The Pride of Palomar

  III

  There were three people in the observation-car when Michael JosephFarrel boarded it a few minutes before eight o'clock the followingmorning. Of the three, one was a girl, and, as Farrel entered,carrying the souvenirs of his service--a helmet and gas-mask--sheglanced at him with the interest which the average civilian manifestsin any soldier obviously just released from service and homeward bound.Farrel's glance met hers for an instant with equal interest; then heturned to stow his impedimenta in the brass rack over his seat. He wasgranted an equally swift but more direct appraisal of her as he walkeddown the observation-car to the rear platform, where he selected achair in a corner that offered him sanctuary from the cold, fog-ladenbreeze, lighted a cigar, and surrendered himself to contemplating, inhis mind's eye, the joys of home-coming.

  He had the platform to himself until after the train had passed PaloAlto, when others joined him. The first to emerge on the platform wasa Japanese. Farrel favored him with a cool, contemptuous scrutiny, forhe was a Californian and did not hold the members of this race in atithe of the esteem he accorded other Orientals. This Japanese wasrather shorter and thinner than the majority of his race. He worelarge, round tortoise-shell spectacles, and clothes that proclaimed theattention of the very best tailors; a gold-band ring, set with oneblue-white diamond and two exquisite sapphires, adorned the pudgyfinger of his right hand. Farrel judged that his gray beaver hat musthave cost at least fifty dollars.

  "We ought to have Jim Crow cars for these cock-sure sons of Nippon,"the ex-soldier growled to himself. "We'll come to it yet if somethingisn't done about them. They breed so fast they'll have us crowded intoback seats in another decade."

  He had had some unpleasant clashes with Japanese troops in Siberia, andthe memory of their studied insolence was all the more poignant becauseit had gone unchallenged. He observed, now, that the Japanesepassenger had permitted the screen door to slam in the face of the manfollowing him; with a very definite appreciation of the good things oflife, he had instantly selected the chair in the corner oppositeFarrel, where he could smoke his cigar free from the wind. Followingthe Japanese came an American, as distinctive of his class as theJapanese was of his. In point of age, this man was about fifty yearsold--a large man strikingly handsome and of impressive personality. Hecourteously held the door open to permit the passage of the girl whomFarrel had noticed when he first entered the car.

  To Farrel, at least, a surprising incident now occurred. There wereeight vacant seats on the platform, and the girl's glance swept themall; he fancied it rested longest upon the chair beside him. Then,with the faintest possible little _moue_ of disapproval, she seatedherself beside the Japanese. The other man took the seat in front ofthe girl, half turned, and entered into conversation with the Jap.

  Farrel studied the trio with interest, decided that they were travelingtogether, and that the man in the gray tweeds was the father of thegirl. She bore a striking resemblance to him and had inherited hishandsome features a thousandfold, albeit her eyes were different, beinglarge, brown, and wide apart; from them beamed a sweetness, abenignancy, and tenderness that, to the impressionable Farrel, bespokemental as well as physical beauty. She was gowned, gloved, and hattedwith rich simplicity.

  "I think that white man is from the East," Farrel concluded, althoughwhy that impression came to him, he would have been at a loss toexplain. Perhaps it was because he appeared to associate on terms ofsocial equality with a Japanese whose boorishness, coupled with anevident desire to agree with everything the white man said, proclaimedhim anything but a consular representative or a visiting merchant.

  Presently the girl's brown eyes were turned casually in Farrel'sdirection, seemingly without interest. Instantly he rose, fixed herwith a comprehending look, nodded almost imperceptibly toward the chairhe was vacating, and returned to his seat inside the car. Her finebrows lifted a trifle; her slight inclination of the head was robbed ofthe chill of brevity by a fleeting smile of gratitude, not so much forthe sacrifice of his seat in her favor as for the fine courtesy whichhad moved him to proffer it without making of his action an excuse tosit beside her and attempt an acquaintance.

