by Zane Grey
Menendez made another trip after supplies next day, but he came back hurriedly without them. Pesquiera’s poster offering a reward of one hundred dollars for the capture of him or Sebastian had brought him up short and sent him scurrying back to his hole.
Gordon used the poster for a text. His heart was jubilant within him, for he knew now that Valencia was not back of this attack upon him.
“All up with you now,” he assured them in a genial, offhand fashion. “Miss Valdés must be backing Pesquiera. They know you two are the guilty villains. Inside of twelve hours they’ll have you both hogtied.”
Clearly the conspirators were of that opinion themselves. They talked together a good deal in whispers. Dick was of the opinion that a proposition would be made him before morning, though it was just possible that the scale might tip the other way and his death be voted. He spent a very anxious hour.
After dark Sebastian, who was less well known in the town than Pablo, departed on an errand unknown to Gordon. The miner guessed that he was going to make arrangements for horses upon which to escape. Dick was not told their decision. Menendez had fallen sulky again and refused to talk.
CHAPTER XVIII
MANUEL INTERFERES
Valencia had scarcely left the parlor to telephone for the sheriff before Manuel flashed a knife and cut the rope that tied his prisoner’s hands.
Sebastian had shrunk back at sight of the knife, but when he found that he was free he stared at Pesquiera in startled amazement.
“Come! Let’s get out of here. We can talk when you are free of danger,” said Manuel with sharp authority in his voice.
He led the way into the corridor, walked quickly down one passage and along another, and so by a back stairway into the alley in the rear. Within a few minutes they were a quarter of a mile from the El Tovar.
Sebastian, still suspicious, yet aware that for some reason Don Manuel was unexpectedly on his side, awaited explanations.
“Doña Valdés is quite right, Sebastian. She means well, but she is, after all, a woman. This is a man’s business, and you and I can settle it better alone.” Manuel smiled with an air of frank confidence at his former prisoner. “You are in a serious fix—no doubt at all about that. The question is to find the best way out.”
“Si, Señor”.
Pesquiera’s bright black eyes fastened on him as he flung a question at the man. “I suppose this Gordon is still alive.”
Sebastian nodded gloomily. “He is like a cat with its nine lives. We have beaten and starved him, but he laughs—this Gringo devil—and tells us he will live to see us wearing stripes in prison.”
“Muy bien.” Manuel talked on briskly, so as to give the slower-witted Mexican no time to get set in obstinacy. “I should be able to arrange matters then. We must free the man after I have his word to tell nothing.”
“But he will run straight to the sheriff,” protested Sebastian.
“Not if he gives his word. I’ll see to that. Where have you him hidden?” The young Spaniard asked the question carelessly, almost indifferently, as if it were merely a matter of course.
Sebastian opened his mouth to tell—and then closed it. He had had no intention of telling anything. Now he found he had told everything except their hiding-place. The suspicion which lay coiled in his heart lifted its head like a snake. Was he being led into a trap? Would Don Manuel betray him to the law? The gleaming eyes of the man narrowed and grew hard.
Manuel, intuitively sensing this, hurried on. “It can be a matter of only hours now until they stumble upon your hiding-place. If this happens before we have come to terms with Gordon you are lost. I have come to town to save you and Pablo. But I can’t do this unless you trust me. Take me to Gordon and let me talk with him. Blindfold me if you like. But lose no time.”
As Sebastian saw it, this was a chance. He knew Manuel was an honest man. His reputation was of the best. Reluctantly he gave way.
“The Americano is at the Valdés house,” he admitted sulkily.
“At the Valdés house? Why, in Heaven’s name, did you take him there?”
“How could we tell that the Señorita would come to town? The house was empty. Pablo worked there in the stables as a boy. So we moved in.”
