The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales Read online

  “Dangerous ain’t the word. It’s suicide, the way I look at it. See here, my friend. His drill goes through and lets loose about ’steen million gallons of water. How is he going to get in out of the rain about that time?”

  The New Mexican showed a double row of pearly teeth in a bland smile.

  “Pardon, sir. If you would explain a leetle more fully I would then comprehend.”

  “Sure. Here’s the way it is. Dick and his three men are plugging away at the breast of the drift with air-drills. Every day he gits closeter to that lake dammed up there. Right now there can’t be more’n a few feet of granite ’twixt him and it. He don’t know how many any more’n a rabbit, because he’s going by old maps that ain’t any too reliable. The question is whether the wall will hold till he dynamites it through, or whether the weight of water will crumple up that granite and come pouring out in a flood.”

  “Your friend, then, is in peril, is it not so?”

  “You’ve said it. He’s shooting dice with death. That’s the way I size it up. If the wall holds till it’s blown up, Dick has got to get back along the crosscut, lower himself down the upraise, and travel nearly a mile through tunnelings before he reaches a shaft to git out. That don’t leave them any too much time at the best. But if the water breaks through on them, it’s Heaven help Dick, and good-by to this world.”

  “Then Mr. Gordon is what you call brave?”

  “He’s the gamest man that ever walked into this camp. There ain’t an inch of him that ain’t clear grit through and through. Get into a tight place, and he’s your one best bet to tie to.”

  “Mr. Gordon is fortunate in his friend,” bowed the New Mexican politely.

  The little miner looked at him with shining eyes.

  “Nothing like that. Me, I figure the luck’s all on my side. Onct you meet Dick you’ll see why we boost for him. Hello, here’s where we get off at. If you’re looking for Dick, stranger, you better follow me. I’m going right up to the mine. Dick had ought to be coming up from below any minute now.”

  Pesquiera checked his suitcase at the depot newsstand and walked up a steep hill trail with his guide. The miner asked no questions of the New Mexican as to his business with Gordon, nor did the latter volunteer any information. They discussed instead the output of the camp for the preceding year, comparing it with that of the other famous gold districts of the world.

  Just as they entered the shafthouse the cage shot to the surface. From it stepped two men.

  Several miners crowded toward them with eager greetings, but they moved aside at sight of Pesquiera’s companion, who made straight for those from below.

  “What’s new, Tregarth?” he asked of one of them, a huge Cornishman.

  “The drill have brook into the Last Dollar tunnel. The watter of un do be leaking through, Measter Davis. The boss sent us oop while Tom and him stayed to put the charges in the drill holes to blow oot the wall. He wouldna coom and let me stay.”

  Davis thought a moment.

  “I’ll go down the shaft and wait at the foot of it. There’ll be something doing soon. Keep your eye peeled for signals, Smith, and when you git the bell to raise, shoot her up sudden. If the water’s coming, we’ll be in a hurry, and don’t you forget it. Want to come down with me, Tregarth?”

  “I do that, sir.” The man stepped into the cage and grinned. “We’ll bring the byes back all right. Bet un we do, lads.”

  The cage shot down, and the New Mexican sat on a bench to wait its return. Beside him was a young doctor, who had come prepared for a possible disaster. Such conversation as the men carried on was in low tones, for all felt the strain of the long minutes. The engineer’s eye was glued to his machinery, his hand constantly on the lever.

  It must have been an hour before the bell rang sharply in the silence and the lever swept back instantly. A dozen men started to their feet and waited tensely. Next moment there was a wild, exultant cheer.

  For Tregarth had stepped from the cage with a limp figure in his arms, and after him Davis, his arm around the shoulder of a drenched, staggering youth, who had a bleeding cut across his cheek. Through all the grime that covered the wounded miner the pallor of exhaustion showed itself.

  But beaten and buffeted as the man had plainly been in his fight for life, the clean, supple strength and the invincible courage of him still shone in his eye and trod in his bearing. It was even now the salient thing about him, though he had but come, alive and no more, from a wrestle with death itself.