  From his exile, Farrel observed with satisfaction how quickly the girlexcused herself to her companions and crossed over to the seat vacatedin her favor.

  At the first call for luncheon, he entered the diner and was given aseat at a small table. The seat opposite him was unoccupied, and whenthe girl entered the diner alone and was shown to this vacant seat,Farrel thrilled pleasurably.

  "Three long, loud ones for you, young lady!" he soliloquized. "Youdidn't care to eat at the same table with the brown beggar; so you cameto luncheon alone."

  As their glances met, there was in Farrel's black eyes no hint ofrecognition, for he possessed in full measure all of the modesty andtimidity of the most modest and timid race on earth where women areconcerned--the Irish--tempered with the exquisite courtesy of that racefor whom courtesy and gallantry toward woman are a tradition--theSpanish of that all but extinct Californian caste known as the _gente_.

  It pleased Farrel to pretend careful study of the menu. Although hispreferences in food were simple, he was extraordinarily hungry and knewexactly what he wanted. For long months he had dreamed of aporterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms, and now, finding thatappetizing viand listed on the menu, he ordered it without givingmature deliberation to the possible consequences of his act. For thepast two months he had been forced to avoid, when dining alone, meatsserved in such a manner as to necessitate firm and skilful manipulationof a knife--and when the waiter served his steak, he discovered, to hisembarrassment, that it was not particularly tender nor was his knifeeven reasonably sharp. Consequently, following an unsatisfactoryassault, he laid the knife aside and cast an anxious glance toward thekitchen, into which his waiter had disappeared; while awaiting the aidof this functionary, he hid his right hand under the table and gentlymassaged the back of it at a point where a vivid red scar showed.

  He was aware that the girl was watching him, and, with the fascinationpeculiar to such a situation, he could not forbear a quick glance ather. Interest and concern showed in the brown eyes, and she smiledfrankly, as she said:

  "I very much fear, Mr. Ex-First Sergeant, that your steak constitutesan order you are unable to execute. Perhaps you will not mind if Icarve it for you."

  "Please do not bother about me!" he exclaimed. "The waiter will behere presently. You are very kind, but--"

  "Oh, I'm quite an expert in the gentle art of mothering military men.I commanded a hot-cake-and-doughnut brigade in France." She reachedacross the little table and possessed herself of his plate.

  "I'll bet my last copeck you had good discipline, too," he declaredadmiringly. He could imagine the number of daring devils from whoseamorous advances even a hot-cake queen was not immune.

  "The recipe was absurdly simple: No discipline, no hot-cakes. Andthere were always a sufficient number of good fellows around to squelchanybody who tried to interfere with my efficiency. By the way, Iobserved how hungrily you were looking out the window this morning.Quite a change from Siberia, isn't it?"

  "How did you know I'd soldiered in Siberia?"

  "You said you'd bet your last copeck."

  "You should have served in Intelligence."

  "You are blessed with a fair amount of intuition yourself."

  "Oh, I knew you didn't want to sit near that Jap. Can't bear the racemyself."

  She nodded approvingly.

  "Waiter's still out in the kitchen," she reminded him. "Now, oldsoldier, aren't you glad I took pity on you? Your steak would havebeen cold before he got round to you, and I imagine you've hadsufficient cold rations to do you quite a while."

  "It was sweet of you to come to my rescue. I'm not exactly crippled,though I haven't used my hand for more than two months, and the musclesare slightly atrophied. The knife slips because I cannot close my handtightly. But I'll be all right in another month
."

  "What happened to it?"

  "Saber-thrust. Wouldn't have amounted to much if the Bolshevik who didthe thrusting had had a clean saber. Blood-poisoning set in, but ourbattalion surgeon got to work on it in time to save me from beingpermanently crippled."

  "'Saber-thrust?' They got that close to you?"

  He nodded.

