"What's the matter?" came the terrified voice of Uncle Henry. His hands clung to the wheels of his chair. But he did not budge it.
"Red" had not been able to dodge a shot. "Right through the hat!" he cried, and waved his Stetson. Sure enough, a bullet had gone clean through his headgear. Had he lifted his face a few inches higher, he would have been shot himself.
More hoof beats. Yet Lucia never moved.
"Bullet?" asked Hardy.
"Yes," "Red" replied. "And it was spang new—this hat. Cost eighteen dollars!" He was still looking at the tattered Stetson.
"Oh, it might have hit you!" Angela cried and embraced him.
"Told you we'd better keep inside!" "Red" said.
"You bet—until they go by," Hardy agreed.
"Red" stepped forward. "Back, everybody!" he ordered. He pushed everyone farther back into the room, until they were all crowded in one corner. Uncle Henry was trembling like a leaf. How he wished he had never been brought to this strange country! Oh, for the peace of Bangor, Maine!Therewas a place for you! Down here it was all shooting, killing, and desperate trouble. Having escaped one crisis, was it possible the fates were to be so unkind as to put him in the way of another, from which there might be no extrication? Curse the luck, anyhow. Gol darn it!
The hoof beats came nearer and nearer. There were more shots. A man dismounted near the door. Then a man on horseback galloped up to the very entrance of the adobe. There was a general movement without, but no one ventured to go out andsee what had happened. They could hear voices, sharp commands, and far off one more shot. Someone cried, "Keep on after him, boys!"
A ranger came in. He was an angular fellow, with a bushy mustache, and eyes like a ferret. His gun was on his hip, and one hand never left it. His name was Bradley. Gilbert knew him well. Often had he met him in the hills. He was known as one of the best shots of all that company of men who pursued criminals and bandits through the State, and drove them over the border. Few escaped him; and he had a train of lieutenants who adored him. A born fighter, a born pursuer of men, who loved his desperate life, and gloried in his conquests. Some called him Bradley the Inexorable. He seldom missed a shot; and God help those who came into his power.
"We're after Lopez," he said breathlessly. "Been here?" He never wasted words.
"Yes," Hardy answered. He looked toward Pell's body.
Bradley's quick eyes followed his. "Hello! what's that? Wounded?" he asked.
"Worse—he's dead," Hardy replied.
Bradley stepped close to the still form. "Who did this? Lopez?"
"Yes," from Hardy.
"Got it in the head, eh?" the ranger went on, looking down at Pell, but with no pity in his face. He was too accustomed to death. A man who had been killed was just another "case" to him—one of an endless row of corpses.
Angela came up to the table. "He's really dead?" she breathed, and clung to "Red's" big arm.
"Who was he?" Bradley inquired.
Hardy motioned to the mute Lucia, sitting so quietly in the chair. "Her husband. Name's Pell."
"Sorry for you, lady," said Bradley, perfunctorily, as he might have said "Good-morning." He turned now to go. "Don't touch him till the coroner comes," he commanded. "Mind what I say."
"But officer—" began Hardy.
"Can't stop," Bradley waved him aside. "Now wegotterget him." He went out as swiftly as he had come in. Every instant was precious. There was not a second to be lost.
And still Lucia did not stir a muscle. It was as if she had been turned to stone. A silence fell upon them all. "Red" sat down on the little window-seat,his Angela beside him. Hardy tried to smoke. They could hear the clock ticking on and on—that little clock which had heard so much as its hands moved around the dial during the last few pregnant hours.
Suddenly Uncle Henry, who had been looking at Morgan Pell's huddled form, cried out;
"Hey, what's comin' off?" Had the darkness deceived him?
"Red" jumped at the question. "What's the matter?" His nerves were on edge.
"He moved!" cried Uncle Henry, excited now, and rising in his chair, which he wheeled out into the room.
"Moved!" cried "Red." "You're crazy! He's stone dead, if ever anyone was."
"I seen him—I swear I seen him!" Uncle Henry's eyes were almost popping from his head. "Why didn't someone do something? Why didn't they see what he saw? Oh, to be able to walk, and not sit forever like a dried mummy in this chair!
"But how could he have moved?" "Red" exclaimed. "He's dead, I say!"
"I don't know how he could!" Uncle Henry cried, "but he did! Look at him!" He could scarcely control himself now.
"Maybe Lopez didn't kill him after all," "Red" said, and knelt down to examine Pell's body again.
"Now don't tell me that!" Uncle Henry yelled. "Ain't we got trouble enough here without him comin' back?" He could have stood any calamity, it seemed, but the return to life of this wretched Morgan Pell.
"By golly!" "Red" exclaimed, on his knees, his hand on Pell's white face.
"Was I right?" Uncle Henry said.
"Red" rose slowly. His voice was almost a whisper. "He's alive!" he breathed.
Gilbert, who had not taken Uncle Henry's word seriously, could not doubt "Red's" verdict.
"Alive!" he said. "Oh, it can't be!"
For the first time Lucia moved. Her lips opened. "Alive!" she managed to say. Again the world crumbled for her.
"It was only a flesh wound," "Red" said. "The bullet just grazed his head."
Lucia looked up. She was ashen. She was older, and her eyes seemed to have lost their fire. "He's—really—alive?" she got out. She stared down at her husband.
"They should of shot 'im in the stomach!"Uncle Henry stated. What a mess! What rotten luck, ran through his weary brain.
Pell's foot moved again. Then his arm went up; and slowly he rose on one elbow, pushed away the tablecloth that touched his head, and looked about him. He was like a man awaking from a sound slumber. He was dazed, mystified. In the almost complete darkness, he could not distinguish faces.
"What was it? What happened?" he inquired, in a hollow voice—a voice from the tomb!
No one answered. They were all terror-stricken.
"I can't remember," the hollow voice went on. He fell back on the floor. He was weak from the loss of blood. "Red" lifted him up, and helped him around the table to a chair.
Lucia's eyes never left Morgan Pell's face. Was she dreaming? Was this some madness that had come to her? This brute come back to life! It was unbearable, unbelievable. She could not adjust her mind to the situation. But with true feminine instinct, she found herself leaving her chair where she had sat so long, going to the kitchen and getting a cup of water. Then she knew, in some strange way, that she had fetched a bowl, and a towel. These she placed on the table. Still she looked at her husband, as though he were a ghost—as,literally, he was. They had thought him dead—gone forever. Now he was back among them, speaking, moving. Incredible! One hand went to her face. She dreaded the thought of Morgan's seeing her.
It was Uncle Henry who broke the awful tension.
"You was shot!" he cried, to Pell.