A quarter of an hour later Pablo opened the outer basement door in answer to the signal agreed upon by them. He had left the prisoner upon the bed with his hands tied. Sebastian entered. Pablo noticed that another man was standing outside. Instantly his rifle covered him. For, though others of their countrymen had been employed to help capture Gordon, none of these knew where he was hidden.
“It is Don Manuel Pesquiera,” explained Sebastian. “I brought him here to help us out of this trouble we are in. Let him in and I will tell you all.”
For an instant Pablo suspected that his accomplice had sold him, but he dismissed the thought almost at once. He had known Sebastian all his life. He stepped aside and let Pesquiera come into the hall.
The three men talked for a few minutes and then passed into the bedroom where the prisoner was confined. Evidently this had formerly been the apartment of the cook, who had slept in the basement in order no doubt to be nearer her work. Pesquiera looked around and at last made out a figure in the darkness lying upon the bed.
He stepped forward, observing that the man on the bed had his hands bound. Bending down, he recognized the face of Gordon. Beaten and bruised and gaunt from hunger it was, but the eyes still gleamed with the same devil-may-care smile.
“Happy to meet you, Don Manuel.”
The Spaniard’s heart glowed with admiration. He did not like the man. It was his intention to fight him as soon as possible for the insult that had been put upon him some weeks earlier. But his spirit always answered to the call of courage, and Gordon’s pluck was so debonair he could not refuse a reluctant appreciation.
“I regret to see you thus, Mr. Gordon,” he said.
“Might have been worse. Sebastian has had se-vere-al notions about putting me out of business. I’m lucky to be still kicking.”
“I have come from Miss Valdés. She came to Santa Fé when she heard from your friend Mr. Davis that you had disappeared. To-night we saw Sebastian for the first time. He brought me here.”
“Good of him,” commented Dick ironically.
“You will be freed of course—at once.” Manuel drew out his knife and cut the cords that bound the prisoner. “But I must ask your forbearance in behalf of Sebastian and Pablo and the others that have injured you. May I give them your pledge not to appear as a witness against them for what they have done?”
“Fine! I’m to be mauled and starved and kidnaped, but I’m to say ‘Thank you kindly’ for these small favors, hoping for a continuance of the same. You have another guess coming, Mr. Pesquiera. I offered those terms two days ago. They weren’t accepted. My ideas have changed. I’m going to put your friends behind the bars—unless you decide to let them murder me instead. I’ve been the goat long enough.”
“Your complaint is just, Mr. Gordon. It iss your right to enforce the law. Most certainly it iss your right. But consider my position. Sebastian brought me here only upon my pledge to secure from you a promise not to press your rights. What shall I do? I must see that you are released. That goes without saying. But shall I break faith with him and let him be delivered to justice? I have given my word, remember.”
Gordon looked up at him with his lean jaw set. “You couldn’t give my word, could you? Very well. Go away. Forget that you’ve seen me. I’ll be a clam so far as you are concerned. But if I get free I’m going to make things hot for these lads that think they can play Ned with me. They’re going to the pen, every last one of them. I’m going to see this thing out to a finish and find out if there’s any law in New Mexico.”
Manuel stiffened. “You put me in an awkward posi
tion, Mr. Gordon. I have no choice but to see you are set at liberty. But my honor is involved. These men shall not go to prison. They have made a serious mistake, but they are not what you call criminals. You know well—”
“I know that they and their friends have shot at me, ambushed me, beaten me, and starved me. They’ve been wanting to kill me ever since they got me here—at least one of them has—but they just didn’t have the guts to do it. What is your definition of a criminal anyhow? Your friends here fill the specifications close enough to suit me. I ain’t worried about their being too good for the company they’ll join at the pen.”
“You are then resolve’, Señor?”
“That’s what I am. I’m going to see they get the limit. I’ve not got a thing against you, Mr. Pesquiera, and I’d like to oblige you if I could. But I’m playing this hand myself.”
