CHAPTER XIII
AMBUSHED
On her return from luncheon that same afternoon Miss Underwood broughtDick a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. She tossed them down uponthe desk in front of him.
"I haven't read them myself. Of course they're in Spanish. I did try toget through one of them, but it was too much like work and I gave it up.But since they're written by _her_ grandfather they'll interest you morethan they did me," Miss Kate told him, with the saucy tilt to her chinthat usually accompanied her impudence.
He had lived in Chihuahua three years as a mining engineer, so that hespoke and read Spanish readily. The old Don wrote a stiff angular hand,but as soon as he became accustomed to it Dick found little difficulty.Some of the letters were written from the ranch, but most of themcarried the Santa Fe date line at the time the old gentleman wasgovernor of the royal province. They were addressed to his son Alvaro,at that time a schoolboy in Mexico City. Clearly Don Bartolome intendedhis son to be informed as to the affairs of the province, for theletters were a mine of information in regard to political and socialconditions. They discussed at length, too, the business interests of thefamily and the welfare of the peons dependent upon it.
All afternoon Gordon pored over these fascinating pages torn from a deadand buried past. They were more interesting than any novel he had everread, for they gave him a photograph, as it were projected by hisimagination upon a moving picture canvas, of the old regime that hadbeen swept into the ash heap by modern civilization. The lettersrevealed the old Don frankly. He was proud, imperious, heady, andintrepid. To his inferiors he was curt but kind. They flocked to himwith their troubles and their quarrels. The judgment of their overlordwas final with his tenants. Clearly he had a strong sense of hisresponsibilities to them and to the state. A quaint flavor of old-worldcourtesy ran through the letters like a thread of gold.
It was a paragraph from one of the last letters that riveted Dick'sattention. Translated into English, it ran as follows:
"You ask, my dear son, whether I have relinquished the great grant made us by Facundo Megares. In effect I have. During the past two years I have twice, acting as governor, conveyed to settlers small tracts from this grant. The conditions under which such a grant must be held are too onerous. Moreover, neither I nor you, nor your son, nor his son will live to see the day when there is not range enough for all the cattle that can be brought into the province. Just now time presses, but in a later letter I shall set forth my reasons in detail."
A second and a third time Dick read the paragraph to make sure that hehad not misunderstood it. The meaning was plain. There could be no doubtabout it. In black and white he had a statement from old Don Bartolomehimself that he considered the grant no longer valid, that he had givenit up because he did not think it worth holding. He had but to prove thehandwriting in court--a thing easy enough to do, since the Don's bold,stiff writing could be found on a hundred documents--and the Valdesclaimants would be thrown out of possession.
Gordon looked in vain for the "later letter" to which Bartolomereferred. Either it had never been written or it had been destroyed. Butwithout it he had enough to go on.
Before he left the State House he made a proposal to Miss Underwood tobuy the letters from her.
"What do you want with a bunch of old letters?" she asked.
"One of them helps my case. The Don refers to the grant and says he hasrelinquished his claim."
She nodded at him with brisk approval. "It's fair of you to tell methat." The girl stood for a moment considering, a pencil pressed againsther lips. "I suppose the letters are not mine to give. They belong tofather. Better see him."
"Where?"
"At the office of the _New Mexican_. Or you can come to the houseto-night."
"Believe I'll see him right away."
Within half an hour Dick had bought the bundle of letters for fivehundred dollars. He returned to the State House with an order to KateUnderwood to deliver them to him upon demand.
"Dad make a good bargain?" asked Miss Underwood, with a laugh.
Gordon told her the price he had paid.
"If I had telephoned to him what you wanted them for they would havecost you three times as much," she told him, nodding sagely.
"Then I'm glad you didn't. Point of fact you haven't the slightest ideawhat I want with them."
"To help your suit. Isn't that what you're going to use them for?"
Mildly he answered "Yes," but he did not tell her which suit they wereto help.
As he was leaving she spoke to him without looking up from her writing."Mother and I will be at home this evening, if you'd like to look thehouse over."
"Thanks. I'd be delighted to come. I'm really awfully interested."
"I see you are," she answered dryly.
Followed by his brown shadows at a respectful distance, Dick walked backto the hotel whistling gaily.
"Some one die and leave you a million dollars, son?" inquired the oldminer, with amiable sarcasm.
"Me, I'm just happy because I'm not a Chink," explained his friend, andpassed to the hotel writing-room.