The other looked at the old man in the chair. "Shot?" he said.
"Yes, and a rotten shot it was, too!" Uncle Henry was not afraid to say. "Gol darn it all!"
The moment was too tragic for anyone to smile.
"Who shot me?" Pell asked. He was very weak. He put the towel in the bowl of water, and pressed it to his forehead.
"A friend of mine!" cried Uncle Henry.
Gilbert glared at the old man. No one could be forgiven for a remark like that.
"I remember, now," Pell murmured. "The bandit."
"And a gol darn nice fellow, too," Uncle Henry went on. "A little careless, but—"
Pell looked startled. The towel fell from his hand and he looked about him. "He's not here still!" he cried, as one just coming out of a stupor to a full realization of his surroundings.
"No, worse luck!" Uncle Henry said.
"He's gone?" Pell said.
"The rangers came," Hardy explained.
"Texas?" from Pell.
"Yes, gol darn 'em!" Uncle Henry let out.
Lucia, who had been watching Pell's face every second, now offered him the bowl of water with her own hands, and drew closer to him. She picked up the towel that had fallen to the table, and folded it, then dampened it. Pell looked up and saw her for the first time.
"Oh, so there you are, my dear!" was his cynical greeting.
Lucia still stared at him. "I thought—I thought—you were dead," she murmured. Her voice sounded far away to her. It was scarcely a whisper.
"So it seems!" Morgan Pell answered, his lip curling. "My dear, I regret to disappoint you. But aside from a slight pain in my head, I was never better in my whole life!" He wanted to see the effect of his words.
"Shall I bandage your wound for you?" his dutiful wife asked.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Thank you—no," he said.
Lucia sat down on the other side of the table.
Not a word more was said. Pell took out his own handkerchief, and started to dip it in the bowl of water. But he was shaking still, and the piece of linen dropped to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he saw, in the dim light, the option lying exactly where Pancho Lopez had tossed it. He grasped it in his hand, crushed and crumpled as it was, and thought no one had observed him. But Uncle Henry's eagle eye had seen his movement.
"What's that?" he called out.
Pell tried to seem unconcerned. "The option, my dear sir," he answered truthfully.
"By gollies, he's got it again!" Uncle Henry yelled, in desperation. He switched his chair around, and faced Gilbert. "Why didn't you tear it up while he was dead?" he asked.
Pell addressed Uncle Henry. "You've got ten thousand dollars of my money," he firmly said.
"Ihave?"
"I want it," was the other's immediate reply.
"It was paid me for a debt," the old man said.
"It was stolen from me first," Morgan Pell stated, calmly. "Come across." He put one handout. The other still held the cloth to his wounded forehead.
"I'll be cussed if I will!" the invalid cried. He clapped his hands over his vest pocket, where the money was safely hidden.
"Why, you poor old crook—" Pell began, rose, and snatched the money from Uncle Henry before anyone knew what he was doing. All his old fire was back. He seemed the most alive man in the room.
Uncle Henry cried out, wildly, "Hey, ain't there no Americans present?" He saw Gilbert's gun which was on the seat beneath the stairway. He was close enough to grasp it. He did so, pointed it at the room in general, and yelled, "Now I got yuh! Hands up, everybody!"
But no one moved. A disdainful silence followed. "Didn't yuh hear what I said?" Uncle Henry inquired, looking at everybody.
"Put that down," said Hardy contemptuously. "You might hurt somebody," he added, smiling.
"Ain't yuh goin' to do it?" Uncle Henry asked.
"As I was going to say—" Hardy started, when Uncle Henry interrupted him with:
"But it was whathedone!"
"Who?" asked Hardy.
"The bandit," Uncle Henry answered.
"Will you keep still?" Hardy urged.
"Certainly not!" Uncle Henry went on. "I got a gun here and I—"
Hardy reached for the weapon. "I'm holdin' you up, gol darn it!" Jasper Hardy took the gun as he would have taken a bag of peanuts from a child, and handed it to Gilbert with a wink.
"Hey! You can't do that!" wailed the invalid. He wheeled his chair toward his nephew. "You wouldn't do that if my friend Lopez was here, you big bum!" he ended, as peevish as an infant.
Pell turned upon his wife. "Well, my dear—" he began, and once more his lips curled at the irony of the last phrase.
"What!" Lucia said; and there was terror in her voice.
Pell did not mince words. "Having both the Option and a clearer understanding of each other, there's nothing to detain us." He measured everything he uttered, and watched the effect upon her.
"It's no use," Hardy broke in. "You're too late."
"Not if I got there by eight o'clock," Pell said.
"But you won't!" Jasper Hardy quickly said, glancing at the clock which ticked on, inexorably.
Pell pulled out his watch. Then he looked at the option, deliberately, carefully, and seemed to read a final sentence. Having done so, he tore the piece of paper to bits slowly, and scattered them on the floor at his feet. At that very instant the clock struck eight.
"It's eight o'clock!" "Red" exclaimed on the last peal of the bell.
"Eight o'clock!" Hardy cried. "And the place belongs to me!" He turned to Pell. "Anything more from you?" he inquired, and smiled.
The other stared at him; but he said nothing. Instead, he went over again to the table, and wet his handkerchief in the bowl, again refusing Lucia's proffered assistance with a wave of his other hand. He bathed his own wound. And meanwhile Hardy was saying to Gilbert:
"Well, young feller, it's your move."
"His move!" "Red" repeated the phrase. "Say, you wouldn't go and skin him out of the place all over again, would you?"
Hardy sneered. "I'm going to foreclose, certainly, if that's what you mean, you impudent young scoundrel!"
"You mean you would trim him again?" "Red" didn't believe it.
"Say, boy, you better use your head. You're going to marry my darter, ain't you?"
"Yes—I hope so," the foreman said.
"Well, don't you realize that all I got will eventually go to you and her? Don't you?"
"It will?" asked the incredulous "Red."
"Certainly; when I die," answered Hardy.
"I hope it'll be soon!" cried out Uncle Henry. Then, to "Red," "Don't you see he's leading you up to the top o' that gol darn mountain?"
"Red" did not understand. "Gol darnwhat?" he said.
Uncle Henry was exasperated at his stupidity. "Why, he's temptin' you, the old devil! Don't let him. It's a gol darn shame," he added, turning his chair so that he faced Hardy, "an old scoundrel like you tryin' to corrupt a nice young feller like him! Don't you know money you get like that won't do you no good?"
"It's his—Gilbert Jones's," cried "Red," "and I ain't goin' to be party to robbin' him of it!"
