The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales Page 3

  “I exceed my instructions. I offer two thousand, Mr. Gordon.”

  “If you said two hundred thousand, I’d still say no till I had looked it up. I’m not doing business to-day at any price, thank you.”

  “You are perhaps of an impression that this land is valuable. On the contrary, I offer an assurance. And our need of your shadowy claim—”

  “I ain’t burdened with impressions, except one, that I don’t care to dispose of my ghost-title. We’ll talk business a month from to-day, if you like. No sooner. Have a smoke, Don Manuel?”

  Pesquiera declined the proffered cigar with an impatient gesture. He rose, reclaimed his hat and cane, and clicked his heels together in a stiff bow.

  He was a slight, dark, graceful man, with small, neat hands and feet, trimly gloved and shod. He had a small black mustache pointing upward in parallels to his smooth, olive cheeks. The effect was almost foppish, but the fire in the snapping eyes contradicted any suggestion of effeminacy. His gaze yielded nothing even to the searching one of Gordon.

  “It is, then, war between us, Señor Gordon?” he asked haughtily.

  Dick laughed.

  “Sho! It’s just business. Maybe I’ll take your offer. Maybe I won’t. I might want to run down and look at the no-’count land,” he said with a laugh.

  “I think it fair to inform you, sir, that the feeling of the country down there is in favor of the Valdés grant. The peons are hot-tempered, and are likely to resent any attempt to change the existing conditions. Your presence, señor, would be a danger.”

  “Much obliged, Don Manuel. Tell ’em from me that I got a bad habit of wearing a six-gun, and that if they get to resenting too arduous it’s likely to ventilate their enthusiasm.”

  Once more the New Mexican bowed stiffly before he retired.

  Pesquiera had overplayed his hand. He had stirred in the miner an interest born of curiosity and a sense of romantic possibilities. Dick wanted to see this daughter of Castile who was still to the simple-hearted shepherds of the valley a princess of the blood royal. Don Manuel was very evidently her lover. Perhaps it was his imagination that had mixed the magic potion that lent an atmosphere of old-world pastoral charm to the story of the Valdés grant. Likely enough the girl would prove commonplace in a proud half-educated fashion that would be intolerable for a stranger.

  But even without the help of the New Mexican the situation was one which called for a thorough personal investigation. Gordon was a hard-headed American business man, though he held within him the generous and hare-brained potentialities of a soldier of fortune. He meant to find out just what the Moreño grant was worth. After he had investigated his legal standing he would look over the valley of the Chama himself. He took no stock in Don Manuel’s assurance that the land was worthless, any more than he gave weight to his warning that a personal visit to the scene would be dangerous if the settlers believed he came to interfere with their rights. For many turbulent years Dick Gordon had held his own in a frontier community where untamed enemies had passed him daily with hate in their hearts. He was not going to let the sulky resentment of a few shepherds interfere with his course now.

  A message flashed back to a little town in Kentucky that afternoon. It was of the regulation ten-words length, and this was the body of it:

  Send immediately, by express, little brown leather trunk in garret.

  The signature at the bottom of it was “Richard Gordon.”

  CHAPTER III

  FISHERMAN’S LUCK

  A fisherman was whipping the stream of the Rio Chama.

  In his creel were a dozen trout, for the speckled beauties had been rising to the fly that skipped across the top of the riffles as naturally as life. He wore waders, gray flannel shirt, and khaki coat. As he worked up the stream he was oftener in its swirling waters than on the shore. But just now the fish were no longer striking.

  “Time to grub, anyhow. I’ll give them a rest for a while. They’ll likely be on the job again soon,” he told himself as he waded ashore.

  A draw here ran down to the river, and its sunny hillside tempted him to eat his lunch farther up.

  Into the little basin in which he found himself the sun had poured shafts of glory to make a very paradise of color. Down by the riverside the willows were hesitating between green and bronze. Russet and brown and red peppered the slopes, but shades of yellow predominated in the gulch itself.

  The angler ate his sandwiches leisurely, and stretched his lithe body luxuriantly on the ground for a siesta. When he resumed his occupation the sun had considerably declined from the meridian. The fish were again biting, and he landed two in as many minutes.

  The bed of the river had been growing steeper, and at the upper entrance of the little park he came to the first waterfall he had seen. Above this, on the opposite side, was a hole that looked inviting. He decided that a dead tree lying across the river would, at a pinch, serve for a bridge, and he ventured upon it. Beneath his feet the rotting bark gave way. He found himself falling, tried desperately to balance himself, and plunged head first into the river.

  Coming to the surface, he caught at a rock which jutted from the channel. At this point the water was deep and the current swift. Were he to let loose of the boulder he must be swept over the fall before he could reach the shore. Nor could he long maintain his position against the rush of the ice-cold waters fresh from the mountain snow fields.

  He had almost made up his mind to take his chances with the fall, when a clear cry came ringing to him:

  “No suelte!”

