by Zane Grey
“You were to mention that to Manuel, I suppose?” the girl said thoughtfully.
“So I understood. He was giving fair warning.”
“But Manuel won’t be warned.”
“When he hears of it he’ll be more anxious than ever to fight.”
Valencia nodded. “A spur to a willing horse.”
“If he knew he would be killed it would make no difference to him. He is quite fearless.”
“Quite.”
“But he is a very good shot, too. You do not need to be alarmed for him.”
“Oh, no! Not at all,” the girl answered scornfully. “He is only my distant cousin, anyhow—and my lover.”
“It is hard, Val. Perhaps I might pick a quarrel with this American and—”
She caught him up sharply, but he forgave it when he saw her white misery.
“Don’t you dare think of it, Ramon Ainsa. One would think nobody in the valley had any business except fighting with this man. What has he done to you? Or to these others? You are very brave, all of you, when you know you are a hundred to one. I suppose you, too, will want to shoot him from ambush?”
This bit of feminine injustice hurt the young man, but he only said quietly:
“No; I don’t think I would do that.”
Impulsively she put out her hand.
“Forgive me, Ramon. I don’t mean that, of course, but I’m nearly beside myself. Why must all this bad will and bloodshed come into our happy little valley? If we must have trouble why can’t we let the law settle it? I thought you were my friends—you and Manuel and my people—but between you I am going to be made unhappy for life.”
She broke down suddenly and began to sob. The lad slipped to the ground and went quickly to her, putting an arm around her waist across the saddle.
“Don’t cry, Val. We all love you—of course we do. How can we help it? It will all come right yet. Don’t cry, niña”
“How can it come right, with all of you working to make things wrong?” she sobbed.
“Perhaps the stranger will go away.”
“He won’t. He is a man, and he won’t let you drive him out.”
“We’ll find some way, Val, to save Manuel for you.”
“But it isn’t only Manuel. I don’t want any of you hurt—you or anybody—not even this Mr. Gordon. Oh, Ramon, help me to stop this wicked business.”
“If you can tell me how.”
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, as a sign that her weakness was past.
“We must find a way. Do you know, my own people are in a dangerous mood? They think this man’s some kind of a demon. I shall talk to them to-night. And you must send Manuel to me. Perhaps he may listen to me.”
Ainsa agreed, though he felt sure that even she could not induce his friend to withdraw from a position which he felt his honor called him to take.
Nor did the mistress of the valley find it easy to lead her tenants to her way of thinking. They were respectful, outwardly acquiescent, but the girl saw, with a sinking heart, that they remained of their own opinion. Whether he were man or devil, they were determined to make an end of Gordon’s intrusion.
CHAPTER XI
THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY AND THE TWENTIETH
It was the second day after Pesquiera’s challenge that his rival was called to Santa Fé, the capital of the State, to hold a conference with his lawyers about the progress of the suit of ouster against those living on the Moreño grant. Gordon knew how acute was the feeling of the residents of the valley against him. The Corbetts, whose homestead was not included in either the original Valdés or Moreño grant, reported daily to him whatever came to their ears. He could see that the impression was strong among the Mexicans that their champion, Doña Maria as they called her, would be worsted in the courts if the issue ever came to final trial.
To live under the constant menace of an attack from ambush is a strain upon the best of nerves. Dick and his friend Davis rode out of the valley to meet the Santa Fé stage with a very sensible relief. For a few days, anyhow, they would be back where they could see the old Stars and Stripes flutter, where feudal retainers and sprouts of Spanish aristocracy were not lying in wait with fiery zeal to destroy the American interloper.
They reached the little city late, but soon after sunup Gordon rose, took a bath, dressed, and strolled out into the quaint old town which lays claim to being the earliest permanent European settlement in the country. It was his first visit to the place, and as he poked his nose into out of the way corners Dick found every step of his walk interesting.