"Hooray!" yelled Uncle Henry. "That's the boy! I knew you was like that. You're all right!" And he backed into the alcove, happier than he had been in a long time.
"You hear that?" Hardy said to his daughter.
"I do," she answered, "and he's right."
"What's that?" said her surprised father.
"It is Gil's, and to take advantage of him isn't fair. You know it as well as I do, too!" She stamped her little foot.
"Say, you don't think you love him again, do you?" Hardy wanted to know.
From the alcove, Uncle Henry cried: "That's the idea! And if the poor sucker'd only marry her—"
But Angela interrupted: "It isn't him I care for. It's—" She cut herself off, and could have bitten out her tongue for thus revealing her heart.
"Angela!" cried the enraptured "Red." He went over to her, grasped her around the waist, and led her to the window.
Hardy said, trying to pacify his daughter: "But I ain't going to be hard on him—or on Jones."
"You ain't?" Uncle Henry cried.
Hardy turned to the nephew. "You know, that stuff Lopez said about me bein' a bum patriot stuck in my craw. And now that I got the place, if you ever need any help I'll be glad to go on your note for you."
Gilbert said nothing; but Uncle Henry rushed in with, "You will?"
"That is, if it ain't too much," Hardy craftily added.
"How much?" Uncle Henry asked.
"Oh, two hundred dollars," Jasper Hardy grandly said.
"Two hundred dol—Git out o' my way!" Uncle Henry wheeled straight through him.
"Say, where are you goin'?" Hardy cried.
"To Mexico!" Uncle Henry said. "This country's gettin' so it ain't fit to live in!" And he whirled out of the room.
Hardy turned to his daughter. "Nothing to keep us here any longer. Come on, Angy."
"Come, 'Red,'" said the girl, as she started to follow her father. What else was there to do?
Even though it was Angela who called to him, "Red's" allegiance was for the moment elsewhere.
"I gotter stick by him," he said, looking at Gilbert.
"No," said Gilbert. "This is something I've got to settle alone. But I thank you, 'Red'—I thank you with all my heart. You're a brick—a red brick." He smiled and patted him on the back.
"Red" was suspicious still. He looked at Gilbert. "You don't think he'll try any funny business,do you? You're sure you won't need me around?"
"How can he try any funny business?" Gilbert asked.
"I know," said "Red." Gilbert looked at him closely. "I get yuh," the foreman continued. "But I don't like it just the same." He switched over to the malignant Pell. "There's one little detail I'd like to call your attention to," he said.
"Well?" Pell said.
"I'm a tough little feller myself, sometimes. And if anything should happen that shouldn't, I'll be waitin' for you in town with a one-way ticket. And it won't be to New York. Savez?" Then he turned to his adored and adoring Angela. "Come, Angy!"
And he grasped her arm, and took her out.
Deeper and deeper grew the darkness. Outside, indeed, the first stars had begun to shine, and soon the heavens were a miraculous glory. But there was no moon. Every road was hushed, and the trees waved their long arms in the gloom. The little machine that took Angela and her father home, rolled down the quiet valley. Its chug-chug was the only sound for miles around. "Red" was happy in the cool night. He rode all the way out to the Hardy ranch. He and Angela sang an old song, and let Jasper Hardy sit at the wheel and whirl them to the lights of home.
Meantime, back in Gilbert's adobe, the Mexican cook came from his stuffy kitchen and fetched a lamp for the sitting-room. He lighted two candlesby the fireplace, closed the shutters and door, and went back to his pots and pans. He said nothing, noticed nothing. It had been a day of intense excitement for him, and he was glad to crawl back, like some tiny worm, into the cave where he ruled supreme.
Lucia, in the lamplight, was paler than before. The three of them were standing, curiously enough, almost as they had stood only a few brief hours ago; and as she looked around her now she thought of this.
"So," she said. "We're back just where we started from!" The grim humor of it came over her. Ten minutes ago she had thought her husband dead—done for, out of the way. Now he stood before her in all his virility, in all his cruelty; and behind him was the one man in the world that she loved.
"Not quite," said Gilbert. He stepped forward a pace or two. He saw that Lucia was alarmed. "Come," he begged of her. "Don't be afraid." Oh, the balm of those few words!
But she was not wholly herself yet. "What are you going to do?" she asked, and came nearer Gilbert. How strong and determined he looked in the dim light!
"I'm going to have this thing out," he said. "You can never go back to him now." There was finality in his voice.
"No, I never can," Lucia agreed. And there was finality in her voice, too. It was as if Destiny had come into this house, and an unheard voice told them what to do.
"You'll trust me to protect you—until—" Gilbert went on.
She looked at him pleadingly. "Oh, take me with you, Gil!" She threw her arms out. She had nothing to fear now, his strength beside her. She told him in one glorious gesture that she was his forever—that she had surrendered herself, body and soul, to him. Gilbert looked at her. Slowly, he realized that this woman, this creature of his dreams cared for him, and him alone; and the world might sweep by, the stars and moon might crash to earth, and they would neither know nor care. Fate had brought her to him. Nothing else mattered now. What was Morgan Pell? In life he was as impotent as when he lay half concealed beneath the table near which he now stood. They would not consider him, save as the foolish laws of man made it necessary for them to consider him.
Gilbert turned to Pell. "You heard—she's mine now. And any course you may take to stop her—" he warned. It was useless to say more. The manner in which young Jones spoke told the whole story of his feelings.
Yet Pell tried to appear nonchalant and casual. "You haven't another drink around, have you?" he inquired. He still held his handkerchief to his wounded forehead. "That was a rather nasty one I got, you know."
Gilbert, though he loathed him as a serpent, remembered that he was this creature's host, and stepped over to the fireplace where there was a flask with a little tequila still left. He offered Pell the bottle.
"You were saying—?" Pell went on. He poured himself a stiff drink. "Something about leaving me, wasn't it?" It was plain to be seen that he was bluffing. "I'm sorry," swigging down what he had poured, "but I wasn't listening very closely. This thing here—" he tapped his wound. No one answered him, and he set down his glass. "Well?" to his wife.
She faced him with a flame in her eyes. "Had I known you, I never would have married you. But now that I do know you, I could never live withyou again. I loathe and despise you, with all the strength that is in me."
"You want to leave me, eh?" He sneered as he stared at her. "And go with him?... Won't your reputation—?"
"What do I care for my reputation?" she flared. "At least I shall have my self-respect. I never could keep that if I went back to you."
"It'syourreputation, of course," Pell smiled. "You can do as you like with it." He turned fully toward her. "All right, I've no objection."
"You're lying," Gilbert affirmed.