  A figure was flying down the slope toward him—the slim, graceful form of a woman. As she ran she caught up a stick from the ground. This she held out to him from the bank.

  He shook his head.

  “I would only drag you in.”

  She put her fingers to her mouth and gave a clear whistle. Far up on the slope a pony lifted its head and nickered. Again her whistle shrilled, and the bronco trotted down toward her.

  “Can you hold on?” she asked in English.

  He was chilled to the marrow, but he answered quietly: “I reckon.”

  She was gone, swift-footed as a deer, to meet the descending animal. He saw her swing to the saddle and lean over it as the pace quickened to a gallop.

  He did not know her fingers were busy preparing the rawhide lariat that depended from the side of the saddle. On the very bank she brought up with a jerk that dragged her mount together, and at the same moment slipped to the ground.

  Running open the noose of the lariat, she dropped it surely over his shoulders. The other end of the rope was fastened to the saddle-horn, and the cow-pony, used to roping and throwing steers, braced itself with wide-planted front feet for the shock.

  “Can you get your arm through the loop?” cried the girl.

  His arms were like lead, and almost powerless. With one hand he knew he could not hang on. Nor did he try longer than for that one desperate instant when he shot his fist through the loop. The wall of water swept him away, but the taut rope swung him shoreward.

  Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the strong current for the body of the almost unconscious man; fought steadily and strongly, for there was strength in the small wrists and compact muscle in the shapely arms. She was waist deep in the water before she won, for from above she could find no purchase for the lift.

  The fisherman’s opening eyes looked into dark anxious ones that gazed at him from beneath the longest lashes he had ever seen. He had an odd sense of being tangled up in them and being unable to escape, of being both abashed and happy in his imprisonment. What he thought was: “They don’t have eyes like those out of heaven.” What he said was entirely different.

  “Near thing. Hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have made it.”

  At his words she rose fro
m her knees to her full height, and he saw that she was slenderly tall and fashioned of gracious curves. The darkness of her clear skin was emphasized by the mass of blue-black hair from which little ears peeped with exquisite daintiness. The mouth was sweet and candid, red-lipped, with perfect teeth just showing in the full arch. The straight nose, with its sensitive nostrils, proclaimed her pure patrician.

  “You are wet,” he cried. “You went in after me.”

  She looked down at her dripping skirts, and laughter rippled over her face like the wind in golden grain. It brought out two adorable dimples near the tucked-in corners of her mouth.

  “I am damp,” she conceded.

  “Why did you do it? The water might have swept you away,” he chided, coming to a sitting posture.

  “And if I hadn’t it might have swept you away,” she answered, with a flash of her ivory teeth.

  He rose and stood before her.

  “You risked your life to save mine.”

  “Is it not worth it, sir?”

  “That ain’t for me to say. The point is, you took the chance.”

  Her laughter bubbled again. “You mean, I took the bath.”

  “I expect you’ll have to listen to what I’ve got to say, ma’am.”

  “Are you going to scold me? Was I precipitate? Perhaps you were attempting suicide. Forgive, I pray.”

  He ignored her raillery, and told her what he thought of a courage so fine and ready. He permitted a smile to temper his praise, as he added: “You mustn’t go jumping in the river after strangers if you don’t want them to say, ‘Thank you kindly.’ You find four out of five of them want to, don’t you?”

  “It is not yet a habit of mine. You’re the first”

  “I hope I’ll be the last.”

  She began to wring out the bottom of her skirt, and he was on his knees at once to do it for her.

  “That will do very nicely,” she presently said, the color billowing her cheeks.

  He gathered wood and lit a fire, being fortunate enough to find his match-case had been waterproof. He piled on dry branches till the fire roared and licked out for the moisture in their clothes.

  “I’ve been wondering how you happened to see me in the water,” he said. “You were riding past, I expect?”

  “No, I was sketching. I saw you when you came up to eat your lunch, and I watched you go back to the river.”

  “Do you live near here, then?” he asked.

  “About three miles away.”

  “And you were watching me all the time?” He put his statement as a question.

  “No, I wasn’t,” the young woman answered indignantly. “You happened to be in the landscape.”

  “A blot in it,” he suggested. “A hop-toad splashing in the puddle.”

  The every-ready dimples flashed out at this. “You did make quite a splash when you went in. The fish must have thought it was a whale.”

  “And when I told you the water was fine, and you came in, too, they probably took you for a naiad.”

  She thanked him with an informal little nod.

  “I thought you Anglo-Saxons did not give compliments.”

  “I don’t,” he immediately answered.

  “Oh! If that isn’t another one, I’m mistaken, sir.” She turned indifferently away, apparently of the opinion that she had been quite friendly enough to this self-possessed young stranger.

  Rewinding the lariat, she fastened it to the saddle, then swung to the seat before he could step forward to aid her.

  “I hope you will suffer no bad effects from your bath,” he said.

  “I shall not; but I’m afraid you will. You were in long enough to get thoroughly chilled. Adios, señor.”

