by Zane Grey
The young Mexican, light and graceful, settled to the saddle with a delighted laugh, and drove the spurs home. The animal humped like a camel, head and tail down, went into the air and back to earth, with four feet set like pile-drivers. It was a shock to drive a man’s spine together like a concertina; but Pedro took it limply, giving to the jar of the impact as the pony came down again and again.
Teddy tasted the quirt along his quarters, and the pain made him frantic. He went screaming straight into the air, hung there a long instant, and fell over backward. The lad was out of the saddle in time and no more, and back in his seat before the outlaw had scrambled to his feet.
The spur starred him to renewed life. Like a flash of lightning, the brute’s head swung round and snapped at the boy’s leg. Pedro wrenched the head back in time to save himself; and Teddy went to sun-fishing, and presently to fence-rowing.
The dust flew in clouds. It wrapped them in so that the boy saw nothing but the wicked ears in front of him. His throat became a lime-kiln, his eyes stared like those of a man weary from long wakefulness. The hot sun baked his bare neck and head, the while Teddy rocketed into the sky and pounded into the earth.
Neither rider nor mount had mercy. The quirt went back and forth like a piston-rod, and the outlaw, in screaming fury, leaped and tossed like a small boat in a tremendous sea of cross-currents.
“It’s sure hell-for-leather. That hawss can tie himself in more knots than any that was ever foaled,” commented a tobacco-chewing puncher in a scarlet kerchief.
“Pedro is a straight-up rider, but he ain’t got it in him to master Teddy—no; nor no man ain’t,” contributed Yeager again proudly. “Hawsses is like men. Some of ’em can’t be broke; you can only kill them. Teddy’s one of them kind.”
Dick differed, but did not say so.
“Look at him now. There he goes weaving. That hawss is a devil, I tell you. He’s got every hawss-trick there is, and all of ’em worked up to a combination of his own. Look out there, Ped.”
The warning came too late. Teddy had jammed into the corral fence, and ground his rider’s knee till the torture of the pain had distracted his attention. Once more then swept round the ugly stub nose, and the yellow teeth fastened in the leather chaps with a vicious snap that did not entirely miss the flesh of the leg.
The boy, with a cry of pain and terror, slipped to the ground, his nerve completely shaken. The sorrel lashed out with his hind feet, and missed his head by a hairbreadth. Pedro turned to run, stumbled, and went down.
The outlaw was upon him like a streak, striking with sharp chiseled forefeet at the prostrate man. Along the line of spectators ran a groan, a kind of sobbing murmur of despair. A young Mexican who had just ridden up flung himself from his horse and ran forward, though he knew he was too late.
“Pedro’s done for,” cried one.
And so he would have been but for the watchfulness and alertness of one man.
Dick had been ready the instant the outlaw had flung against the fence. He had been prepared to see the boy weaken, and had anticipated it in his forward leap. The furious animal had risen to drive home his hoofs, when an arm shot out, caught the bridle, and dragged him sideways. This unexpected intervention dazed the animal; and while he still stood uncertain, Gordon swung to the saddle and dug his heels into the bleeding sides.
As to a signal the bronco rose, and the battle was on again.
But this time the victory was not in doubt to the onlookers after the first half-dozen jumps. For this man rode like a master. He held a close but easy seat, and a firm rein, along which ran the message of an iron will to the sensitive foaming mouth which held the bit tight-clamped.
This brown, lithe man was all bone and sinew and muscle. He rode like a Centaur, as if he were a part of the horse, as easily and gracefully as a chip does the waves. The outlaw was furious with hate, blind with a madness that surged through it; but all its weaving and fence-rowing could not shake the perfect poise of the rider, nor tinge with fear the glad fighting edge that throbbed like a trumpet-call in the blood.
Slowly the certainty of this sifted to the animal. The pitches grew less volcanic, died presently into fitful mechanical rises and falls that foretold the finish. Its spirit broken, with that terrible incubus of a human clothes-pin still clamped to the saddle, Teddy gave up, and for the first time hung his head in token of defeat.
Dick tossed the bridle to Yeager and swung off.
“There aren’t any of them so bad, if a fellow will stay with them,” he said.
“Where did you learn your riding, partner?” asked the puncher with the scarlet kerchief knotted around his neck.
“I used to ride for an outfit up in Wyoming,” returned Dick.
“Well, I’d like to ride for that outfit, if all the boys stick to the saddle like you,” returned the kerchiefed one.
Gordon did not explain that he had been returned winner in more than one bucking-bronco contest in the days when he rode the range.
He was already sauntering toward the house.
From a side porch Pedro, awaiting the arrival of a rig to take him back to the ranch, sat with his bruised leg on a chair and watched the approach of the stalwart figure that came as lightly as though it trod on eggs. He had hobbled here and watched the other do easily what had been beyond him.
His heart was bitter with the sense of defeat, none the less because this man whom he had lately tried to kill had just saved his life.
“Como?” asked Dick, stopping in front of him to brush dust from his trousers with a pocket-handkerchief.