Pell's tongue rolled round in his cheek. "I don't blame you for thinking so.Youhaven't been shot to-day. You should try it sometime. It changes one's viewpoint surprisingly." His voice seemed to lose its hardness for a moment; there was a note of self-pity in it.
"But you said—" Gilbert began.
Pell's whole manner changed, and the look of a wounded animal came into his eyes. "A man says many things in anger that he doesn't mean," was his own extenuation. "Haven't you ever made the same mistake yourself, Jones? I'm sure you have. There's no use getting excited." He put up a hand. "Here we are, we three. She is my wife. But shedoesn't love me, nor do I love her. She does love you. What is the best way out for all of us?"
A new Morgan Pell! They could scarcely believe the metamorphosis.
"You'd give her up?" Gilbert said.
The other looked down, and the point of his boot drew a little ring on the floor. "I can't hold her," he said, "if she doesn't want to be held, can I?"
"You don't intend—"
"To fight you?" Pell looked him squarely in the eye. "I do not. I've had all the fighting I want for one day. Now, my own course is simple. I have merely to go back to New York and forget that either of you ever existed. But your problem is more difficult. It's after eight. You've lost the ranch. And you have no money."
"But I can earn money," Gilbert said.
"A hundred dollars a month punching cows? With her in a boarding-house in Bisbee? A nice life, isn't it? Do you care to think of it, both of you?"
"I can take care of her," Gilbert was quick in saying.
"With your friend, Lopez—if he escapes—become a professional killer. My dear chap, you forget. She's used to decent people. It makes allthe difference in the world." Pell turned away, lest the hard look should return to his countenance.
Lucia had been listening intently. "I know him, Gil," she whispered, loud enough for her husband to hear. "He's trying to frighten us!"
Pell faced her. "Frighten you? You're wrong, my dear. I'm merely trying to help you. That's all."
There was a step on the path—another step. Several people were approaching the adobe. Without ceremony, the door was thrust open, and Bradley was before them, excitement in his eyes. He came into the room and dim figures could be seen behind him. Was that Lopez tied up, with his back to them in the darkness? His shoulders were bent over, his hat was pulled down over his brow. His hair was matted, and two Mexicans stood guard on either side of him. Far away the stars twinkled, unmindful of his plight.
"Got any water?" Bradley asked.
"Lopez!" Pell exclaimed.
"He's got him!" came from Gilbert.
Lucia grew paler still. "Lopez! Captured!" she cried. "Oh!" And she hid her face in her hands. What a few brief hours could bring!
Bradley came close to her. "And a fine day'swork for us, lady," he said, triumph in his tone. "We got him at last." Then, in the light of the candle, he caught a good view of Pell. "Say, I thought you was dead!" he cried.
"I was," laughed the other. "I mean—only a scalp wound." And he pointed to the mark on his forehead.
The figure at the door, piteous in its helplessness, never moved, never turned.
"Give me that water," Bradley continued. "I want to get him in alive if I can. All the more credit to me and my men, you see."
Morgan Pell had taken the canteen down from the wall and poured some water in it. Now he handed it to Bradley. "There you are," he said.
"Thanks," the ranger said. He went back to the door, and pushed the jug to the lips of his prisoner. "Take a swig o' that." Lopez did so. His humiliation was evident even in his back. And only a little while ago he had been the monarch of all he surveyed! Now he was the slave of Bradley, and must ride, hand-cuffed, to the jail a few miles away.
"He's wounded," said Lucia, going to the door. "You can't take him—like that!" she exclaimed. She longed for Lopez to turn and look at her; yet she longed, oddly enough, that he would not do soin the next second. It would be as difficult for her, as for him, if they saw each other. Her heart went out to him—this friend of Gilbert's—and hers.
Bradley hated this show of feminine weakness. "Why can't I take him like that? Do you think I'm going to nurse an invalid like him around these parts?" He took the canteen from one of his men. "Here," he said, handing it back to Pell.
"That's all right. Keep it; you may need it later on," said Pell, as though the jug were his to give away.
"Much obliged," the ranger thanked him, nothing loath. "Come on, Bloke. Good-night. We got him!"
He gave the bandit a shove, and two other rangers grasped him by either arm. In a twinkling they were gone, had mounted their horses and were galloping away in the starlight.
So everything was over and done with! Lucia was heart-broken for Lopez. She came back into the room, murmuring:
"Lopez! Lopez captured!" There were tears in her eyes.
Pell paced the room with new strength. His eyes were now sinister.
"Fortunately for us, my dear," he said. "Fornow we are certain not to be disturbed while working out a sensible solution of our little problem." He had forgotten the pain in his head. He lighted a cigarette, casually, slowly. "You will of course sue for divorce," he went on, blowing a ring to the ceiling and watching it ascend. "But there'll be no difficulty about that. I shall not contest," he added magnanimously.
She grasped at the straw. "You won't?" She almost believed him now.
"You'd win, anyway," her husband said. "But thereisthe question of alimony."
Gilbert swerved about. He detested the word. "Alimony!" he cried.
"An attractive woman never gets the worst of it in court," Pell coldly stated. "Suppose we settle that—right here and now. It will give you ready money. And it will save me from having to pay perhaps a greater sum—later. That is...."
Gilbert was incensed. "We don't want your money!" he cried. And Lucia treated the suggestion with the scorn it deserved.
Pell looked at them both. "No? Well, in that case, I suppose there's nothing more to be said."
"And we are free to go?" Lucia cried, unbelieving.
Her husband puffed again. "Why not? I know I shan't stop you." Suddenly he dropped his cigarette, leaned heavily against the table, swayed a bit, and put his hand to his head. The old pain was returning.
"You're suffering?" Lucia asked, alarmed. A strange pallor had come over him.
"I regret—that water—I gave away so liberally," Pell said, his voice weak.
"There's more," Gilbert cried. "I'll get it." He went hurriedly to the kitchen.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" Lucia asked, sympathy in her tone. Always with her was the womanly instinct to serve, to help. Morgan was like a wounded animal to her, and as deserving of attention as any hurt thing.
"No, thank you," he said.
"Oh, I'm sorry! I ..."
Gilbert was back with another canteen. He went close to Pell and put the jug to his lips, standing by his side, leaning over to proffer the cooling water. As he did so, Pell stealthily reached out—Lucia could not see the movement, for she had gone over to the fireplace—and craftily removed Gilbert's gun from his hip-pocket. While in the very act of taking this man's sustenance, he wasplaying him a foul trick. His heart lost a beat at the easy success of his plan, the fulfillment of a wish he had been harboring for the last ten minutes. He thrust the canteen away, stood up suddenly, and pointed the stolen weapon straight at Jones.