  "Troop of Semenoff's bandits in a little two-by-four fight out on thetrans-Siberian railroad. Guess they wanted the trainload of rations wewere guarding. My captain killed the fellow who stuck me and accountedfor four others who tried to finish me."

  "Captains think a great deal of good first sergeants," she suggested."And you got a wound-chevron out of it. I suppose, like every soldier,you wanted one, provided it didn't cost too much."

  "Oh, yes. And I got mine rather cheap. The battalion surgeon fixed itso I didn't have to go to the hospital. Never missed a day of duty."

  She handed him his plate with the steak cut into bits.

  "It was nice of you to surrender your cozy seat to me this morning,Sergeant." She buttered a piece of bread for him and added, "But verymuch nicer the way you did it."

  "'Cast thy bread upon the waters,'" he quoted, and grinned brazenly."Nevertheless, if I were in civvies, you'd have permitted the waiter tocut my steak."

  "Oh, of course we veterans must stand together, Sergeant."

  "I find it pleasanter sitting together. By the way, may I ask theidentity of the Nipponese person, with your father?"

  "How do you know he is my father?" she parried.

  "I do not know. I merely thought he looked quite worthy of the honor."

  "While away with the rough, bad soldiers, you did not forget how tomake graceful speeches," she complimented him. "The object of yourpardonable curiosity is a Mr. Okada, the potato baron of California.He was formerly prime minister to the potato king of the San Joaquin,but revolted and became a pretender to the throne. While the kinglives, however, Okada is merely a baron, although in a few years hewill probably control the potato market absolutely."

  He thumped the table lightly with his maimed hand.

  "I knew he was just a coolie dressed up."

  She reached for an olive.

  "Go as far as you like, native son. He's no friend of mine."

  "Well, in that case, I'll spare his life," he countered boldly. "AndI've always wanted to kill a Japanese potato baron. Do you not thinkit would be patriotic of me to immolate myself and reduce the cost ofspuds?"

  "I never eat them. They're very fattening. Now, if you really wish tobe a humanitarian, why not search out the Japanese garlic king?"

  "I dare not. His demise would place me in bad odor."

  She laughed merrily. Evidently she was finding him amusing company.She looked him over appraisingly and queried bluntly,

  "Were you educated abroad?"

  "I was not. I'm a product of a one-room schoolhouse perched on a barehill down in San Marcos County."

  "But you speak like a college man."

  "I am. I'm a graduate of the University of California AgriculturalCollege, at Davis. I'm a sharp on pure-bred beef cattle, pure-bredswine, and irrigation. I know why hens decline to lay when eggs areworth eighty cents a dozen, and why young turkeys are so blamed hard toraise in the fall. My grandfather and my father were educated atTrinity College, Dublin, and were sharps on Latin and Greek, but Inever figured the dead languages as much of an aid to a man doomed frombirth to view cows from the hurricane-deck of a horse."

  "But you have such a funny little clipped accent."

  He opened his great black eyes in feigned astonishment.

  "Oh, didn't you know?" he whispered.

  "Know what?"

  "Unfortunate young woman!" he murmured to his water-glass. "No wondershe sits in public with that pudgy son of a chrysanthemum, when sheisn't even able to recognize a greaser at a glance. Oh, Lord!"

  "You're not a greaser," she challenged.

  "No?" he bantered. "You ought to see me squatting under an avocadotree, singing the 'Spanish Cavalier' to a guitar accompaniment.Listen: I'll prove it without the accompaniment." And he hummedsoftly:

  "The Spanish cavalier, Went out to rope a steer, Along with his paper cigar-o, '_Car-ramba_!' says he. '_Manana_ you will be _Mucho bueno carne par mio_!'"

  Her brown eyes danced.

  "That doesn't prove anything except that you're an incorrigible Celt.When you stooped down to kiss the stone at Blarney Castle, you lostyour balance and fell in the well. And you've dripped blarney eversince."