Pedro mumbled something. Under his olive skin the color burned. Tears of mortification were in his eyes.
“You saved my life, señor. Take it. It is yours,” the boy cried.
“What shall I do with it?”
“I care not. Make an end of it, as on Tuesday I tried to make an end of yours,” cried the lad wildly.
Gordon took off his hat and looked at the bullet holes casually.
“You did not miss it very far, Pedro.”
“You knew then, señor, that I was the man?” the Mexican asked in surprise.
“Oh, yes; I knew that.”
“And you did nothing?”
“Yes; I ducked behind a rock,” laughed Gordon.
“But you make no move to arrest me?”
“No.”
“But, if I should shoot again?”
“I expect to carry a rifle next time I go riding, Pedro.”
The Mexican considered this.
“You are a brave man, señor.”
The Anglo-Saxon snorted scornfully.
“Because I ain’t bluffed out by a kid that needs a horse-whip laid on good and hard? Don’t you make any mistake, boy. I’m going to give you the licking of your young life. You were due for it to-day, but it will have to be postponed, I reckon, till you’re on your feet again.”
Pedro’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“Señor Gordon has saved my life. It is his. But no living man lays hands on Pedro Menendez,” the boy said, drawing himself haughtily to his full slender height.
“You’ll learn better, Pedro, before the week’s out. You’ve got to stand the gaff, just the same as a white boy would. You’re in for a good whaling, and there ain’t any use getting heroic about it.”
“I think not, Señor Gordon.” There was a suggestion of repressed emotion in the voice.
Dick turned sharply at the words. A lean, clean-built young fellow stood beside the porch. He stepped up lightly, so that he was behind the chair in which Pedro had been sitting. Seen side by side thus, there could be no mistaking the kinship between the two Mexicans. Both were good looking, both lean and muscular, both had a sort of banked volcanic passion in their black eyes. Dangerous men, these slim swa
rthy youths, judged Gordon with a sure instinct.
“You think not, Pedro Number 2,” retorted the American lightly.
“My name is Pablo, Señor—Pablo Menendez,” corrected the young man with dignity.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Menendez. I was just telling your brother—if Pedro is your brother—that I intend to wear out a buggy whip on him as soon as his leg is well,” explained Dick pleasantly.
“No. You have saved his life. It is yours. Take it.” The black eyes of the Mexican met steadily the blue-gray ones of the American.
“Much obliged, but I can’t use it. As soon as I’ve tanned his hide I’m through with Master Pedro,” returned the miner carelessly.
He was turning away when Pablo stopped him. The musical voice was low and clear. “Señor Gordon understands then. Pedro will pay. He will endure shot for shot if the Señor wishes it. But no man living shall lay a whip upon him.”
Gordon shrugged his shoulders. “We shall see, my friend. The first time I meet him after his leg is all right Master Pedro gets the licking he needs.”
“You are warned, señor.”
Dick nodded and walked away, humming a song lightly.
The black eyes of the Mexicans followed him as long as he was in sight. A passionate hatred burned in those of the elder brother. Those of Pedro were full of a wistful misery. With all his heart he admired this man whom he had yesterday tried to kill, who had to-day saved his life, and in the next breath promised him a thrashing.
He gave him a grudging hero-worship, even while he hated him; for the man trod the world with the splendor of a young god, and yet was an enemy of the young mistress to whom he owed his full devotion. Pedro’s mind was made up.
If this Gordon laid a whip on him, he would drive a knife into his heart.
CHAPTER IX
OF DON MANUEL AND MOONLIGHT
Don Manuel sat curled up in one of the deep window-seats of the living room at the Valdés home, and lifted his clear tenor softly in an old Spanish love-song to the accompaniment of the strumming of a guitar.
It is possible that the young Spaniard sang the serenade impersonally, as much to the elderly duenna who slumbered placidly on the other side of the fireplace as to his lovely young hostess. But his eyes told another story. They strayed continuously toward that slim, gracious figure sitting in the fireglow with a piece of embroidery in the long fingers.
He could look at her the more ardently because she was not looking at him. The fringes of her lids were downcast to the dusky cheeks, the better to examine the work upon which she was engaged.
Don Manuel felt the hour propitious. It was impossible for him not to feel that in the past weeks somehow he had lost touch with her. Something had come between them; some new interest that threatened his influence.
But to-night he had again woven the spell of romance around her. As she sat there, a sweet shadowy form touched to indistinctness by the soft dusk, he knew her gallant heart had gone with him in the Castilian battle song he had sung, had remained with him in the transition to the more tender note of love.
He rose, thumbed a chord or two, then set his guitar down softly. For a time he looked out into the valley swimming in a silvery light, and under its spell the longing in him came to words.
“It is a night of nights, my cousin. Is it not that a house is a prison in such an hour? Let us forth.”
So forth they fared to the porch, and from the porch to the sentinel rock which rose like a needle from the summit of a neighboring hill. Across the sea of silver they looked to the violet mountains, soft and featureless in the lowered lights of evening, and both of them felt it earth’s hour of supreme beauty.
