the wall which revealed a hidden
treasure if one could but find the spring, but these walls were
adobe and there were no panels. True, there was the small dark
cellar into which the elevator chair descended, and from which
spiral ascended, and yet, did she quite dare to go down in that
dungeon-like place alone while the rest of the household slept?
Betsy suddenly lifted her head and listened intently. She had heard
soft foot-steps approaching in the kitchen, then the door opened
cautiously. It was Margaret who appeared, pale and wide eyed.
“What in the world are you doing here, Betsy?” she inquired, as she
advanced into the room. “I woke up and found you were gone. I
thought you might be walking in your sleep. You were so restless all
night and kept saying things.”
“What did I say?” Betsy inquired curiously.
“Nothing that made any sense as far as I could tell,” was the reply.
“You kept mumbling every now and then, but once you sat right up in
bed and said in the queerest voice: ‘Three crosses. That’s where the
papers are.’ I shook you and whispered, ‘Betsy, what are you
saying?’ but you lay down again and did not reply. Then I realized
that you had been asleep all of the time.”
The eyes of the young would-be detective were glowing with sudden
inspiration. Seizing the wondering Margaret by the arm, she
exclaimed: “Come with me, Megsy!” and before the other girl could
realize what was happening, she was being dragged across the kitchen
and out of the house where the desert lay silent and uncanny in the
deepest darkness of the night, which comes just before the dawn.
Margaret, being of a more timid nature, was truly frightened when
she saw that Betsy was dragging her farther and farther away from
the ranch house and toward the lonely sand hills. The truth of the
matter was that at any other time, Betsy would have been frightened
also, but at present she was possessed of just one idea which was
that the papers for which they were searching were hidden, in all
probability, at the Shrine of The Three Crosses. When Margaret told
her what she had said in her sleep, Betsy believed that the message
had come to her as an inspiration, and so sure was she of this, that
for the moment she had become unconscious of fear; too, she had
forgotten the lean, gaunt wolf of the desert, whose long drawn-out
wail had so startled her on the occasion of her last visit.
“Betsy, let go of my arm,” Margaret managed to gasp, “and tell me
where we are going.” Then a terrible thought came to Megsy. What if
Betsy should be walking in her sleep after all, and what if she were
taking them both to some place where harm would befall them. So
convinced was Margaret that this was the real explanation of her
friend’s actions that she whirled about as soon as Betsy loosened
the clasp on her arm and raced back toward the ranch house. A light
appeared in the small adobe, then, as she was about to pass, the
door opened and Trujillo stepped out. In the grey light of the early
dawn, Margaret’s flying form was easily seen and the overseer, much
mystified by the appearance of one of the girls in such seemingly
terrorized flight, quickly overtook her.
“Senorita,” he exclaimed when she turned a white face toward him.
“What is the matter? Where have you been? What have you seen?”
“Oh, I am so glad you came,” Megsy replied. “I was going after
Peyton. Betsy Clossen is walking in her sleep. I just know that she
is, and she’ll come to some harm if we don’t bring her back. She
says the queerest things about lost papers being hidden at the
Shrine of The Three Crosses. I never heard of such a place. Did you,
Senor?”
Trujillo replied in the negative. He had never heard the peons
mention a shrine and surely they would know if there were one.
“Wait here, Senorita, I will get horses and we will follow your
friend.”
When Margaret had deserted Betsy, for a moment the young would-be
detective felt a strong desire to turn and race after her, but she
would not permit herself to do this. She was so eager to find the
lost papers and she was more than ever convinced, as she thought
about the matter, that they were probably near the shrine. This had
been the daily haunt of the old Don who had prayed that his estate
might be restored to him. What would be more natural than that he
would conceal the papers there, believing, as he probably did, that
his political enemies when they found him would confiscate the
documents, making it impossible for him to prove that the land grant
had really belonged to his ancestors.
As Betsy neared the lonely sand hills, she dreaded more and more the
moment when she would enter the sheltered dug-out where she had
found the shrine. She knew that, loud as she might call, no one
would hear.