  "Oh, not that bad, really! I'm a very serious person ordinarily. Thatlittle forget-me-not of language is a heritage of my childhood. Mothertaught me to pray in Spanish, and I learned that language first.Later, my grandfather taught me to swear in English with an Irishaccent, and I've been fearfully balled up ever since. It's veryinconvenient."

  "Be serious, soldier, or I shall not cut your meat for you at dinner."

  "Excuse me. I forgot I was addressing a hot-cake queen. But please donot threaten me, because I'm out of the army just twenty-four hours,and I'm independent and I may resent it. I can order spoon-victuals,you know."

  "You aren't really Spanish?"

  "Not really. Mostly. I'd fight a wild bull this minute for a singlered-chilli pepper. I eat them raw."

  "And you're going home to your ranch now?"

  "_Si_. And I'll not take advantage of any stop-over privileges on theway, either. Remember the fellow in the song who kept on proclaimingthat he had to go back--that he must go back--that he would go back--tothat dear old Chicago town? Well, that poor exile had only justcommenced to think that he ought to begin feeling the urge to go home.And when you consider that the unfortunate man hailed from Chicago,while I--" He blew a kiss out the window and hummed:

  "I love you, California. You're the greatest state of all--"

  "Oh dear! You native sons are all alike. Congenital advertisers,every one."

  "Well, isn't it beautiful? Isn't it wonderful?" He was serious now.

  "One-half of your state is worthless mountain country--"

  "He-country--and beautiful!" he interrupted.

  "The other half is desert."

  "Ever see the Mojave in the late afternoon from the top of the TejonPass?" he challenged. "The wild, barbaric beauty of it? And withwater it would be a garden-spot."

  "Of course your valleys are wonderful."

  "_Gracias, senorita_."

  "But the bare brown hills in summer-time--and the ghost-rivers of theSouth! I do not think they are beautiful."

  "They grow on one," he assured her earnestly. "You wait and see. Iwish you could ride over the hills back of Sespe with me thisafternoon, and see the San Gregorio valley in her new spring gown. Ah,how my heart yearns for the San Gregorio!"

  To her amazement, she detected a mistiness in his eyes, and hergenerous heart warmed to him.

  "How profoundly happy you are!" she commented.

  "'Happy'? I should tell a man! I'm as happy as a cock valley-quailwith a large family and no coyotes in sight. Wow! This steak is good."

  "Not very, I think. It's tough."

  "I have good teeth."

  She permitted him to eat in silence for several minutes, and when hehad disposed of the steak, she asked,

  "You live in the San Gregorio valley?"

  He nodded.

  "We have a ranch there also," she volunteered. "Father acquired itrecently."

  "From whom did he acquire it?"

  "I do not know the man's name, but the ranch is one of those oldMexican grants. It has a Spanish name. I'll try to remember it." Sheknitted her delicate brows. "It's Pal-something or other."

  "Is it the Palomares grant?" he suggested.

  "I think it is. I know the former owner is dead, and my fatheracquired the ranch by foreclosure of mortgage on the estate."

  "Then it's the Palomares grant. My father wrote in his last letterthat old man
Gonzales had died and that a suit to foreclose themortgage had been entered against the estate. The eastern edge of thatgrant laps over the lower end of the San Gregorio. Is your father abanker?"

  "He controls the First National Bank of El Toro."

  "That settles the identity of the ranch. Gonzales was mortgaged to theFirst National." He smiled a trifle foolishly. "You gave me a bad tenseconds," he explained. "I thought you meant my father's ranch atfirst."

  "Horrible!" She favored him with a delightful little grimace ofsympathy. "Just think of coming home and finding yourself homeless!"

  "I think such a condition would make me wish that Russian had beengiven time to finish what he started. By the way, I knew all of thestockholders in the First National Bank, of El Toro. Your father is anewcomer. He must have bought out old Dan Hayes' interest." Shenodded affirmatively. "Am I at liberty to be inquisitive--just alittle bit?" he queried.

