The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  "The Rio Chama Valley is grazing land. It is not for agriculture. Everybody knows that," he insisted doggedly.

  "Everybody knows we were given two legs with which to walk, but it is an economy to ride. So we use horses."

  Fernando shrugged his shoulders. Of what use to argue with the doña when her teeth were set? She was a Valdés, and so would have her way.

  That had been a year ago. Now the ditches were built. Fields had been planted to alfalfa and grain. Soon the water would be running through the laterals to irrigate the growing crops. Quietly the young woman at the head of things was revolutionizing the life of the valley by transforming it from a pastoral to a farming community.

  This morning, having arranged with the major domo the work of the day, Valencia appeared on the porch dressed for riding. She was going to see the water turned on to the new ditches from the north lateral.

  The young mistress of the ranch swung astride the horse that had just been brought from the stables, for she rode man-fashion after the sensible custom of the West. Before riding out of the plaza she stopped to give Pedro some directions about a bunch of yearlings in the corral.

  The mailman in charge of the R.F.D. route drove into the yard and handed Valencia a bunch of letters and papers. One of the pieces given her was a rather fat package for which she had to sign a registry receipt.

  She handed the mail to Juan and told him to put it on the desk in her office library; then she changed her mind, moved by an impulse of feminine curiosity.

  "Give me back that big letter, Juan. I'll just see what it is before I go."

  Five minutes later she descended to the porch. "I'm not going riding just now. Keep the horse saddled, Pedro." She had read Dick Gordon's note and the letter marked Exhibit A. Even careless Juan noticed that his mistress was much agitated. Pedro wondered savagely whether that splendid devil Americano had done something fresh to annoy the dear saint he worshiped.

  Gordon had not overemphasized the effect upon her of his action. Her pride had clung to a belief in his unworthiness as the justification for what she had said and done. Now, with a careless and mocking laugh, he had swept aside all the arguments she had nursed. He had sent to her, so that she might destroy it, the letter that would have put her case out of court. If he had wanted a revenge for her bitter words the American had it now. He had repaid her scorn and contempt with magnanimity. He had heaped coals of fire upon her head, had humiliated her by proving that he was more generous of spirit than she.

  Valencia paced the floor of her library in a stress of emotion. It was not her pride alone that had been touched, but the fine instincts of justice and fair play and good will. She had outraged hospitality and sent him packing. She had let him take the long tramp in spite of his bad knee. Her dependents had attempted to murder him. Her best friend had tried to fasten a duel upon him. All over the valley his name had been bandied about as that of one in league with the devil. As an answer to all this outrage that had been heaped upon him he refused to take advantage of this chance-found letter of Bartolomé merely because it was her letter and not his. Her heart was bowed down with shame and yet was lifted in a warm glow of appreciation of his quality. Something in her blood sang with gladness. She had known all along that the hateful things she had said to him could not be true. He was her enemy, but--the brave spirit of her went out in a rush to thank God for this proof of his decency.

  The girl was all hot for action. She wanted to humble herself in apology. She wanted to show him that she could respond to his generosity. But how? Only one way was open just now.

  She sat down and wrote a swift, impulsive letter of contrition. For the wrong she had done him Valencia asked forgiveness. As for the letter he had so generously sent, she must beg him to keep it and use it at the forthcoming trial. It would be impossible for her to accept such a sacrifice of his rights. In the meantime she could assure him that she would always be sorry for the way in which she had misjudged him.

  The young woman called for her horse again and rode to Corbett's, which was the nearest post-office. In the envelope with her letter was also the one of her grandfather marked "Exhibit A." She, too, carefully registered the contents before mailing.

  As she stood on the porch drawing up her gauntlets a young man cantered into sight. He wore puttees, riding breeches, and a neat corduroy coat. One glance told her it was Manuel. No other rider in the valley had quite the same easy seat in the saddle as the young Spaniard. He drew up sharply in front of Valencia and landed lightly on his feet beside her.

  "Buenos, Señorita."

  "Buenos, cousin." Her shining eyes went eagerly to his. "Manuel, what do you think Mr. Gordon has done?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "How can I guess? That mad American might do anything but show the white feather."

  In four sentences she told him.

  Manuel clapped his hands in approval. "Bravo! Done like a man. He is at least neither a spy nor a thief."

  Valencia smiled with pleasure. Manuel, too, had come out of the test with flying colors. He and Gordon were foes, but he accepted at face value what the latter had done, without any sneers or any sign of jealousy.

  "And what shall I do with the letter?" his cousin asked.

  "Do with it? Put it in the first fire you see. Shall I lend you a match?"

  She shook her head, still with the gleam of a smile on her vivid face. "Too late, Manuel. I have disposed of the dangerous evidence."

  "So? Good. You took my advice before I gave it, then."

  "Not quite. I couldn't be less generous than our enemy. So I have sent the letter back to him and told him to use it."