  He sank to a bench, and looked around on his friends with shining eyes.

  “’Twas nip and tuck, boys. The water caught us in the tunnel, and I thought we were gone. It swept us right to the cage,” he panted.

  “She didn’t sweep Tom there, boss; ye went back after un,” corrected the Cornishman.

  “Anyhow, we made it in the nick o’ time. Tom all right, Doctor?”

  The doctor looked up from his examination.

  “No bones broken. He seems sound. If there are no internal injuries it will be a matter of only a day or two in bed.”

  “Good. That’s the way to talk. You got to make him good as new, Doctor. You ought to have seen the way he stayed by that drill when the water was pouring through the cracks in the granite. Have him taken to the hospital, and send the bill to me.”

  Tregarth boomed out in a heavy bass:

  “What’s the matter with the boss? Both of un? They be all right. Bean’t they, lads?”

  It was just after the answering chorus that Pesquiera came forward and bowed magnificently to the young mine operator. The New Mexican’s eyes were blazing with admiration, for he was of Castilian blood and cherished courage as the chief of virtues.

  “I have the honor to salute a hero, señor” he cried enthusiastically. “Your deed is of a most fine bravery. I, Manuel Pesquiera, say it. Have I the right in thinking him of the name of Mr. Richard Gordon?”

  Something that was almost disgust filmed the gray eyes of the young miner. He had the Anglo-Saxon horror of heroics. What he had done was all in the day’s work, and he was the last man in the world to enjoy having a fuss made over it.

  “My name is Gordon,” he said quietly.

  The Spaniard bowed again.

  “I have the honor to be your servant to command, Don Manuel Pesquiera. I believe myself to be, sir, a messenger of fortune to you—a Mercury from the favoring gods, with news of good import. I, therefore, ask the honor of an audience at your convenience.”

  Dick flung the wet hat from his curly head and took a look at the card which the Spaniard had presented him. From it his humorous gaze went back to the posturing owner of the pasteboard. Suppressing a grin, he answered with perfect gravity.

  “If you will happen round to the palace about noon to-morrow, Señor Pesquiera, you will be admitted to the presence by the court flunkies. When you’re inquiring for the whereabouts of the palace, better call it room 14, Gold Nugget Rooming-House.”

  He excused himself and stepped lightly across to his companion in the adventure, who had by this time recovered consciousness.

  “How goes it, Tom? Feel as if you’d been run through a sausage-grinder?” he asked cheerily.

  The man smiled faintly. “I’m all right, boss. The boys tell me you went back and saved me.”

  “Sho! I just grabbed you and slung you in the cage. No trick at all, Tom. Now, don’t you worry, boy. Just lie there in the hospital and rest easy. We’re settling the bill, and there’s a hundred plunks waiting you when you get well.”

  Tom’s hand pressed his feebly.

  “I always knew you were white, boss.”

  The doctor laughed as he came forward with a basin of water and bandages.

  “I’m afraid he’ll be whiter than he need be if I don’t stop that bleeding. I
think we’re ready for it now, Mr. Gordon.”

  “All right. It’s only a scratch,” answered Gordon indifferently.

  Pesquiera, feeling that he was out of the picture, departed in search of a hotel for the night. He was conscious of a strong admiration for this fair brown-faced Anglo-Saxon who faced death so lightly for one of his men. Whatever else he might prove to be, Richard Gordon was a man.

  The New Mexican had an uneasy prescience that his mission was foredoomed to failure and that it might start currents destined to affect potently the lives of many in the Rio Chama Valley.

  CHAPTER II

  THE TWO GRANTS

  The clock in the depot tower registered just twelve, and the noon whistles were blowing when Pesquiera knocked at apartment 14, of the Gold Nugget Rooming-House.

  In answer to an invitation to “Come in,” he entered an apartment which seemed to be a combination office and living-room. A door opened into what the New Mexican assumed to be a sleeping chamber, adjoining which was evidently a bath, judging from the sound of splashing water.