  "That depends, Sergeant. Ask your question, and if I feel at libertyto answer it, I shall."

  "Is that Japanese, Okada, a member of your party?"

  "Yes; he is traveling with us. He has a land-deal on with my father."

  "Ah!"

  She glanced across at him with new interest.

  "There was resentment in that last observation of yours," shechallenged.

  "In common with all other Californians with manhood enough to resentimposition, I resent all Japanese."

  "Is it true, then, that there is a real Japanese problem out here?"

  "Why, I thought everybody knew that," he replied, a triflereproachfully. "As the outpost of Occidental civilization, we've beenbattling Oriental aggression for forty years."

  "I had thought this agitation largely the mouthings of professionalagitators--a part of the labor-leaders' plan to pose as the watch-dogsof the rights of the California laboring man."

  "That is sheer buncombe carefully fostered by a very efficient corps ofJapanese propagandists. The resentment against the Japanese invasionof California is not confined to any class, but is a very vital issuewith every white citizen of the state who has reached the age of reasonand regardless of whether he was born in California or Timbuctoo.Look!"

  He pointed to a huge sign-board fronting a bend in the highway that ranclose to the railroad track and parallel with it:

  NO MORE JAPS WANTED HERE

  "This is entirely an agricultural section," he explained. "There areno labor-unions here. But," he added bitterly, "you could throw astone in the air and be moderately safe on the small end of a bet thatthe stone would land on a Jap farmer."

  "Do the white farmers think that sign will frighten them away?"

  "No; of course not. That sign is merely a polite intimation to whitemen who may contemplate selling or leasing their lands to Japs that theorganized sentiment of this community is against such a course. Thelower standards of living of the Oriental enable him to pay much higherprices for land than a white man can."

  "But," she persisted, "these aliens have a legal right to own and leaseland in this state, have they not?"

  "Unfortunately, through the treachery of white lawyers, they havedevised means to comply with the letter of a law denying them the rightto own land, while evading the spirit of that law. Corporations withwhite dummy directors--purchases by alien Japs in the names of theirinfants in arms who happen to have been born in this country--" heshrugged.

  "Then you should amend your laws."

  He looked at her with the faintest hint of cool belligerence in hisfine dark eyes.

  "Every time we Californians try to enact a law calculated to keep ourstate a white man's country, you Easterners, who know nothing of ourproblem, and are too infernally lazy to read up on it, permityourselves to be stampeded by that hoary shibboleth of straineddiplomatic relations with the Mikado's government. Pressure is broughtto bear on us from the seat of the national government; the Presidentsends us a message to proceed cautiously, and our loyalty to thesisterhood of states is used as a club to beat our brains out. Once,when we were all primed to settle this issue decisively, the immortalTheodore Roosevelt--our two-fisted, non-bluffable President at thattime--made us call off our dogs. Later, when again we began to squirmunder our burden, the Secretary of State, pacific William J. Bryan,hurried out to our state capital, held up both pious hands, and cried:'Oh, no! Really, you mustn't! We insist that you consider the othermembers of the family. Withhold this radical legislation until we cansettle this row amicably.' Well, we were dutiful sons. We tried outthe gentleman's agreement imposed on us in 1907, but when, in 1913, weknew it for a failure, we passed our Alien Land Bill, which hamperedbut did not prevent, although we knew from experience that the class ofJaps who have a strangle-hold on California are not gentlemen butcoolies, and never respect an agreement they can break if, in thebreaking, they are financially benefited."

  "Well," the girl queried, a little subdued by his vehemence, "how hasthat law worked out?"

  "Fine--for the Japs. The Japanese population of California has doubledin five years; the area of fertile lands under their domination hasincreased a thousand-fold, until eighty-five per cent. of thevegetables raised in this state are controlled by Japs. They are not adull people, and they know how to make that control yield richdividends--at the expense of the white race. That man Okada is calledthe 'potato baron' because presently he will actually control thepotato crop of central California--and that is where most of thepotatoes of this state are raised. Which reminds me that I started toask you a question about him. Do you happen to know if he iscontemplating expanding his enterprise to include a section of southernCalifornia?"