  The young man gave her his best bow. "Magnificent, but not war. I might have trusted the daughter of Don Alvaro to do a thing so royal. My cousin, I am proud of you."

  "What else could I have done and held my self-respect? I had insulted him gratuitously and my people had tried to kill him. The least I could do now was to meet him in a spirit like his own."

  "Honors are easy. Let us see what Mr. Gordon will now do."

  The sound of a light footfall came to them. A timid voice broke into their conversation.

  "May I see Doña Valencia--alone--for just a minute?"

  Miss Valdés turned. A girl was standing shyly in the doorway. Her soft brown eyes begged pardon for the intrusion.

  "You are Juanita, are you not?" the young woman asked.

  "Si, Doña."

  Pesquiera eliminated himself by going in to get his mail.

  "What is it that I can do for you?" asked Valencia.

  The Mexican girl broke into an emotional storm. She caught one of her hands in the brown palm of the other with a little gesture of despair.

  "They have gone to kill him. Doña. I know it. Something tells me. He will never come back alive." The feeling she had repressed was finding vent in long, irregular sobs.

  Valencia felt as if she were being drowned in icy water. The color washed from her cheeks. She had no need to ask who it was that would never come back alive, but she did.

  "Who, child? Whom is it that they have gone to kill?"

  "The American--Señor Gordon."

  "Who has gone? And when did they go? Tell me quick."

  "Sebastian and Pablo--maybe others--I do not know."

  Miss Valdés thought quickly. It might be true. Both the men mentioned had asked for a holiday to go to Santa Fé. What business had they there at this time of the year? Could it be Pablo who had shot at Gordon from ambush? If so, why was he so bitter against the common enemy?

  "Juanita, tell me everything. What is it that you know?"

  The sobs of the girl increased. She leaned against the door jamb and buried her face in the crook of her arm.

  The older girl put an arm around the quivering shoulders and spoke gently. "But listen, child. Tell me all. It may be we can save him yet."

  A name came from the muffled lips. It was "Pablo."

  Valencia's brain was lit by a flash of understandi
ng. "Pablo is your lover. Is it not so, niña?"

  The dark crown of soft hair moved up and down in assent. "Oh, Doña, he was, but--"

  "You have quarreled with him?"

  Miss Valdés burned with impatience, but some instinct told her she could not hurry the girl.

  "Si, Señorita. He quarreled. He said--"

  "Yes?"

  "----that ... that Señor Gordon ..."

  Again, groping for the truth, Valencia found it swiftly.

  "You mean that Pablo was jealous?"

  "Because I had nursed Señor Gordon, because he was kind to me, because----" Juanita had lifted her face to answer. As she spoke the color poured into her cheeks even to her throat, convicting evidence of the cruel embarrassment she felt.

  Valencia's hand dropped to her side. When she spoke again the warmth had been banished from her voice. "I see. You nursed Mr. Gordon, did you?"

  Juanita's eyes fell before the cold accusation in those of Miss Valdés. "Si, Señorita."

  "And he was kind to you? In what way kind?"

  The slim Mexican girl, always of the shyest, was bathed in blushes. "He called me ... niña. He ..."

  "----made love to you."

  A sensation as if the clothes were being torn from her afflicted Juanita. Why did the Doña drag her heart out to look at it? Nor did the girl herself know how much or how little Richard Gordon's gay camaraderie meant. She was of that type of women who love all that are kind to them. No man had ever been so considerate as this handsome curly-headed American. So dumbly her heart went out to him and made the most of his friendliness. Had he not once put his arm around her shoulder and told her to "buck up" when he came upon her crying because of Pedro? Had he not told her she was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood? And had he not said, too, that she was a little angel for nursing him so patiently?

  "Doña, I--do--not--know." The words came out as if they were being dragged from her. Poor Juanita would have liked the ground to open up and swallow her.

  "Don't you know, you little stupid, that he is playing with you, that he will not marry you?"

  "If Doña Valencia says so," murmured the Mexican submissively.

  "Men are that way, heartless ... selfish ... vain. But I suppose you led him on," concluded Valencia cruelly.

  With a little flare of spirit Juanita looked up. Her courage was for her friend, not for herself.

  "Señor Gordon is good. He is kind."

  "A lot you know about it, child. Have nothing to do with him. His love can only hurt a girl like you. Go back to your Pablo and forget the American. I will see he does not trouble you again."

  Juanita began to cry again. She did not want Señorita Valdés or anybody else interfering between her and the friend she had nursed. But she knew she could not stop this imperative young woman from doing as she pleased.

  "Now tell me how you know that Pablo has gone to injure the American. Did he tell you so?"

  "No-o."

  "Well, what did he say? What is it that you know?" Valencia's shoe tapped the floor impatiently. "Tell me--tell me!"