He sat down, equipped himself with stationery, and selected a new pointfor a pen. Half a dozen times he made a start and as often threw acrumpled sheet into the waste-paper basket. It took him nearly an hourto compose an epistle that suited him. What he had finally to contenthimself with was as follows:
"DEAR MADAM:--Please find inclosed a bundle of letters that apparently belong to you. They have just come into my possession. I therefore send them to you without delay. Your attention is particularly called to the one marked 'Exhibit A.'
"Very truly yours, RICHARD MUIR GORDON."
He wrapped up the letters, including his own, sealed the packagecarefully, and walked downtown to the post office. Here he wrote uponthe cover the name and address of Miss Valencia Valdes, then registeredthe little parcel with a request for a signed receipt after delivery atits destination.
Davis noticed that at dinner his friend was more gay than usual.
"You ce'tainly must have come into that million I mentioned, judging byyour actions," he insisted, with a smile.
"Wrong guess, Steve. I've just been giving away a million. That's whyI'm hilarious."
"You'll have to give me an easier one, son. Didn't know you had amillion."
"Oh, well! A million, or a half, or a quarter, whatever the Moreno claimis worth. I'm not counting nickels. An hour ago I had it in my fist.I've just mailed it, very respectfully yours, to my friend the enemy.""Suppose you talk simple American that your Uncle Steve can understand,boy. What have you been up to?"
Dick told him exultantly.
"But, good Lord, why for did you make such a play? You had 'em where thewool was short. Now you've let loose and you'll have to wait 'steenyears while the courts eat up all the profits. Of all the mule-headedchumps----"
"Hold your horses, Steve. I know what I'm doing. Said I was a spy and athief and a liar, didn't she? Threw the hot shot into me proper for acheap skate swindler, eh?" The young man laid down his knife, leanedacross the table, and wagged a forefinger at Davis. "What do you reckonthat young woman is going to think of herself when she opens thatregistered package and finds the letter that would have put the rollersunder her claim _muy pronto?_"
"Think! She'll think you the biggest burro that ever brayed on the SanJacinto range. She'll have a commission appointed to examine you forlunacy. What in Mexico is ailin' you, anyhow? You're sick. That's what'swrong. Love-sick, by Moses!" exploded his friend.
Dick smiled blandly. "You've got another guess coming, Steve. She'sgoing to eat dirt because she misjudged me so. She's going to lie awakenights and figure what play she can make to get even again. Getting holdof those blamed letters is the luckiest shot I've made yet. I was inbad--darned bad. Explanations didn't go. I was just a plain orneryskunk. Then I put over this grand-stand play and change the wholesituation. She's the one that's in bad now. Didn't she tell me right off
the bat what kind of a hairpin I was? Didn't she drive me off the ranchwith that game leg of mine all to the bad? Good enough. Now she findsout I'm a white man she's going to be plumb sore at herself."
"What good does that do you? You're making a fight for the Rio ChamaValley, ain't you? Or are you just having a kid quarrel with a girl?"
"I wouldn't take the Rio Chama Valley as a gift if I had to steal itfrom Miss Valdes and her people. Ain't I making enough money up atCripple Creek for my needs? No, Steve! I'm playing for bigger game thanthat. Size up my hand beside Don Manuel's, and it looks pretty bum. ButI'm going to play it strong. Maybe at the draw I'll fill."
"Mebbe you won't."
"I can bet it like I had an ace full, can't I? Anybody can play pokerwhen he's got a mitt full of big ones. Show me the man that can make twopair back an all-blue hand off the map."
"Go to it, you old sport. My money's on you," grinned the mineradmiringly. "I'll go order a wedding present."
Through the pleasant coolness of the evening Dick sauntered along thestreets to the Underwood home, nor was his contentment lessened becausehe knew that at a safe distance the brown shadows still dogged hissteps. In a scabbard fitted neatly beneath his left arm rested a goodfriend that more than once had saved its owner's life. To the fractionof a second Gordon knew just how long it would take him to get this intoaction in case of need.
Kate Underwood met him at the door and took her guest into theliving-room. Beside a student lamp a plump little old lady sat knitting.Somehow even before her soft voice welcomed him the visitor knew thather gentle presence diffused an atmosphere of home.
"Thee is welcome, Mr. Gordon. Kate has been telling us of thee."
The young man gave no evidence of surprise, but Kate explained as amatter of course.
"We are Friends, and at home we still use the old way of address."
"I have very pleasant memories of the Friends. A good old lady who tookthe place of my own mother was one. It is nice to hear the speechagain," answered Gordon.
Presently the conversation drifted to the Valdes family. It appearedthat as children Kate and Valencia had known each other. The heiress ofthe Valdes estates had been sent to Washington to school, and later hadattended college in the East. Since her return she had spent most of hertime in the valley. So that it happened the two young women had not metfor a good many years.