"Now, I've got you just where I want you!" he snarled.
Lucia saw his base trickery. Why had she been so stupid as to believe in him again? Why had she not warned Gilbert? What fools they had both been!
"Gil!" she cried out; and anguish was hers—a deep, horrible moment of suffering. It was all up with them. They were as helpless as Pell had been with the bandit a few hours before. Caught, ensnared, trapped!
"Why, damn you!" Gilbert screamed, and made a futile lunge for Pell. But he was too late. The revolver was leveled at his head.
"Make a fool out of me, will you, you s——" Pell said, and his eyes glittered. A snake never looked more venomous. "I've got you now—got you both, and by God—"
"He means it, Gil!" Lucia cried, and threw herself into her lover's arms. She would die, if he died—she would die with him.
Pell stepped nearer to his intended victim. "Our wife is right," he scoffed. "It isn't killing that I mind—it's being killed that I object to."
"They'll hang you!" Gilbert warned.
Pell smiled his sardonic, evil smile. "The unwritten law works in Arizona as well as in other places." He brutally ordered Lucia to get out of his way.
But Lucia still clung to Gilbert. "I won't! I won't move!" she yelled, and her voice held the desperation of womankind.
Deliberately Pell said: "All right! Then take what's coming to you and you go to hell together, damn you both!"
He raised the gun and aimed a deadly aim.
Gilbert, in that mad moment, threw Lucia aside, to save her. He could not let her die with him, much as he hated to leave her with this fiend incarnate. "You'd better shoot straight," he cried to Pell. "Because, by God, if you miss...." With one wild lunge, he knocked the lamp from the table between them, and there was instant and terrible darkness.
Confused, Pell did not know what to do. His tongue was cleaving to the roof of his mouth, his hand seemed to freeze on the trigger.
"What the devil!" he called out. And then a figure appeared miraculously in the alcove, where one candle still burned, shedding a ghostly beam of light from a shelf. "Good God!"
A shot rang out. But it was not Pell's revolver from which it sped. Morgan Pell crumpled at the feet of Gilbert, and the bandit rushed in, the smoke still coming from his gun.
"Santa Maria del Rio de Guadaloupe!" he cried. "'Ow many time I got for to kill you to-day, any'ow? Now, damn to 'ell, mebbe you stay dead a while, eh?" He looked down at the shriveled form. And as of old he called to his henchman, "Pedro!"
And Pedro was there. "Si!" he said.
"Did I not tell you for kill zis man?" said Lopez, pointing in disgust to Morgan Pell.
Swiftly in Spanish, and frightened almost out of his wits, poor Pedro muttered something wholly unintelligible.
"Ees bum shooting! If she 'appen some more, zen I 'ave for get new Pedro. Should be too bad. Especially for you. You onnerstand?"
Terrified at the thought, poor Pedro simply shivered. "Si," he whispered.
Lopez indicated Pell's body, and took out acigarette nonchalantly. "Take 'im away. Ees no use for nobody no more." Pedro started to lift the heavy form. "Save ze clothes and ze boots," he reminded his faithful man.
"Si," the latter said, meekly.
Venustiano appeared from the outer darkness, as if by magic, and rushed to Pedro's aid. They lifted the stricken Pell, and carried him away.
The distasteful business finished, Lopez turned to Gilbert.
"Now, zen, you all right some more, eh?" he asked.
Gilbert could not understand. "I guess so," he said, "I—I thought you were captured!"
"Me?" said Lopez in surprise, "It is not me, ees my double!"
"Your double?" Gilbert, amazed, answered.
"Ees idea what I get from ze moving pitchers."
Gilbert and Lucia stared at each other; then at the bandit.
"Then it wasn't you they captured?" Gilbert said.
He flicked the ashes from his cigarette. "I should be capture by ze damn ranger? Ees a idea!" He roared with mirth. "No, no! Long time I 'ave fix zat."
"But how? How do you work it?" Gilbert inquired, his brain in a tumult.
"I pick from my men ze best rider. I make 'im for look like me. So when ze ranger wish for chase me, 'e go while I remain be'ind. It save me moch hexercise. Say, why you no kill 'im yourself? You got ze gun." Lopez was mystified.
"I—I couldn't," Gilbert answered.
"Ees no difference from us three—me, you, and 'im," Lopez explained. "You is afraid for kill. 'E was afraid for die. Me, I am afraid for neizer! Now zen, what you do, eh?" He patted Gilbert on the shoulder.
"I don't know," the young man said. "We've got to go somewhere."
Lopez was firm. "No. You shall stay right 'ere in your 'ome sweet 'ome."
"But I've lost the place." He pointed to the little clock that was ticking out its relentless minutes. "It's after eight o'clock."
"No," said Lopez, definitely. "For at 'alf-past six-thirty, what I do? I tell you. When I am chase by ze ranger what I follow, I sink for myself eight o'clock she soon come. Suppose moggidge of my frands he meet wiz accident? Would never do!" He waved his arms. "So Igoes and pays 'er myself!" He handed Gilbert a paper.
Gilbert could not believe his eyes. "What's that?" he wanted to know.
"Ees recipe," Lopez affirmed.
"But where did you get the money?" Gilbert asked, incredulously.
Lopez winked. "Ees all right."
"Where did you get it?" the American persisted.
"I rob ze bank," said Lopez; and thought nothing more of it.
"Robbed the bank?" Gilbert was wide-eyed now.
"Sure! Ees what I go to town for."
Jones turned away. "It's all off again!"
The bandit was discouraged. "No! I am become business man what are tired myself! I take ze money to lawyer what are frand for me. 'E go to ze judge what 'ave come 'ome planty dronk. 'E tell ze judge you send 'im for pay ze moggidge. Judge say sure, and 'and 'im recipe. Ees all right." And the bandit, convinced of his logic, strutted to the fireplace, and threw his cigarette away.
"But I—must pay him back," Gilbert wanted to make it clear.
"I 'ave planty money. You mus' not worry,my frand. I give you ten sousand dollar which you can send back should you be so foolish."
But Gilbert was obdurate. "I can pay it back. The oil—"
"I am sorry. Zere is no oil," the bandit informed him.
This was the consummating blow to the young man. "But you said—"
"I tell you one damn big lie," Lopez laughed. "But 'as she not a million dollar from ze 'usband which I kill?" He nodded toward Lucia.
"Oh!" cried she. "How can you speak of such things—now?"
"You don't think we'd touch one penny of that, do you?" Gilbert followed up.
Lopez looked puzzled. "Ze law is give it to you."