  "He--Pablo--met me at the corral the day he left. I was in the kitchen and he whistled to me." Juanita gave the information sullenly. Why should Señorita Valdés treat her so harshly? She had done no wrong.

  "Yes. Go on!"

  If she had had the force of character Juanita would have turned on her heel and walked away. But all her life it had been impressed upon her that the will of a Valdés was law to her and her class.

  "I do not know ... Pablo told me nothing ... but he laughed at me, oh, so cruelly! He asked if I ... had any messages for my Gringo lover."

  "Is that all?"

  "All ... except that he would show me what happened to foreign devils who stole my love from him. Oh, Señorita, do you think he will kill the American?"

  Valencia, her white lips pressed tightly together, gave no answer. She was thinking.

  "I hate Pablo. He is wicked. I will never speak to him again," moaned Juanita helplessly.

  Manuel, coming out of the post-office with his mail, looked at the weeping girl incuriously. It was, he happened to know, a habit of the sex to cry over trifles.

  Juanita found in a little nod from Miss Valdés permission to leave. She turned and walked hurriedly away to the adobe cabin where she slept. Before she reached it the walk had become a run.

  "Has the young woman lost a ribbon or a lover?" commented Pesquiera, with a smile.

  "Manuel, I am worried," answered Valencia irrelevantly.

  "What about, my cousin?"

  "It's this man Gordon again. Juanita says that Pablo and Sebastian have gone to kill him."

  "Gone where?"

  "To Santa Fé. They asked for a leave of absence. You know how sullen and suspicious Sebastian is. It is fixed firmly in his head that Mr. Gordon is going to take away his farm."

  Manuel's black eyes snapped. He did not propose to let any peons steal from him the punishment he owed this insolent Gordon.

  "But Pablo is not a fool. Surely he knows he cannot do such a mad thing."

  "Pablo is jealous--and hot-headed." The angry color mounted to the cheeks of the young woman. "He is in love with Juanita and he found out this stranger has been philandering with her. It is abominable. This Gordon has made the silly little fool fall in love with him."

  "Oh, if Pablo is jealous----" Pesquiera gave a little shrug of his shoulders. He understood pretty well the temperament of the ignorant Mexican. The young lover was likely to shoot first and think afterward.

  Valencia was still thinking of the American. Beneath the olive of her cheeks two angry spots still burned. "I detest that sort of thing. I thought he was a gentleman--and he is only a male flirt ... or worse."

  "Perhaps--and perhaps not, my cousin. Did Juanita tell you----?"

  "She told me enough. All I need to know."

  Again the young man's shoulders lifted in a little gesture of humorous resignation. He knew the uncompromising directness of Miss Valdés and the futility of arguing with her. After all, the character of Gordon was none of his business. The man might have made love to Juanita, though he did not look like that kind of a person. In any case the important thing was to save his life.

  After a moment's thought he announced a decision. "I shall take the stage for Santa Fé this afternoon. When I have warned the American I'll round up your man-hunters and bring them back to you."

  His lady's face thanked him, though her words did not. "You may tell them I said they were to come back at once."

  At her cousin's urgent request Miss Valdés stayed to eat luncheon with him at Corbett's, which was a half-way station for the stage and maintained a public eating-house. Even Valencia hesitated a little at this, though she was at heart an emancipated American girl and not a much-chaperoned Spanish maid. But she wanted to repay him for the service he was undertaking so cheerfully, and therefore sacrificed her scruples.

  As they were being served by Juanita the stage rolled up and disgorged its passengers. They poured into the dining-room--a mine-owner and his superintendent, a storekeeper from the village at the other end of the valley, a young woman school-teacher from the Indian reservation, a cattleman, and two Mexican sheepmen.

  While the fresh horses were being hitched to the stage Pesquiera and his guest stood back a little apart from the others. Corbett brought out a sack containing mail and handed it to the driver. The passengers found again their places.

  Pesquiera shook hands with Valencia. His gaze rested for a moment in her dark eyes.

  "Adios, linda," he said, in a low voice.

  The color deepened in her cheeks. She understood that he was telling her how very much he was her lover now and always. "Good-bye, amigo," she answered lightly.

  Pesquiera took his place on the back seat. The whip of the driver cracked. In a cloud of white dust the stage disappeared around a bend in the road.

  Valencia ordered her horse brought, and left for the ranch. Having dispatched Manuel
to the scene of action, it might be supposed that she would have awaited the issue without farther activity. But on the way home she began to reflect that her cousin would not reach Santa Fé until next morning, and there was always a chance that this would be too late. As soon as she reached the ranch she called up the station where the stage connected with the train. To the operator she dictated a message to be wired to Richard Gordon. The body of it ran thus:

  "Have heard that attack may be made upon your life. Please do not go out alone or at night at all. Answer."

  She gave urgent instructions that if necessary to reach Gordon her telegram be sent to every hotel in the city and to his lawyer, Thomas M. Fitt.