  “With you in a minute,” a voice from within assured the guest.

  The splashing ceased. There was the sound of a towel in vigorous motion. This was followed by the rustling of garments as the bather dressed. In an astonishingly short time the owner of the rooms appeared in the doorway.

  He was a well-set-up youth, broad of shoulder and compact of muscle. The ruddy bloom that beat through the tanned cheeks and the elasticity of his tread hinted at an age not great, but there was no suggestion of immaturity in the cool steadiness of the gaze or in the quiet poise of the attitude.

  He indicated a chair, after relieving his visitor of hat and cane. Pesquiera glanced at the bandage round the head.

  “I trust, señor, your experience of yesterday has not given you a wakeful night?”

  “Slept like a top. Fact is, I’m just getting up. You heard this morning yet how Tom is?”

  “The morning newspaper says he is doing very well indeed.”

  “That’s good hearing. He’s a first-rate boy, and I’d hate to hear worse of him. But I mustn’t take your time over our affairs. I think you mentioned business, sir?”

  The Castilian leaned forward and fixed his black, piercing eyes on the other. Straight into his business he plunged.

  “Señor Gordon, have you ever heard of the Valdés grant?”

  “Not to remember it. What kind of a grant is it?”

  “It is a land grant, made by Governor Facundo Megares, of New Mexico, which territory was then a province of Spain, to Don Fernando Valdés, in consideration of services rendered the Spanish crown against the Indians.”

  Dick shook his head. “You’ve got me, sir. If I ever heard of it the thing has plumb slipped my mind. Ought I to know about it?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Moreño grant?”

  Somewhere in the back of the young man’s mind a faint memory stirred. He seemed to see an old man seated at a table in a big room with a carved fireplace. The table was littered with papers, and the old gentleman was explaining them to a woman. She was his daughter, Dick’s mother. A slip of a youngster was playing about the room with two puppies. That little five-year-old was the young mine operator.

  “I have,” he answered calmly.

  “You know, then, that a later governor of the territory, Manuel Armijo, illegally carved half a million acres out of the former grant and gave it to José Moreño, from whom your grandfather bought it.”

  The miner’s face froze to impassivity. He was learning news. The very existence of such a grant was a surprise to him. His grandfather and his mother had been dead fifteen years. Somewhere in an old trunk back in Kentucky there was a tin box full of papers that might tell a story. But for the present he preferred to assume that he knew what information they contained.

  “I object to the word illegal, Don Manuel,” he answered curtly, not at all sure his objection had any foundation of law.

  Pesquiera shrugged. “Very well, señor. The courts, I feel sure, will sustain my words.”

  “Perhaps, and perhaps not.”

  “The law is an expensive arbiter, Señor Gordon. Your claim is slight. The title has never been perfected by you. In fifteen years you have paid no taxes. Still your claim, though worthless in itself, operates as a cloud upon the title of my client, the Valdés heir.”

  Dick looked at him steadily and nodded. He began to see the purpose of this visit. He waited silently, his mind very alert.

  “Señor, I am here to ask of you a relinquishment. You are brave; no doubt, chivalrous—”

  “I’m a business man, Don Manuel,” interrupted Gordon. “I don’t see what chivalry has got to do with it.”

  “Señorita Valdés is a woman, young and beautiful. This little estate is her sole possession. To fight for it in court is a hardship that Señor Gordon will not force upon her.”

  “So she’s young and beautiful, is she?”

  “The fairest daughter of Spain in all New Mexico,” soared Don Manuel.

  “You don’t say. A regular case of beauty and the beast, ain’t it?”

  “As one of her friends, I ask of you not to oppose her lawful possession of this little vineyard.”

  “In the grape business, is she?”

  “I speak, señor, in metaphor. The land is barren, of no value except for sheep grazing.”

  “Are you asking me to sell my title or give it?”

  “It is a bagatelle—a mere nothing. The title is but waste paper, I do assure. Yet we would purchase—for a nominal figure—merely to save court expenses.”