Disgustedly Gilbert cried, "The Law!"
"Ha!" The bandit saw his chance. "Is it possible all ze law what you love is not so damn wise, after all?" He was tickled at his own perspicacity. "However, it makes no never mind. You shall still be rich any'ow. I shall send back all ze cattle what I steal from you."
"You will? That's generous, to say the least." And Jones couldn't help smiling.
"And planty more what I shall steal for you myself personal. Now zen, is all right? You 'ave ze money, ze lady, everyzing." Surely there was nothing lacking, Lopez tried to make it plain, for complete happiness. There were no bars now in the path of content.
Yet this stupid young American was asking questions still! "But have I everything?" he said, and, stooping, picked up the gun that Pell had dropped just before he was killed.
Lopez was amazed. "Have you?" he said, and pointed to Lucia. "There is it!"
"But is it all right?" the young man persisted.
A look of scorn came over the face of the bandit. "If it makes you 'appy, what you care? You should not look ze gift 'appiness in ze face. Go on, take her. Ees nice; you like 'er."
Still Gilbert hesitated. "But I can't now."
"And why not?" the bandit asked. He was thoroughly weary of Gilbert's dilly-dallying, so foreign to his own philosophy.
"Maybe sometime. By and bye; but not now."
"If she is all right by and bye, why the 'ell is she all wrong now?" cried Lopez, incensed.
"You're not as sorry as I am. God knows, I want her."
Lopez was desperate by this time. "Dios!" he fairly yelled. "You Americanos make me seek! I shall come 'ere and work like 'ell all day to make you 'appy, and the best I get is zis!" In his despair, he broke into Spanish: "Per dios mio!" Stupidity could go no farther! What fools these youngsters were!
"I don't mean to be ungrateful," Gilbert explained.
There was silence for a moment. Lopez strode up and down the room like an animal. He was hot and disgusted. What was the use, after all? Why didn't this young fellow, who had proved himself so brave and so worthy, show signs of the red blood in him? No Mexican would have acted like this—no Latin. He would make him get his happiness, if he had to die in the attempt. Suddenly a crafty look came into his eyes. He came straight toward Gilbert and snapped his fingers in his face.
"Bah!" he cried.
But all the young ranchman said was, "I'm sorry. You don't understand our ways."
"Shut up!" Lopez was genuinely infuriated now. "Ees no use for talk wiz such fools. You make me seek! Such ideas! Not fit for ze child to 'ave! Noblood, no courage! Only ze liver what are white and ze soul what are yellow." Gilbert winced at the word. "Americans! Bah! Fishes! Zat is all! Fishes what ees poor! Bah! For you I am finish!" And he snapped his fingers again. His face was purple with rage.
He heard Gilbert murmuring only, "I'm sorry!"
"Sorry! Ees all you can say—sorry! Ze coward! Ze fool! Ze fish what are poor! Ze damn doormat for everybody to walk from!" His arms were flying in the air. "All day I 'ave try to make ze man from you! It are no use. Ees no man in you. Only ze damn fool what are sorry! Bah! All right. You will not let me make you 'appy?Bueno!Zen I shall go back and make you on'appy and serve you damn good right!" He pointed to Lucia. "You will not take 'er?"
Gilbert had stood still during this tirade. "I've tried to explain—" he began once more.
"Bah!" cried Lopez. "Zen I take her!"
At last the American was roused. "You take her!" he cried.
"Sure! All day I 'ave want 'er. Ees ze first time in my life when I want woman all day and not—as favor I give 'er to you. Now, since you too big damn fool not to take 'er yourself, I take'er myself. And what you know about 'im?" He paused, and called out, "Pedro!"
Fearful at what might happen, Gilbert said, "Wait a minute." He thought swiftly. "You mean this?"
Lopez did not even answer him, so deep and abiding was his disgust. Instead, he said to his man, "Pedro, we go."
Gilbert watched his every motion. "You mean it?" he repeated.
Lopez laughed. "Everybody sink I am joker to-day. Pedro, take 'er," and nodded toward the terrified Lucia.
Pedro started to obey.
"I'm damned if you do!" cried Gilbert. "All day you've been trying to make me do things your way. I've had enough. This Mexican stuff may be all right in your country, but it won't go here!"
He threw a protecting arm around Lucia, who was panting and pale. He pulled his gun, and aimed it at Pedro's head. "Drop it!" he cried. Pedro obeyed like lightning. The gun fell to the floor with a vibrating crash.
Then Gilbert covered Lopez. "If this is a trick—" he cried.
"Trick for what?" the bandit wanted to know.He nodded to Pedro. "Get ze men. 'E will not shoot!"
Enraged beyond control, young Jones cried out: "For the last time! You mean it? I know what you've tried to do, and I'm grateful; but there's one thing that I must do!" Still the gun was leveled at the bandit's head.
"What's that?" nonchalantly.
"Protect her!" Gilbert said, drawing Lucia closer to his heart.
Lopez smiled again. "You will not shoot."
"I will—if I must!"
"Oh, ze wolf in ze sheep's overcoat!" the bandit smirked.
"I will! I warn you!"
"Gil!" cried Lucia, in mortal terror.
"It's your life or his, and I'm damned if it's yours! I'll give you just three seconds to get out of here! Now," and there was a fire in his eyes that could deceive no one, "you hear me? One—two ..."
"Don't shoot!" cried the bandit. And he laughed outright, almost doubling up with mirth.
"It was a trick?" Gilbert asked, beginning to see light.
"Si.Ah, my frand, I 'ave make ze man fromyou at last! Fine man what would kill for 'is woman!" He patted him on the shoulder.
Gilbert looked at him seriously, and the terrible realization came to him. "Iwouldhave killed you! Yes, Iwouldhave killed you—and you are my friend!"
Lopez saw how earnest he was. "I know. And it makes me very 'appy. For at last you 'ave became ze man of intelligence—like me. You could not leave 'er go now, could you?"
Gilbert looked at the relieved Lucia. "No!" he cried.
"You not question ze what you call Destiny, do you?" Lopez said.
"No."
"Zen for you I am Destiny, to beat 'ell!" He walked toward the door.
There was a whistle outside. Pedro had drifted into the night. The stars poured their miracle of beauty into the room as Pancho Lopez flung the door wide.
"Well, no more of zat!" he said. "I must go—to leave you to live and love! No, you shall not zank me," as Gilbert started to speak. "Ees I shall zank you, for 'ere in your quiet 'ome you 'ave give me ze most peaceful day I 'ave spendin years." He smiled his captivating smile, and for the first time took his sombrero from his head. He made a grand gesture. "Ees 'appy day for you. Ees 'appy day for 'er. Ees 'appy day for me!"