Through narrow, twisted streets he sauntered, along unpaved roads bounded by century-old adobe houses. His walk took him past the San Miguel Church, said to be the oldest in America. A chubby-faced little priest was watering some geraniums outside, and he showed Dick through the mission, opening the door of the church with one of a bunch of large keys which hung suspended from his girdle. The little man went through the usual patter of the guide with the facility of long practice.
The church was built, he said, in 1540, though Bandelier inaccurately sets the date much later. The roof was destroyed by the Pueblo Indians in 1680 during an attack upon the settlement, at which time the inhabitants took refuge within the mission walls. These are from three to five feet thick. The arrows of the natives poured through the windows. The señor could still see the holes in the pictures, could he not? Penuelo restored the church in 1710, as could be read by the inscription carved upon the gallery beam. It would no doubt interest the señor to know that one of the paintings was by Cimabue, done in 1287, and that the seven hundred pound bell was cast in Spain during the year 1356 and had been dragged a thousand miles across the deserts of the new world by the devoted pioneer priests who carried the Cross to the simple natives of that region.
Gordon went blinking out of the San Miguel mission into a world that basked indolently in a pleasant glow of sunshine. It seemed to him that here time had stood still. This impression remained with him during his tramp back to the hotel. He passed trains of faggot-laden burros, driven by Mexicans from Tesuque and by Indians from adjoining villages, the little animals so packed around their bellies with firewood that they reminded him of caricatures of beruffed Elizabethan dames of the olden days.
Surely this old town, which seemed to be lying in a peaceful siesta for centuries unbroken, was an unusual survival from the buried yesterdays of history. It was hard to believe, for instance, that the Governor’s Palace, a long one-story adobe structure stretching across one entire side of the plaza, had been the active seat of so much turbulent and tragic history, that for more than three hundred years it had been occupied continuously by Spanish, Mexican, Indian, and American governors. Its walls had echoed the noise of many a bloody siege and hidden many an execution and assassination. From this building the old Spanish cavaliers Onate and Vicente de Salivar and Penalosa set out on their explorations. From it issued the order to execute forty-eight Pueblo prisoners upon the plaza in front. Governor Armijo had here penned his defiance to General Kearney, who shortly afterward nailed upon the flagpole the Stars and Stripes. The famous novel “Ben Hur” was written in one of these historic rooms.
But the twentieth century had leaned across the bridge of time to shake hands with the sixteenth. A new statehouse had been built after the fashion of new Western commonwealths, and the old Palace was now given over to curio stores and offices. Everywhere the new era compromised with the old. He passed the office of the lawyer he had come to consult, and upon one side of the sign ran the legend:
Despacho de Thomas M. Fitt, Licendiado.
Upon the other he read an English translation:
Law Office of Thomas M. Fitt, Attorney.
Plainly the old civilization was beginning to disappear before an alert, aggressive Americanism.
&n
bsp; At the hotel the modern spirit became so pronounced during breakfast, owing to the conversation of a shoe and a dress-goods drummer at an adjoining table, that Gordon’s imagination escaped from the tramp of Spanish mailclad cavalry and from thoughts of the plots and counterplots that had been devised in the days before American occupancy.
In the course of the morning Dick, together with Davis, called at the office of his attorney. Thomas M. Fitt, a bustling little man with a rather pompous manner, welcomed his client effusively. He had been appointed local attorney in charge by Gordon’s Denver lawyers, and he was very eager to make the most of such advertising as his connection with so prominent a case would bring.
He washed the backs of his hands with the palms as he bowed his visitors to chairs.
“I may say that the case is progressing favorably—very favorably indeed, Mr. Gordon. The papers have been drawn and filed. We await an answer from the defendants. I anticipate that there will be only the usual court delays in pressing the action.”
“We’ll beat them, I suppose,” Dick replied, with a manner almost of indifference.
“One can never be positive in advance, but I’d like to own your claim to the estate, Mr. Gordon,” laughed the lawyer wheezily.