It occurred to Dick that there was a certain aloofness in MissUnderwood's attitude toward Valencia, a reticence that was not quiteunfriendliness but retained the right of criticism. She held herjudgment as it were in abeyance.
While Miss Underwood was preparing some simple refreshments Gordonlearned from her mother that Manuel Pesquiera had been formerly afrequent caller.
"He has been so busy since he moved down to his place on the Rio Chamathat we see nothing of him," she explained placidly. "He is a fine typeof the best of the old Spanish families. Thee would find him a goodfriend."
"Or a good foe," the young man added.
She conceded the point with a sigh. "Yes. He is testy. He has the oldpatrician pride."
After they had eaten cake and ice cream, Kate showed Gordon over thehouse. It was built of adobe, and the window seats in the thick wallswere made comfortable with cushions or filled with potted plants. Navajorugs and Indian baskets lent the rooms the homey appearance suchfurnishings always give in the old Southwest. The house was built arounda court in the center, fronting on which were long, shaded balconiesboth on the first and second floor. A profusion of flowering trailersrioted up the pillars and along the upper railing.
"The old families knew how to make themselves comfortable, anyhow,"commented the guest.
"Yes, that's the word--comfort. It's not modern or stylish or up todate, but I never saw a house really more comfortable to live in thanthis," Miss Underwood agreed. She led the way through a French windowfrom the veranda to a large room with a southern exposure. "How do youlike this room?"
"Must catch the morning sunshine fine. I like even the old stonefireplace in the corner. Why don't builders nowadays make such rooms?"
"You've saved yourself, Mr. Gordon. This is _the sacred room_. Here thePrincess of the Rio Chama was born. This was her room when she was agirl until she went away to school. She slept in that very bed. Down onyour knees, sir, and worship at the shrine."
He met with a laugh the cool, light scorn of her banter. Yet somethingin him warmed to his environment. He had the feeling of having come intomore intimate touch with her past than he had yet done. The sight ofthat plain little bed went to the source of his emotions. How many timeshad his love knelt beside it in her night-gown and offered up her pureprayers to the God she worshiped!
He made his good-byes soon after their return to Mrs. Underwood. Dickwas a long way from a sentimentalist, but he wanted to be alone andadjust his mind to the new conception of his sweetheart brought by herchildhood home. It was a night of little moonlight. As he walked towardthe hotel he could see nothing of the escort that had been his duringthe past few days. He wondered if perhaps they had got tired ofshadowing his movements.
The road along which he was passing had on both sides of it a row of bigcottonwoods, whose branches met in an arch above. Dick, with thatinstinct for safety which every man-hunter has learned, walked down themiddle of the street, eyes and ears alert for the least sign of anambush.
Two men approached on the plank sidewalk. They were quarreling. Suddenlya knife flashed, and one of the men went with an oath to the ground.Dick reached for his gun and plunged straight for the assailant, who hadstooped as if to strike again the prostrate man. The rescuer stumbledover a taut rope and at the same moment a swarm of men fell upon him.Even as he rose and shook off the clutching hands Gordon knew that hewas the victim of a ruse.
He had lost his revolver in the fall. With clenched fists he struck hardand sure. They swarmed upon him, so many that they got in each other'sway. Now he was down, now up again. They swayed to and fro in a huddle,as does a black bear surrounded by a pack of dogs. Still the man at theheart of the melee struck--and struck--and struck again. Men went downand were trodden under foot, but he reeled on, stumbling as he went,turning, twisting, hitting hard and sure with all the strength that manygood clean years in the open had stored within him. Blows fell upon hiscurly head as it rose now and again out of the storm--blows of guns, ofknives, of bony knuckles. Yet he staggered forward, bleeding, exhausted,feeling nothing of the blows, seeing only the distorted faces thatsnarled on every side of him.
He knew that when he went down it would be to stay. Even as he flungthem aside and hammered at the brown faces he felt sure he was lost. Thecoat was torn from his back. The blood from his bruised and cut face andscalp blinded him. Heavy weights dragged at his arms as they struckwildly and feebly. Iron balls seemed to chain his feet. He ploweddoggedly forward, dragging the pack with him. Furiously they beat him,striking themselves as often as they did him. His shoulders began tosway forward. Men leaped upon him from behind. Two he dragged down withhim as he went. The sky was blotted out. He was tired--deadly tired. Ina great weariness he felt himself sinking together.
The consciousness drained out of him as an ebbing wave does from thesands of the shore.