  He called to her before the pony had taken a dozen steps:

  “Your handkerchief, señorita!”

  She turned in the saddle and waited for him to bring it. He did so, and she noticed that he limped badly.

  “You have hurt yourself,” she said quickly.

  “I must have jammed my knee against a rock,” he explained. “Nothing serious.”

  “But it pains?”

  “Just enough to let me know it’s there.”

  Frowning, she watched him.

  “Is it a bruise or a sprain?”

  “A wrench, I think. It will be all right if I favor it”

  “Favor it? Except the ranch, there is no place nearer than seven miles. You are staying at Corbett’s, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t walk back there to-night. That is certain.” She slipped from the saddle. “You’ll have to go back to the ranch with me, sir. I can walk very well.”

  He felt a wave of color sweep his face.

  “I couldn’t take the horse and let you walk.”

  “That is nonsense, sir. You can, and you shall.”

  “If I am to take your horse I need not saddle myself upon your hospitality. I can ride back to Corbett’s, and send the horse home to-morrow.”

  “It is seven miles to Miguel’s, and Corbett’s is three beyond that. No doctor would advise that long ride before your knee receives attention, I think, sir, you will have to put up with the ranch till to-morrow.”

  “You ain’t taking my intention right. All I meant was that I didn’t like to unload myself on your folks; but if you say I’m to do it I’ll be very happy to be your guest.” He said it with a touch of boyish embarrassment she found becoming.

  “We’ll stop at the top of the hill and take on my drawing things,” she told him.

  He need have had no fears for her as a walker, for she was of the elect few born to grace of motion. Slight she was, yet strong; the delicacy that breathed from her was of the spirit, and consisted with perfect health. No Grecian nymph could have trod with lighter or surer step nor have unconsciously offered to the eye more supple and beautiful lines of limb and body.

  Never had the young man seen before anybody whose charm went so poignantly to the root of his emotions. Every turn of the head, the set of the chin, the droop of the long, thick lashes on the soft cheek, the fling of a gesture, the cadence of her voice; they all delighted and fascinated him. She was a living embodiment of joy-in-life, of love personified.

  She packed her sketches and her paraphernalia with businesslike directness, careless of whether he did or did not see her water-colors. A movement of his hand stayed her as she took from, the easel the one upon which she had been engaged.

  It represented the sun-drenched slope below them, with the little gulch dressed riotously in its gala best of yellows.

  “You’ve got that fine,” he told her enthusiastically.

  She shook her head, unmoved by praise which did not approve itself to her judgment as merited.

  “No, I didn’t get it at all. A great artist might get the wonder of it; but I can’t.”

  “It looks good to me,” he said.

  “Then I’m afraid you’re not a judge,” she smiled.

  From where they stood a trail wound along the ridge and down into a valley beyond. At the farther edge of this, nestling close to the hills that took root there, lay the houses of a ranch.

  “That is where I live,” she told him.

  He thought it a lovely spot, almost worthy of her, but obviously he could not tell her so. Instead, he voiced an alien thought that happened to intrude:

  “Do you know Señorita Valdés? But of course you must.”

  She flung a quick glance at him, questioning.

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “She lives somewhere round here, too, does she not?”

  Her arm swept round in a comprehensive gesture. “Over that way, too.”

  “Do you know her well?”

 
An odd smile dimpled her face.

  “Sometimes I think I do, and then again I wonder.”

  “I have been told she is beautiful.”

  “Beauty is in the beholder’s eyes, señor. Valencia Valdés is as Heaven made her.”

  “I have no doubt; but Heaven took more pains with some of us than others—it appears.”

  Again the dark eyes under the long lashes swept him from the curly head to the lean, muscular hands, and approved silently the truth of his observation. The clean lithe build of the man, muscles packed so that they rippled smoothly like those of a panther, appealed to her trained eyes. So, too, did the quiet, steady eyes in the bronzed face, holding as they did the look of competent alertness that had come from years of frontier life.

  “You are interested in Miss Valdés?” she asked politely.

  “In a way of speaking, I am. She is one of the reasons why I came here.”

  “Indeed! She would no doubt be charmed to know of your interest,” still with polite detachment.

  “My interest ain’t exactly personal; then again it is,” he contributed.

  “A sort of an impersonal personal interest?”

  “Yes; though I don’t quite know what that means.”

  “Then I can’t be expected to,” she laughed.

  His laughter joined hers; but presently he recurred to his question:

  “You haven’t told me yet about Miss Valdés. Is she as lovely as they say she is?”

  “I don’t know just how lovely they say she is. Sometimes I have thought her very passable; then again—” She broke off with a defiant little laugh. “Don’t you know, sir, that you mustn’t ask one lady to praise the beauty of another?”

  “I suppose I may ask questions?” he said, much amused.

  “It depends a little on the questions.”

  “Is she tall?”

  “Rather. About as tall as I am.”