  “I see,” Dick laughed softly. “Just to save court expenses—because you’d rather I’d have the money than the lawyers. That’s right good of you.”

  Pesquiera talked with his hands and shoulders, sparkling into animation. “Mr. Gordon distrusts me. So? Am I not right? He perhaps mistakes me for what you call a—a pettifogger, is it not? I do assure to the contrary. The blood of the Pesquieras is of the bluest Castilian.”

  “Fine! I’ll take your word for it, Don Manuel. And I don’t distrust you at all. But here’s the point. I’m a plain American business man. I don’t buy and I don’t sell without first investigating a proposition submitted to me. I’m from Missouri.”

  “Oh, indeed! From St. Louis perhaps. I went to school there when I was a boy.”

  Gordon laughed. “I was speaking in metaphor, Don Manuel. What I mean is that I’ll have to be shown. No pig-in-a-poke business for me.”

  “Exactly. Most precisely. Have I not traveled from New Mexico up this steep roof of the continent merely to explain how matters stand? Valencia Valdés is the true and rightful heiress of the valley. She is everywhere so recognize’ and accept’ by the peons.”

  The miner’s indolent eye rested casually upon his guest. “Married?”

  “I have not that felicitation,” replied the Spaniard.

  “It was the lady I meant.”

  “Pardon. No man has yet been so fortunate to win the señorita”

  “I reckon it’s not for want of trying, since the heiress is so beautiful. There’s always plenty of willing lads to take over the job of prince regent under such circumstances.”

  The spine of the New Mexican stiffened ever so slightly. “Señorita Valdés is princess of the Rio Chama valley. Her dependents understan’ she is of a differen’ caste, a descendant of the great and renowned Don Alvaro of Castile.”

  “Don’t think I know the gentleman. Who was he?” asked Gordon genially, offering his guest a cigar.

  Pesquiera threw up his neat little hands in despair. “But of a certainty Mr. Gordon has read of Don Alvaro de Valdés y Castillo, lord of demesnes without number, conqueror of the Moors and of the fierce island English who then infested S
pain in swarms. His retinue was as that of a king. At his many manors fed daily thirty thousand men at arms. In all Europe no knight so brave, so chivalrous, so skillful with lance and sword. To the nobles his word was law. Young men worshiped him, the old admired, the poor blessed. The queen, it is said, love’ him madly. She was of exceeding beauty, but Don Alvaro remember his vows of knighthood and turn his back upon madness. Then the king, jealous for that his great noble was better, braver and more popular than he, send for de Valdés to come to court.”

  “I reckon Don Alvaro ought to have been sick a-bed that day and unable to make the journey,” suggested Dick.

  “So say his wife and his men, but Don Alvaro scorn to believe his king a traitor. He kiss his wife and babies good-bye, ride into the trap prepare’ for him, and die like a soldier. God rest his valiant soul.”

  “Some man. I’d like to have met him,” Gordon commented.

  “Señorita Valencia is of the same blood, of the same fine courage. She, too, is the idol of her people. Will Mr. Gordon, who is himself of the brave heart, make trouble for an unprotected child without father or mother?”

  “Unprotected isn’t quite the word so long as Don Manuel Pesquiera is her friend,” the Coloradoan answered with a smile.

  The dark young man flushed, but his eyes met those of Dick steadily. “You are right, sir. I stand between her and trouble if I can.”

  “Good. Glad you do.”

  “So I make you an offer. I ask you to relinquish your shadowy claim to the illegal Moreño grant.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you offhand just what I’ll do, Don Manuel. Make your proposition to me in writing, and one month from to-day I’ll let you know whether it’s yes or no.”

  “But the señorita wants to make improvements—to build, to fence. Delay is a hardship. Let us say a thousand dollars and make an end.”

  “Not if the court knows itself. You say she’s young. A month’s wait won’t hurt her any. I want to look into it. Maybe you’re offering me too much. A fifth of a cent an acre is a mighty high price for land. I don’t want any fairest daughter of Spain to rob herself for me, you know,” he grinned.