“It is good to live—and to know this,” she said at last softly.
“It is good to live and, best of all, to know you,” he made answer slowly.
She did not turn from the hills, made no slightest sign that she had heard; but to herself she was saving: “It has come.”
While he pleaded his cause passionately, with all the ardor of hot-blooded Spain, the girl heard only with her ears. She was searching her heart for the answer to the question she asked of it:
“Is this the man?”
A month ago she might have found her answer easier; but she felt that in some subtle, intangible way she was not the same girl as the Valencia Valdés she had known then. Something new had come into her life; something that at times exalted her and seemed to make life’s currents sweep with more abandon.
She was at a loss to know what it meant; but, though she would not confess it even to herself, she was aware that the American was the stimulating cause. He was her enemy, and she detested him; and, in the same breath with which she would tell herself this, would come that warm beat of exultant blood she had never known till lately.
With all his ardor, Don Manuel never quickened her pulses. She liked him, understood him, appreciated his value. He was certainly very handsome, and, without doubt, a brave, courteous gentleman of her own set with whom she ought to be happy if she loved him. Ah! If she knew what love were.
So, when the torrent of Pesquiera’s speech was for the moment dammed, she could only say:
“I don’t know, Manuel.”
Confidently he explained away her uncertainty:
“A maiden’s love is retiring, shy, like the first flowers of the spring. She doubts it, fears it, hides it, my beloved, like—”
He was just swimming into his vocal stride when she cut him short decisively:
“It isn’t that way with me, Manuel. I should tell you if I knew. Tell me what love is, my cousin, and I may find an answer.”
He was off again in another lover’s rhapsody. This time there was a smile almost of amusement in her eyes as she listened.
“If it is like that, I don’t think I love you, Manuel. I don’t think poetry about you, and I don’t dream about you. Life isn’t a desert when you are away, though I like having you here. I don’t believe I care for you that way, not if love is what the poets and my cousin Manuel say it is.”
Her eyes had been fixed absently now and again on an approaching wagon. It passed on the road below them, and she saw, as she looked down, that her vaquero Pedro lay in the bottom of it upon some hay.
“What is the matter? Are you hurt?” she called down.
The lad who was driving looked up, and flashed a row of white teeth in a smile of reassurance to his mistress.
“It is Pedro, doña. He tried to ride that horse Teddy, and it threw him. Before it could kill him, the Americano jumped in and saved his life.”
“What American?” she asked quickly: but already she knew by the swift beating of her heart.
“Señor Muir; the devil fly away with him,” replied the boy loyally.
Already his mistress was descending toward him with her sure stride, Don Manuel and his suit forgotten in the interest of this new development of the feud. She made the boy go over the tale minutely, asking questions sometimes when she wanted fuller details.
Meanwhile, Manuel Pesquiera waited, fuming. Most certainly this fellow Gordon was very much in the way. Jealousy began to add its sting to the other reasons good for hastening his revenge.
When Valencia turned again to her cousin her eyes were starry.
“He is brave—this man. Is he not?” she cried.
It happened that Don Manuel, too, was a rider in a thousand. He thought that Fate had been unkind to refuse him this chance his enemy had found. But Pesquiera was a gentleman, and his answer came ungrudgingly:
“My cousin, he is a hero—as I told you before.”
“But you think him base,” she cried quickly.
“I let the facts speak for me,” he shrugged.
“Do they condemn him—absolutely? I think not.”
&nb
sp; She was a creature of impulse, too fine of spirit to be controlled by the caution of speech that convention demands. She would do justice to her foe, no matter how Manuel interpreted it.
What the young man did think was that she was the most adorable and desirable of earth’s dwellers, the woman he must win at all hazards.
“He came here a spy, under a false name. Surely you do not forget that, Valencia,” he said.
“I do not forget, either, that we flung his explanations in his face; refused him the common justice of a hearing. Had we given him a chance, all might have been well.”
“My cousin is generous,” Manuel smiled bitterly.
“I would be just.”
“Be both, my beloved, to poor Manuel Pesquiera, an unhappy wreck on the ocean of love, seeking in vain for the harbor.”
“There are many harbors, Manuel, for the brave sailor. If one is closed, another is open. He hoists sail, and beats across the main to another port.”
“For some. But there are others who will to one port or none. I am of those.”
When she left him it was with the feeling that Don Manuel would be hard hit, if she found herself unable to respond to his love.
He was not like this American, competent, energetic, full of the turbulent life of a new nation which turns easily from defeat to fresh victory.
Her heart was full of sympathy, and even pity, for him. But these are only akin to love.
It was not long before Valencia began to suspect that she had not been told the whole truth about the affair of the outlaw horse. There was some air of mystery, of expectation, among her vaqueros.
At her approach, conversation became suspended, and perceptibly shifted to other topics. Moreover, Pedro was troubled in his mind, out of all proportion to the extent of his wound.
She knew it would be no use to question him; but she made occasion soon to send for Juan Gardiez, the lad who had driven him home.
From the doorway of the living-room, Juan presently ducked a bow at her.