“Oh, I can’t go on! I can’t! I can’t” she exclaimed, her
fearlessness suddenly deserting her. Then it was that she heard
something weird indeed.
In a voice that sounded almost like a mournful echo, some one was
calling. Then in her heart there was a sudden joyful realization of
the truth. Some one was shouting her name and the sand hills were
sending back the echo: “Betsy, where are you?”
“Here! Here!” she replied as she ran out to meet the approaching
riders. Of course she might have known that Margaret would soon
return with one of the boys.
She was glad to recognize that the other rider was Trujillo. As they
drew near, the Spanish youth saw that the girl standing alone near
the sand hills did not look as courageous as her fearless actions
had implied. Instead her face was pale, her eyes wide, although her
expression was one of gladness, because she was no longer alone.
Betsy was not asleep, of that Trujillo was convinced. Leaping to the
ground, he exclaimed: “Senorita, what mad fancy brought you to this
lonely place before the dawning of the day?”
“Oh, senor, the papers! I am sure, as sure as one can be when one
does not really know, that they are hidden somewhere near the Shrine
of the Three Crosses.”
“Three Crosses?” Margaret repeated. “That is what you said in your
sleep.”
“Where is the shrine, senorita?” Trujillo inquired. Betsy led the
way between the sand hills to the small dug-out in which were three
large wooden crosses. One had fallen to the sand, another leaned
over, but the third stood erect. Trujillo bared his head and knelt
upon the sand for a moment in prayer. The girls could understand
that the lad must indeed feel awed to find himself before the shrine
which had been so often visited by his grandfather, Don Carlos
Spinoza. He soon arose and when he turned toward them they knew that
he had been deeply affected. Then in a tone of conviction he said:
“Senorita, your dream, I am sure, is to be fulfilled. My
grandfather’s last words were: ‘The land grant at the Three
Crosses.’ If he had meant at the Three Cross ranch, he would not
have used the plural.”
Then Trujillo stood gazing about him, thinking intently. He was
trying to decide the probable hiding place of the document he
sought. Suddenly his thought was interrupted by an exclamation from
Betsy, the girl was gazing as though fascinated at the large wooden
cross standing erect between the two that had fallen.
“Senor,” she said, “there must be some reason why that cross in the
center has stood while the others have not. It must have a firmer
foundation. Do you not think so?”
“I do indeed,” was the reply of the youth, who at once knelt and
began digging at the base of the cross. The sand on top was soft,
but, as he advanced, he found that it became more difficult to
remove. The action of the rain and sun during the ten years since
the cross had been erected had hardened it until it was the nature
of sand stone.
He arose. “Senorita Betsy,” he said, “our surmise was not correct
after all. There seems to be nothing holding this cross but the
hardened sand.”
Betsy was keenly disappointed, although she was not entirely
convinced. Trujillo left the girls standing alone while he advanced
farther into the cave-like dug-out. It extended deeper into the sand
hills than he had at first supposed. He did not advance far,
however, but stopped suddenly and gazed intently into the interior,
and then, assuming an attitude of seeming indifference, he returned.
He did not wish to startle the girls by telling them that he had
seen two green eyes gleaming in the darkness at the back of the
cave. He believed the creature to be either a mountain lion or a
coyote, which of late had been killing the young calves.
“Senoritas,” he said in a voice which did not betray his real
concern, “our friends at the ranch house will be troubled because we
do not return. The breakfast hour is long passed. I suggest that we
come here later in the day, bringing with us a pick and shovel that
we may make a thorough investigation.”
As he spoke, he led the girls away from the crosses to the place
where the ponies were.
“Promise me you won’t search for the papers unless I am with you,”
Betsy implored. The Spanish youth smiled at the pretty, flushed face
of the pleading girl, as he replied: “I promise, Senorita.”
All that morning Betsy watched and waited. She almost lost faith in
the promise of Trujillo when, at last, she beheld him returning from
the sand hills, accompanied by Peyton, but when she saw that they
were armed with guns and did not carry a shovel or pick, she knew
that they had been on some other mission.