The Spaniard spoke to him in a low voice. “These men are the people of Miss Valdés. She drove all night across the mountains to get here sooner when she found you were gone. She offered and paid a reward of one hundred dollars to help find you. Do you not owe something to her?”
“I owe one hundred dollars and my thanks, sir. I’ll pay them both. But Miss Valdés cannot ask me to give up prosecuting these men because she would not stand back and see murder done.”
“Will you then leave it to her to punish these men?”
“No. I pay my own debts.”
Manuel was troubled. He had expected to find the prisoner so eager for release that he would consent at once to his proposal. Instead, he found a man hard and cold as steel. Yet he had to admit that Gordon claimed only his rights. No man could be expected to stand without an appeal to the law such outrageous treatment as he had been given.
“Will you consent then to settle the matter with me, man to man? These men are but peons. They are like cattle and do not think. But I—I am a more worthy foeman. Let me take the burden of their misdeeds on my shoulders.”
Dick wagged a forefinger at him warningly. “Now you’ve got that swashbuckler notion of a duel again. I’m no cavalier of Spain, but a plain American business man, Don Quixote. As for these jail-birds”—his hand swept the room to include the Mexicans—“since I’m an unregenerate human I mean to make ’em pay for what they’ve done. That’s all there is to it.”
Don Manuel bowed. “Very good, Mr. Gordon. We shall see. I promise you that I shall stand between them and prison. I offer you a chance to win the friendship of the Mexicans in the valley. You decline. So be it. I wash my hands, sir.”
He turned away and gave directions to Pablo, who left the room at once. The Spaniard called for candles and lit two. He pointedly ignored Gordon, but sat with his hands in his pockets whistling softly a popular air.
About a quarter of an hour later Pablo returned with a hot meal on a tray. Gordon, having done without food for two days, ate his ham and eggs and drank his coffee with an appetite given to few men. Meanwhile Pesquiera withdrew to the passage and laid down an ultimatum to the Mexicans. They must take horse at once and get back to the hills above the Rio Chama Valley. He would bring saddle horses from a stable so that they could start within the hour and travel all night.
The Mexicans listened sullenly. But they knew that the matter was now out of their hands. Since the arrival of Pesquiera it had become manifestly impossible to hold their prisoner longer. They agreed to the plan of the Spaniard reluctantly.
After Pablo and Sebastian had taken horse Pesquiera returned to the prisoner.
“We will, if it pleases you, move upstairs, Mr. Gordon,” he announced. “To-night I must ask you to remain in the house with me to give those poor fools a little start on their ride for freedom. We shall find better beds upstairs no doubt.”
“They’re hitting the trail, are they?” Dick asked negligently as he followed his guide.
“Yes. If you’ll give me your parole till morning, Mr. Gordon, I shall be able to return to Miss Valdés and let her know that all is well. Otherwise I shall be obliged to sit up and see that you do not get active in interfering with the ride of Pablo and his friend.”
“I’ll stay here till seven o’clock to-morrow morning. Is that late enough? Then I’ll see the sheriff and start things moving.”
Pesquiera bowed in his grand, formal manner. “The terms satisfy. I wish Mr. Gordon a very good night’s sleep. This room formerly belonged to the brother of Miss Valdés. It is curious, but she was here airing this room only to-day. She did not know you were in the house at the time. Adios, Señor.”
“Good night, Mr. Pesquiera. I reckon I’m in your debt quite a bit. Sorry we couldn’t agree about this little matter of what to do with the boys.”
Manuel bowed again and withdrew from the room.
Inside of ten minutes Gordon was fast asleep.
CHAPTER XIX
VALENCIA ACCEPTS A RING
Manuel found Valencia pacing up and down the porch of the hotel in a fever of impatience. Instantly at sight of him she ran forward quickly.
“Where have you been? What have you done with Sebastian? Why did you leave without telling me about it?” she demanded.
“One question at a time, my cousin,” he answered, smiling at her. “But let us walk while I tell you.”