He made a very low bow. Then he stepped forward and touched Lucia on the arm, and led her to Gilbert. One hand was on the shoulder of each.
"You will name ze baby for me sometime—Pancho, or per'aps Panchita?" There was a wistful note in his deep voice, and a look of eagerness in his eyes. "Not ze first one, per'aps—but mebbe, like you say, by and bye—later? Eh?"
There was another whistle down the starlit road.
"Adios, my frands! And may you always be so 'appy like what I 'ave make you!"
He was gone. They heard the horses trotting away; and even in that moment of blinding and almost unendurable happiness, they were conscious of a tinge of sorrow.
For when would they ever see Pancho Lopez again?
On a wonderful afternoon, more than two years later, Lucia sat in the little Spanish courtyard that Gilbert had had built a few months after their marriage. The air was like golden wine, and she drank it in, bathed her soul in it, as though she could never find enough joy through these slow hours. How marvelous life had been to her in the last radiant months! She had realized the fulfillment of her most cherished dream, and looked down now at a tiny pink face that smiled at her.
"Oh, how sweet you are, Pancho!" she was saying. "I don't know what I ever did without you!" And she kissed the baby's cheek, which instantly took on a rosy hue.
There is an ecstasy that is close to tears; and in the happiness that Lucia had now found she wasexperiencing that high state of spiritual exaltation which made life almost unbearably beautiful. The autumn day itself, warm and glowing, was like a low fire on the hearth, toward which she stretched her hands. But there was a spiritual fire within her which needed no outward symbol; a flame that leaped and burned steadily.
Far off she heard the chug of a motor—not the Ford now, but a big touring-car that glistened in the sun. She knew that Gilbert would be returning from Bisbee at just about this hour, and she could hardly wait to see him turn in.
"Here's your daddy, Pancho!" she cried, when the car swung from the road, and Gilbert, hatless and sun-burned, leaped from the machine with all the eagerness of a great healthy boy.
He ran to his little family and kissed them both. "Gosh! but you look lovely, Lucia, my dear!" he exclaimed, standing back a bit so that he could have even a better view of her rosy cheeks, flashing eyes, and blowing hair. "This autumn weather agrees with you, doesn't it? And Pancho—he looks better than any baby around here—even Angela's."
He dropped down on the seat beside her, and looked with rapture at the child in her arms.
"Sold ten head of cattle this morning, and Montrose says he'll take as many more when I'm ready for him. Great, isn't it? 'Red' been over to-day?"
"Yes," answered Lucia; "and he said he was going to bring Angela and Panchita for an early supper. Says it's awful the way they've neglected us. We haven't seen them for two whole days, you know!"
They both laughed.
"Well, of course old 'Red' has more to do now that Jasper Hardy's dead; but after all, he can hire all the men he needs. Guess it's more a question of his wanting to stay around Angy and the kid, don't you think so?"
"He tries so hard to imitate you in everything. It makes me ache to see how happy he is, Gil. Aren't they the cutest couple you ever saw? And won't it be nice when Pancho and Panchita are old enough to play together?"
"You bet!" Gilbert agreed. He looked off at the quiet mountains, steadfast in their serenity, their crests seeming to kiss the sky. ThiswasGod's country, after all. Sometimes he could not believe that he had come so gloriously into his own. In the slow process of putting his ranch on a paying basis, after the turmoil of those weeks following thedeparture of Lopez, he had had the sustaining wonder of Lucia always beside him; and when little Pancho came upon the scene he felt that life was altogether too kind to him. He had worked unremittingly; and not only had he had his own affairs to absorb him, but "Red," after his marriage to Angela, was forever ringing him up on the telephone, or coming over and asking his advice and help. He was never too busy to throw out a word to his faithful friend; indeed, they had reached a coöperative basis so far as the two properties were concerned, and the arrangement could not have worked out better. The ranches touched each other, and after Jasper Hardy's death a year and a half before, it seemed wise to form a sort of partnership. There was no need of a written understanding; the two men simply said to each other that they would do certain things, install certain improvements, and share expenses and profits. Nothing on paper for them! No, siree, said "Red." He wouldn't hear of it. And everything had been as amicable as possible.
It was curious to see the change in Uncle Henry since the arrival of little Pancho. Gilbert got him a brand-new wheel chair—sent all the way to Phœnix for it—to celebrate the great event; andUncle Henry loved nothing better than to take the chap on his knee and give him a ride in the courtyard whenever Lucia would trust him to his care. He never complained now. He was deliriously happy, and with the new era of prosperity that had struck the household, he was given a Mexican boy as his own personal attendant, and he grew to take a kindly interest in him. He taught him to read and write English. Thus busily occupied, and loving Lucia because she loved his nephew so, his health improved, as well as his temper. He could even tolerate "Red's" harmonica; in fact, he often begged him to play it when the latter came over to midday dinner, and his legs had so improved that he could actually jiggle them to some merry tune.
"If you don't look out, you'll be dancin' soon!" "Red" used to say on these happy occasions. "You can shimmy now!"
"Shet your head!" Uncle Henry cried; but not angrily—not now. He laughed when he said it, and was secretly flattered that anyone thought he had such pep at his age and in his condition of semi-invalidism (for that is all it could be called now).
It was five o'clock when the Giddings familycame. They used the faithful little Ford for the short run; but they too had a big roadster, painted a flaming red, "to match the master's hair," Mrs. Quinn put it.
Angela, radiant in her motherhood, instantly compared notes with Lucia as to infant symptoms—not that anything was the matter with either child; but she loved to be ready for any emergency, and had a natural fear that Panchita might be taken ill in the night sometime; and was everything in her home medicine-chest, that should be?
Uncle Henry begged to take both children on his lap; and, holding them firmly, he made his boy push the chair here and there, got "Red" to play the once detested harmonica, and had a gay time of it all around the ranch house.
"We'd better eat indoors this afternoon," Lucia said. "I was going to spread the table under the pergola; but it may turn cooler."
It was not long before they were all seated at an extended table in the big living-room—that same room which had been the scene of tragedy and suffering for them, but was now so filled with joy.
"Mrs. Quinn sent over the cake," Lucia announced, as the table-boy brought in a huge dish, on which was a chocolate cake of magnificentproportions. It looked—and was—as light as a feather; a work of art to be proud of.
"Just like her, eh?" said "Red." "What would we do without Mrs. Quinn, the queen of 'em all!"