  "I suppose I ought not discuss my father's business affairs with astranger," she replied, "but since he is making no secret of them, Idare say I do not violate his confidence when I tell you that he has adeal on with Mr. Okada to colonize the San Gregorio valley in SanMarcos County."

  The look of a thousand devils leaped into Farrel's eyes. The storm ofpassion that swept him was truly Latin in its terrible intensity. Heglared at the girl with a malevolence that terrified her.

  "My valley'" he managed to murmur presently. "My beautiful SanGregorio! Japs! Japs!"

  "I hadn't the faintest idea that information would upset you so," thegirl protested. "Please forgive me."

  "I--I come from the San Gregorio," he cried passionately. "I loveevery rock and cactus and rattlesnake in it. _Valgame Dios_!" And themaimed right hand twisted and clutched as, subconsciously, he strove toclench his fist. "Ah, who was the coward--who was the traitor thatbetrayed us for a handful of silver?"

  "Yes; I believe there is a great deal of the Latin about you," she saiddemurely. "If I had a temper as volcanic as yours, I would never,never go armed."

  "I could kill with my naked hands the white man who betrays hiscommunity to a Jap. _Madre de Dios_, how I hate them!"

  "Well, wait until your trusty right hand is healed before you trygarroting anybody," she suggested dryly. "Suppose you cool off, Mr.Pepper-pot, and tell me more about this terrible menace?"

  "You are interested--really?"

  "I could be made to listen without interrupting you, if you could bringyourself to cease glaring at me with those terrible chile-con-carneeyes. I can almost see myself at my own funeral. Please remember thatI have nothing whatsoever to do with my father's business affairs."

  "Your father looks like a human being, and if he realized the economiccrime he is fostering--"

  "Easy, soldier! You're discussing my father, whereas I desire todiscuss the Yellow Peril. To begin, are you prejudiced against acitizen of Japan just because he's a Jap?"

  "I will be frank. I do not like the race. To a white man, there isnothing lovable about a Jap, nothing that would lead, except inisolated cases, to a warm friendship between members of our race andtheirs. And I dare say the individual Jap has as instinctive a dislikefor us as we have for him."

  "Well then, how about John Chinaman?"

  His fa
ce brightened.

  "Oh, a Chinaman is different. He's a regular fellow. You can have agreat deal of respect and downright admiration for a Chinaman, even ofthe coolie class."

  "Nevertheless, the Chinese are excluded from California."

  He nodded.

  "But not because of strong racial prejudice. The Chinese, like anyother Oriental, are not assimilable; also, like the Jap and the Hindu,they are smart enough to know a good thing when they see it--andCalifornia looks good to everybody. John Chinaman would overrun us ifwe permitted it, but since he is a mighty decent sort and realizes thesanity of our contention that he is not assimilable with us, or we withhim, he admits the wisdom and justice of our slogan: 'California forwhite men.' There was no protest from Peking when we passed theExclusion Act. Now, however, when we endeavor to exclude Japanese,Tokio throws a fit. But if we can muster enough courage among ourstate legislators to pass a law that will absolutely divorce theJapanese coolie from California land, we can cope with him in otherlines of trade."

  She had listened earnestly to his argument, delivered with all theearnestness of which he was capable.

  "Why is he not assimilable?" she asked.

  "Would you marry the potato baron?" he demanded bluntly.

  "Certainly not!" she answered.

  "He has gobs of money. Is that not a point worthy of consideration?"

  "Not with me. It never could be."

  "Perhaps you have gobs of money also."

  "If I were a scrubwoman, and starving, I wouldn't consider a proposalof marriage from that Jap sufficiently long to reject it."