She fell into step beside him, moving with the strong, lissom tread that came from controlled and deliberate power.
“What is it you have to tell? If you were called away, why did you not leave a message for me?” she asked, a little imperiously.
“I wasn’t called away, Valencia. You were excited and angry. My opinion was that Sebastian would speak if the matter was put to him right. So I cut the rope that tied him and we ran away through the back door of the hotel.”
Her dark eyes, proud and passionate, began to smoulder. But the voice with which she answered him was silken smooth.
“I see. You pretended to be working with me—and then you betrayed me. Is that it?”
“If you like,” he said with a little shrug. “I backed my judgment against your impatience. And it turns out that I was right.”
“How? What has happened? Where is Sebastian?”
“He is galloping toward the hills as fast as he can—at least I hope he is. What happened is that he told me where Gordon is hidden.”
“Where?”
“At your house. When you were there to-day you must have passed within twenty feet of him.”
“But—do you mean that Pablo and Sebastian took him there?”
“Exactly. They did not foresee that you would come to town, Valencia.” He added, after a moment: “I have seen Mr. Gordon, talked with him, and released him. At this moment he is in your brother’s room, probably asleep.”
All the sharpness had died out of the young woman’s voice when she turned to her cousin and spoke with a humility rare to her.
“Forgive me, Manuel. I always know best about everything. I drive ahead and must have my own way, even when it is not the wise one. You did just right to ignore me.”
She laid her hand on his coat sleeve pleadingly, and he lifted it to his lips.
“Niña…the Queen can do no wrong. But I saw you were driving Sebastian to stubbornness. I tried to let him see we meant to be his friends if he would let us.”
“Yes, you were right. Tell me everything, please.” She paused just a moment before she said quietly: “But first, what about Mr. Gordon? He is…uninjured?”
“Beaten and mauled and starved, but still of the gayest courage,” answered the Spaniard with enthusiasm. “Did I not say that he was a hero? My cousin, I say it again. The fear of death is not in his heart.”
He did not see the gleam in her dark eyes, the flush that beat into her dusky face. “Starved as well as beaten, Manuel?”
“They were trying to force him to give up his claim to
the valley. But he—as I live the American is hard as Gibraltar.”
“They dared to starve him—to torture him. I shall see that they are punished,” she cried with the touch of feminine ferocity that is the heritage of the south.
“No need, Valencia,” returned Pesquiera with a dry little laugh. “Mr. Gordon has promised himself to attend to that.”
He told her the story from first to last. Intently she listened, scarce breathing until he had finished.
Manuel had told the tale with scrupulous fairness, but already her sympathies were turning.
“And he wouldn’t agree not to prosecute?” she asked.
“No. It is his right to do so if he likes, Valencia.”
She brushed this aside with an impatient wave of her hand. “Oh, his right! Doesn’t he owe something to us—to me—and especially to you?”
“No, he owes me nothing. What I did was done for you, and not for him,” the Spaniard replied instantly.
“Then to me at least he is in debt. I shall ask him to drop the prosecution.”
“He is what his people call straight. But he is hard—hard as jade.”
They were walking along a dark lane unlighted save by the stars. Valencia turned to him impetuously.
“Manuel, you are good. You do not like this man, but you save him because—because my heart is torn when my people do wrong. For me you take much trouble—you risk much. How can I thank you?”
“Niña mia, I am thanked if you are pleased. It is your love I seek, Heart of mine.” He spoke tremulously, taking her hands in his.
For the beat of a heart she hesitated. “You have it. Have I not given my word that—after the American was saved—?”
He kissed her. Hers was a virginal soul, but full-blooded. An unsuspected passion beat in her veins. Not for nothing did she have the deep, languorous eyes, the perfect scarlet lips, the sumptuous grace of an artist’s ideal. Fires lay banked within her in spite of the fine purity of her nature. Nature had poured into her symmetrical mold a rich abundance of what we call sex.