"That's what I say," Uncle Henry declared. He could hardly wait to get to the cake, for he knew what toothsome dainties the Irishwoman could cause to emerge from her oven; and often she sent him this or that sweet, "just to let 'im know she was livin' an' breathin'."
Suddenly there came a sound of hoof beats on the road; and through the open door, outlined against the flaming sunset, Gilbert could see two horsemen approaching, with pointed hats, and glistening buttons.
"Mexicans!" he cried. "What can they be doing here, now?" His mind rushed back to that terrible evening so long ago when Lopez had ridden up to the adobe, and changed the world for them all in almost the twinkling of an eye.
He got up from the table now, and "Red" followed him. Dusk was just descending, but Gilbert's sharp eyes recognized the first horseman even in the dimming light.
"It's Pancho Lopez!" he cried.
And sure enough, on a steed that looked likeSunday afternoon, with brand-new reins and bit, and in a suit that fit him to perfection, with gleaming spurs and shining buttons, the rakish and indomitable Pancho, his long-lost friend, returned to greet him. He could scarcely believe it. For since that memorable night when he had left them, to return to the interior of Mexico, never a word had he had from him. Meantime, the great happiness had come to him; and when the baby came into the world, he and Lucia had not forgotten the man who had been responsible for their joy. With one accord they named the boy Pancho. There was not the slightest doubt but that should be what he should be called. The only tragedy was that they had no way of letting the bandit know what they had done. Where was he? They did not know. When, if ever, would he return? They had no way of finding out. There was but one thing to do—wait. And they did. But often Gilbert had said to Lucia, "He has forgotten us, though we have never forgotten him—our friend."
Now, in the quiet, brooding autumn dusk he came to their doorstep, dismounted, lifted his hat, smiled that wonderful smile of his, and made a bow that any courtier might have been proud to make. Behind him, on a brown horse, was Pedro, hislieutenant—the same monosyllabic Pedro, faithful unto death, and now as clean as a whistle.
"Ah! my frand!" Pancho said, as he bowed again, "How glad am I to see you. You glad to see me, too, eh?"
Lucia also had come to the door; likewise Angela—but the latter was still a bit timid. Even Uncle Henry pushed his way to the sill, and sat like a lonely man in a gallery while those in the orchestra pressed about their favorite actor.
"Glad?" exclaimed Gilbert. "I could kiss you, Pancho! But where on earth have you been? Come in, and tell us everything."
He needed no urging. "Hongry as beeg bear!" he told them.
"Then sit right down," Lucia said, "There's plenty—far more than the last time you were here!" And they all laughed.
He came into the room, while Pedro took care of the horses.
"Hallo, Oncle Hennery," he greeted the old man in the wheel chair. "You look splendid! And 'allo, 'Red,'—zat's what zey call you—yes?" Then he saw the babies, and his eyes fairly popped from his head, "Well, well!" he cried, "Who 'ave zese leetle fellers!"
"They're not both fellers!" Angela made bold to say. "One's a girl—that one! She's mine!"
"Oh, ho! Leetle spitfire still!" Pancho laughed. He chucked her under her pretty chin. "So you marry ze man I pick for you, eh? Good! An' zis"—pointing to the baby—"zis ees better yet!"
"Look at mine!" the proud Lucia couldn't help saying. "Isn't he the image of his father?"
She held him up, and Lopez took his little hand in his. "Yes, I see what you mean," he said, carefully looking at the child. "Hees father's eyes—but not so much hair! What you call heem?"
"Guess!" said Gilbert.
"Could not," the Mexican answered.
"Only one guess!" Lucia begged.
"Could not t'ink," Lopez insisted.
"Well, then—you tell him, Gilbert," the mother said, turning to her husband.
"There could be only one name in all the world for that youngster," Gilbert said, and put his hand affectionately on his old friend's shoulder. "You ought to know it as well as I. Of course his name is—Pancho!"
The smile that came over the Mexican's face was beautiful to see. And was that the suggestion of a tear in his eye?
Long and long, and while everybody in the room remained perfectly still, he looked at the baby, whose tiny hands bobbed up and down—a fat, healthy youngster, fit as a fiddle, laughing, squirming, happy.
"For me you name him?" Lopez finally got out. "Oh, too good you are to me. Pancho! my own leetle boy! Pancho! 'Some' name, what you say, eh?"
And he pinched the child's cheek, tenderly as his mother would have done.
"And here's mine!" Angela, not to be outdone, piped up, presenting her child, also in her arms, to the delirious bandit.
"An' what heez name?"
"It ain't a he—it's a she, I told you!" Angela corrected.
"Ah! All kinds you 'ave 'ere, eh? Good! An' what'ername?"
"Can't you guess?" asked "Red," coming forward, smiling.
"A girl? What use I 'ave for girls?" laughed Pancho Lopez. "What you say now—what's ze name?"
"Why, Panchita! What else could we have named her?" Angela said.
You could have knocked the Mexican down with a straw. This time he was flabbergasted.
"You all too fine, too tender, too good to me," he said; and there was a softness in his speech that none of them had guessed could be there, save, perhaps, Gilbert.
"Oh, no," Jones said. "We wanted a little Mexican touch in our households. And we've never forgotten you, old friend. Tell me, where have you been all these months? We hoped to hear from you. But never a word or a sign from you. Aren't you just a little ashamed of yourself now, when you see how much we have been thinking of you?"
Lopez hung his head. "Yes, my frand, Iamashamed." Then he looked around at all of them. "I love you very much. I dream of you often, an' I say to myself. 'Some day I go back there, an' see my old frands which I make so 'appy.' But I bandit no more, an' travel I hate in trains. I reform. I settle down in Mexico City. I 'ave baby too, an' good wife, good mother. But I get 'omesick, 'ow you say, for you all, an' so I come down for what you call 'oliday, an'—'ere I am! You 'ave made me very 'appy to-night. I love you all even more seence I seezese cheeldrens.Madre Dio!How fine to 'ave cheeldren!"
"Ain't we ever goin' to finish our supper?" Uncle Henry wanted to know; but his tone was not querulous; it was plaintively sweet, and it held a note of invitation for everyone.
Laughing, they all sat down, but not before Pedro had been asked in. The frightened cook—the same who had been drunk that fatal evening when Pancho first arrived—scurried here and there, eager to serve the distinguished guest.
"You all right!" Lopez told him. "Never fear, so long as you bring me good 'ot coffee!"
And, happy as the babies, they all fell to; and it was Pancho himself who was asked to cut Mrs. Quinn's big cake.
"First time I use a knife in long while!" he laughed, as he stood up to the job. "Now we all eat much; an' mebbe give some to leetle Pancho and Panchita too, eh?"
THE END