  "Then you have answered your own question," he reminded hertriumphantly. "The purity of our race--aye, the purity of the Japaneserace--forbids intermarriage; hence we are confronted with theintolerable prospect of sharing our wonderful state with an alien racethat must forever remain, alien--in thought, language, morals,religion, patriotism, and standards of living. They will dominate us,because they are a dominant people; they will shoulder us aside,control us, dictate to us, and we shall disappear from this beautifulland as surely and as swiftly as did the Mission Indian. While theSouth has its negro problem--and a sorry problem it is--we Californianshave had an infinitely more dangerous problem thrust upon us. We'vegot to shake them off. We've got to!"

  "I'll speak to my father. I do not think he understands--that he fullyrealizes--"

  "Ah! Thank you so much. Your father is rich, is he not?"

  "I think he possesses more money than he will ever need," she repliedsoberly.

  "Please try to make him see that the big American thing to do would beto colonize his land in the San Gregorio for white men and take alesser profit. Really, I do not relish the idea of Japanese neighbors."

  "You live there, then?"

  He nodded.

  "Hope to die there, too. You leave the train at El Toro, I suppose?"

  "My father has telegraphed mother to have the car meet us there. Weshall motor out to the ranch. And are you alighting at El Toro also?"

  "No. I plan to pile off at Sespe, away up the line, and take a shortcut via a cattle-trail over the hills. I'll hike it."

  She hesitated slightly. Then:

  "I'm sure father would be very happy to give you a lift out from ElToro, Sergeant. We shall have oodles of room."

  "Thank you. You are very kind. But the fact is," he went on toexplain, "nobody knows I'm coming home, and I have a childish desire tosneak in the back way and surprise them. Were I to appear in El Toro,I'd have to shake hands with everybody in town and relate a history ofmy exploits and--"

  "I understand perfectly. You just want to get home, don't you?" Andshe bent upon him a smile of complete understanding--a smileall-compelling, maternal. "But did you say you'd hike it in fromSespe? Why not hire a horse?"

  "I'd like to have a horse, and if I cared to ask far one, I couldborrow one. But I'll hike it instead. It will be easy in lightmarching-order."

  "Speaking of horses," she said abruptly. "Do you know a horse in theSan Gregorio named Panchito?"

  "A very dark chestnut with silver mane and tail, five-gaited, and asstylish as a lady?"

  "The very same."

  "I should say I do know that horse! What about him?"

  "My father is going to buy him for me."

  This was news, and Farrel's manner indicated as much.

  "Where did you see Panchito?" he demanded.

  "An Indian named Pablo rode him into El Toro to be shod one day whilewe were living at the hotel there. He's perfectly adorable."

  "Pablo? Hardly. I know the old rascal."

  "Be serious. Panchito--I was passing the blacksmith's shop, and Isimply had to step in and admire him."

  "That tickled old Pablo to death--of course."

  "It did. He put Panchito through all of his tricks for me, and, afterthe horse was shod, he permitted me to ride the dear for half an hour.Pablo was so kind! He waited until I could run back to the hotel andchange into my riding-habit."

  "Did you try to give Pablo some money--say, about five dollars?" hedemanded, smilingly.

  "Yes." Her eyes betrayed wonder.

  "He declined it with profuse thanks, didn't he?"

  "You're the queerest man I've ever met. Pablo did refuse it. How didyou know?"

  "I know Pablo. He wouldn't take money from a lady. It's against thecode of the Rancho Palomar, and if his boss ever heard that he hadfractured that code, he'd skin him alive."

  "Not Pablo's boss. Pablo told me his Don Mike, as he calls him, waskilled by the bewhiskered devils in a cold country the name of which hehad heard but could not remember. He meant Siberia."

  Farrel sat up suddenly.

  "What's that?" he cried sharply. "He told you Don Mike had beenkilled?"

  "Yes--poor fellow! Pablo said Don Mike's father had had a telegramfrom the War Department."