Trujillo rode to the ranch house and entering the living room, he
said to the eager girl: “If you are ready, Senorita Betsy, we will
go at once.”
Margaret and Virginia were busily employed in the kitchen, but they
glanced up when they heard the cantering of horses’ hoofs beneath
the window.
“I wonder where Betsy and Trujillo are going,” Virg said. Margaret,
who had been sworn to secrecy, did not reply.
“Oh, I presume they are still searching for the land grant papers,”
Megsy said. “I’d heaps rather be in this sunny, comfortable kitchen
making pies, wouldn’t you, Virg?”
The older girl smiled. “Perhaps it is well that we have different
interests,” she replied. “Some of us like to do adventurous things
and some of us like to do the quiet, homely things, but I really
enjoy both the desert life and then home life.” Then she added, with
one of her radiant smiles: “I do believe, Megsy, that I am a natural
born enjoyer.”
“You are indeed,” her friend responded, admiringly. “You always seem
so happy and contented, Virg, wherever you are. Tell me your
secret.”
Virginia put her arm about Margaret and drew her down to the sunny
window-seat, as she replied: “Mother often told me that we ought to
let our lives blossom as a flower unfolds, just peacefully and
trustingly, enjoying the song of a bird, and the warmth of the sun
and whatever beauty is near us. Many people try to force their life
blossoms open and are so continually reaching for something beyond,
that they never really enjoy the loveliness that is near them and so
they become worried and weary. Every morning I ask myself: ‘What
happiness can I find and give _today_ in the place where I am? That
keeps me contented and happy.” Then springing up, she laughingly
added: “Yum! Doesn’t the pie smell good? I do hope everyone will be
here in time for lunch.” But it was long after the lunch hour before
Betsy and Trujillo returned.
In the meantime Betsy and Trujillo had reached the sand hills and
were standing in front of the three crosses. Trujillo glanced into
the cave beyond the shrine. Little did his companion know that in
the darkness there was a newly made grave.
At Betsy’s suggestion he began at once to dig beneath the middle
cross. The pick was needed to break the sand stone, but suddenly it
struck something that did not break. One corner of an iron box was
revealed, which however, was so firmly imbedded in the rock that it
took a long time to entirely free it. Betsy, after the first
exultant exclamation, had stood silently watching.
How she did hope that this box contained the land grant document
that the mother and sister of Trujillo might have their home
restored to them.
When at last the box was freed, they both knelt beside it to see if
the key hole was as queerly shaped as was the key that the mother of
Trujillo had given him. When they found that it fitted exactly,
Betsy’s joy could no longer be restrained, and leaping up, she
clapped her hands and uttered varied exclamations of delight.
Trujillo glanced at her with a happy smile. “Senorita,” he said,
“before I open this box, I want you to promise me something. If the
papers are here, and if our home is restored, will you and your
friends come some day, and visit us? My mother and my sister
Carmelita will welcome you gladly.”
Then the key turned and the box was opened. There was a glad cry
from the girl who had been watching breathlessly, for there lay a
packet of yellowing papers. Placing them in his pocket, the Spanish
lad rose and held out his hand to his flushed and excited companion.
“Senorita Betsy,” he said, his melodious voice tense with feeling,
“I thank you for your interest and my mother and sister will want to
thank you when, with your friends, you can visit us.”
Then leaving the heavy iron box in the sand by the crosses, these
two rode back to the ranch house to tell the others that, at last,
the long lost papers had been found.
[Illustration: There lay a packet of yellowing papers.]
“I shall leave for Mexico tomorrow if Monsieur Peyton can spare me,
but before I go I shall return alone to the shrine and leave the
three crosses standing, firm and erect, in the memory of my
grandfather.”
And this Trujillo did, going to the shrine at sunrise on the
following morning. Then directly after breakfast, the Spanish youth
rode away to the south.
“Girls,” Betsy cried, “how I do wish, before I have to return East,
that we might visit the beautiful Carmelita Spinoza.”
“Stranger things than that have happened,” Virginia replied.