“Think we’ll be able to wolf the real owners out of their property all right, do you?”
Fitt’s smile went out like the flame of a burnt match. The wrinkles of laughter were ironed out of his fat cheeks. He stared at his client in surprise. It took him a moment to voice the dignified protest he felt necessary.
“Our title is good in law, Mr. Gordon. I have been over the evidence very carefully. The court decisions all lean our way. Don Bartolomé Valdés, the original grantee, failed to perfect his right of ownership in many ways. It is very doubtful whether he himself had not before his death abandoned his claim. His official acts appear to point to that conclusion. Our case is a very substantial one—very substantial, indeed.”
“The Valdés’ tenants have settled on the land, grazed their flocks over it, bought farms here and there from the heirs, haven’t they?”
“Exactly. But if the sellers cannot show a good title—and my word as a lawyer for it they can’t. Prove that in court and all we’ll need is a writ of ejectment against the present holders as squatters. Then—” Fitt snapped his finger and thumb in an airy gesture that swept the Valdés’ faction into the middle of the Pacific.
“It’ll be the story of Evangeline all over again, won’t it?” asked Gordon satirically.
“Ah! You have a kind heart, Mr. Gordon. Your sympathy does you credit. Still—business is business, of course.”
“Of course,” Dick picked up a pen and began to jab holes aimlessly into a perfectly good blotter tacked to the table. “Well, let’s hear the story—just a sketch of it. Why do the rightful heirs lose out and the villain gain possession?”
Mr. Fitt smiled blandly. He had satisfied himself that his client was good pay and he did not intend to take offense. “It pleases you to be facetious, Mr. Gordon. But we all know that what this country needs—what such a valley as the Rio Chama ought to have—is up to date American development. People and conditions are in a primitive state. When men like you get possession of the Moreño and similar tracts New Mexico will move forward with giant strides to its great destiny. Time does not stand still. The day of the indolent semi-feudal Spanish system of occupancy has passed away. New Mexico will no longer remain mañana land. You—and men like you—of broad ideas, progressive, energetic—”
“Quite a philanthropist, ain’t I?” interrupted Gordon, smiling lazily. “Well, let’s hear the yarn, Mr. Fitt.”
The attorney gave up his oration regretfully. He subsided into a chair and resumed the conversational tone.
“You’ve got to understand how things were here in the old Spanish days, gentlemen. Don Bartolomé for instance was not merely a cattleman. He was a grandee, a feudal lord, a military chief to all his tenants and employees. His word was law. The power of life and death lay in him.”
Dick nodded. “Get you.”
“The old Don was pasturing his sheep in the Rio Chama valley and he had started a little village there—called the place Torreon, I think, from a high tower house he had built to overlook the valley so that Indians could be seen if they attempted an attack. Well, he takes a notion that he’d better get legal title to the land he was using, though in those days he might have had half of New Mexico for his cattle and sheep as a range. So he asks Facundo Megares, governor of the royal province, for a grant of land. The governor, anxious to please him, orders the constitutional alcalde, a person named José Garcia de la Mora, to execute the act of possession to Valdés of a tract described as follows, to wit—”
“I’ve heard the description,” cut in the young man. “Well, did the Don take possession?”
“We claim that he never did. He visited there, and his shepherds undoubtedly ran sheep on the range covered by the grant. But Valdés and his family never actually resided on the estate. Other points that militate against the claim of his descendants may be noted. First, that minor grants of land, taken from within the original Valdés grant, were made by the governor without any protest on the part of the Don. Second, that Don Bartolomé himself, subsequently Governor and Captain-General of the province of New Mexico, did, in his official capacity as President of the Council, endorse at least two other small grants of land cut out from the heart of the Valdés estate. This goes to show that he did not himself consider that he owned the land, or perhaps he felt that he had forfeited his claim.”