  Farrel's first impulse was to curse the War Department--in Spanish, soshe would not understand. His second was to laugh, and his third toburst into tears. How his father had suffered! Then he rememberedthat to-night, he, the said Don Mike, was to have the proud privilegeof returning from Valhalla, of bringing the light of joy back to thefaded eyes of old Don Miguel, and in the swift contemplation of thedrama and the comedy impending, he stood staring at her ratherstupidly. Pablo would doubtless believe he was a ghost returned tohaunt old scenes; the majordomo would make the sign of the cross andstart running, never pausing till he would reach the Mission of theMother of Sorrows, there to pour forth his unbelievable tale to FatherDominic. Whereupon Father Dominic would spring into his prehistoricautomobile and come up to investigate. Great jumped-up Jehoshaphat!What a climax to two years of soldiering!

  "Wha--what--why--do you mean to tell me poor old Mike Farrel has lostthe number of his mess?" he blurted. "Great snakes! That news breaksme all up in business."

  "You knew him well, then?"

  "'Knew him?' Why, I ate with him, slept with turn, rode with him, wentto school with him. Know him? I should tell a man! We even soldieredtogether in Siberia; but, strange to say, I hadn't heard of his death."

  "Judging by all the nice things I heard about him in El Toro, his deathwas a genuine loss to his section of the country. Everybody appears tohave known him and loved him."

  "One has to die before his virtues are apparent to some people," Farrelmurmured philosophically. "And now that Don Mike Farrel is dead, youhope to acquire Panchito, eh?"

  "I'll be broken-hearted if I cannot."

  "He'll cost you a lot of money."

  "He's worth a lot of money."

  He gazed at her very solemnly.

  "I am aware that what I am about to say is but poor return for yoursweet courtesy, but I feel that you might as well begin now to abandonall hope of ever owning Panchito."

  "Why?"

  "I--I hate to tell you this, but the fact is--I'm going to acquire him."

  She shook, her head and smiled at him--the superior
smile of one quiteconscious of her strength.

  "He is to be sold at public auction," she informed him. "And the manwho outbids me for that horse will have to mortgage his ranch andborrow money on his Liberty Bonds."

  "We shall see that which we shall see," he returned, enigmatically."Waiter, bring me my check, please."

  While the waiter was counting out the change from a twenty-dollar bill,Farrel resumed his conversation with the girl.

  "Do you plan to remain in the San Gregorio very long?"

  "All summer, I think."

  He rose from his chair and bowed to her with an Old-World courtliness.

  "Once more I thank you for your kindness to me, _senorita_," he said."It is a debt that I shall always remember--and rejoice because I cannever repay it. I dare say we shall meet again in the very nearfuture, and when we do, I am going to arrange matters so that I mayhave the honor of being properly introduced." He pocketed his change."Until some day in the San Gregorio, then," he finished, "_adios_!"

  Despite his smile, her woman's intuition told her that something morepoignant than the threatened Japanese invasion of the San Gregoriovalley had cast a shadow over his sunny soul. She concluded it musthave been the news of the death of his childhood chum, the beloved DonMike.

  "What a wonderful fellow Don Mike must have been!" she mused. "Whitemen sing his praises, and Indians and mixed breeds cry them. No wonderthis ex-soldier plans to outbid me for Panchito. He attaches asentimental value to the horse because of his love for poor Don Mike.I wonder if I ought to bid against him under the circumstances. Poordear! He wants his buddy's horse so badly. He's really very nice--soold-fashioned and sincere. And he's dreadfully good-looking."

  "Nature was overgenerous with that young lady," Farrel decided, as hemade his way up to the smoking-car. "As a usual thing, she seldomdispenses brains with beauty--and this girl has both. I wonder who shecan be? Well, she's too late for Panchito. She may have any otherhorse on the ranch, but--"

  He glanced down at the angry red scar on the back of his right hand andremembered. What a charger was Panchito for a battery commander!