“Or maybe it just showed that the old gentleman was no hog,” suggested Gordon.
“I guess the law will construe it as a waiver of his claim. It doesn’t make any allowances for altruism.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Gordon admitted dryly.
“A new crowd of politicians got in after Mexico became independent of Spain. The plums had to be handed out to the friends of the party in power. So Manuel Armijo, the last Mexican Governor of the province, being a favorite of the President of that country because he had defeated some Texas Rangers in a battle, and on that account endowed with extraordinary powers, carved a fat half million acres out of the Valdés grant and made a present of it to José Moreño for ‘services to the government of Mexico.’ That’s where you come in as heir to your grandfather, who purchased for a song the claim of Moreño’s son.”
“My right has been lying dormant twenty-five years. Won’t that affect its legality?”
“No. If we knock out the Valdés’ grant, all we have to do is to prove the legality of the Moreño one. It happens we have evidence to show that he satisfied all legal requirements by living on the land more than four years. This gave him patent in perpetuity subject to taxes. By the payment of these we can claim title.” Fitt rubbed his hands and walked backward and forward briskly. “We’ve got them sewed up tight, Mr. Gordon. The Supreme Court has sustained our contention in the almost parallel Baca case.”
“Fine,” said Dick moodily. He knew it was unreasonable for him to be annoyed at his counsel because the latter happened to be an alert and competent lawyer. But somehow all his sympathies were with Valencia Valdés and her dependents.
“If you’d like to look at the original documents in the case, Mr. Gordon—”
“I would.”
“I’ll take you up to the State House this afternoon. You can look over them at your leisure.”
Davis laughed at his friend as they walked back to the hotel.
“I don’t believe you know yourself what you want. You act as if you’d rather lose than win the suit.”
“Sometimes I’m a white man, Steve. I don’t want to grab other people’s property just because some one can dig up a piece of paper that says it’s mine. We sit back and roast the trusts to a fare-you-well for hogging
all there is in sight. That’s what Fitt and his tribe expect me to do. I’m damned if I will.”
CHAPTER XII
“I BELIEVE YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HER, TOO”
It was characteristic of Dick Gordon that he established at once a little relation of friendliness between him and the young woman at the State House who waited upon him with the documents in the Valdés grant case. She was a tall, slight girl with amazingly vivid eyes set in a face scarcely pretty. In her manner to the world at large there was an indifference amounting almost to insolence. She had a way of looking at people as if they were bits of the stage setting instead of individuals.
A flare of interest had sparkled in her eyes when Gordon’s fussy little attorney had mentioned the name of his client, but it had been Dick’s genial manner of boyish comradeship that had really warmed Miss Underwood to him. She did not like many people, but when she gave her heart to a friend it was without stipulations. Dick was a man’s man. Essentially he was masculine, virile, dominant. But the force of him was usually masked either by his gay impudence or his sunny friendliness. Women were drawn to his flashing smile because they sensed the strength behind it.
Kate Underwood could have given a dozen reasons why she liked him. There were for instance the superficial ones. She liked the way he tossed back the tawny sun-kissed hair from his eyes, the easy pantherish stride with which he covered ground so lightly, the set of his fine shoulders, the peculiar tint of his lean, bronzed cheeks. His laugh was joyous as the song of a bird in early spring. It made one want to shout with him. Then, too, she tremendously admired his efficiency. To look at the hard, clear eye, at the clean, well-packed build of the man, told the story. The movements of his strong, brown hands were sure and economical. They dissipated no energy. Every detail of his personality expressed a mind that did its own thinking swiftly and incisively.
“It’s curious about these documents of the old Valdés and Moreño claims. They have lain here in the vaults—that is, here and at the old Governor’s Palace—for twenty years and more untouched. Then all at once twenty people get interested in them. Scarce a day passes that lawyers are not up to look over some of the copies. You have certainly stirred things up with your suit, Mr. Gordon.”
