"All right," said De Lancey absently. "Wonder where old Aragon keeps that bee-utiful daughter of his—the one Don Joo-an was telling about. Have to stop on the way back and sample the old man'smescal."
"Nothing doing!" countered Hooker instantly. "Now you heard what I told you—there's two things you leave alone for sixty days—booze and women. After we cinch our title you can get as gay as you please."
"Oo-ee!" piped Phil, "hear the boy talk!" But he said no more of wine and women, for he knew how they do complicate life.
They rode to the east now, following the long, flat footprints of the burros, and by all the landmarks Bud saw that they were heading straight for the old Eagle Tail mine. At Old Fortuna the river turns west and at the same time four cañons come in from the east and south. Of these they had taken the first to the north and it was leading them past all the old workings that Kruger had spoken about. In fact, they were almost at the mine when Hooker swung down suddenly from his horse and motioned Phil to follow.
"There's some burros coming," he said, glancing back significantly; and when the pack-train came by, each animal piled high with broken wood, the two Americans were busily tapping away at a section of country rock. A man and a boy followed behind the animals, gazing with wonder at the strangers, and as Phil bade them a pleasant "Buenos días!" they came to a halt and stared at their industry in silence. In the interval Phil was pleased to note that the old man had only one eye.
"Que busca?" the one-eyed one finally inquired. "What are you looking for?"
And when Phil oracularly answered, "Gold!" the old man made a motion to the boy to go on and sat down on a neighboring rock.
"Do you want to buy a prospect?" he asked, and Bud glanced up at him grimly.
"We find our own prospects," answered Phil.
"But I know of a very rich prospect," protested Mendez; "very rich!" He shrilled his voice to express how rich it was.
"Yes?" observed Phil. "Then why don't you dig the gold out? But as for us, we find our own mines. That is our business."
"Seguro!" nodded Mendez, glancing at their outfit approvingly. "But I am a poor man—very poor—I cannot denounce the mine. So I wait for some rich American to come and buy it. I have a friend—a very rich man—in Gadsden, but he will not come; so I will sell it to you."
"Did you get that, Bud?" jested Phil in English. "The old man here thinks we're rich Americans and he wants to sell us a mine."
Bud laughed silently at this, and Mr. Mendez, his hopes somewhat blasted by their levity, began to boast of his find, giving the history of the Eagle Tail with much circumstantiality and explaining that it was a lostpadremine.
"Sure," observed Phil, going back to his horse and picking up the bridle, "that's what they all say. They'realllostpadremines, and you can see them from the door of the church. Come on, Bud, let's go!"
"And so you could this," cried Mendez, running along after them as they rode slowly up the cañon, "from the old church that was washed away by the flood! This is the very mine where thepadresdug out all their gold! Are you going up this way? Come, then, and I will show you—the very place, except that theAmericanoruined it with a blast!"
He tagged along after them, wheedling and protesting while they bantered him about his mine, until they finally came to the place—the ruins of the old Eagle Tail.
It lay spraddled out along the hillside, a series of gopher-holes, dumps, and abandoned workings, looking more like a badly managed stone-quarry than a relic ofpadredays. Kruger's magazine of giant powder exploded in one big blast, had destroyed all traces of his mine, besides starting an avalanche of loose shale that had poured down and filled the pocket.
Added to this, Aragon and his men had rooted around in the débris in search of the vein, and the story of their inefficient work was told by great piles of loose rock stacked up beside caved-in trenches and a series of timid tunnels driven into the neighboring ridges.
Under the circumstances it would certainly call for a mining engineer to locate the lost lead, and De Lancey looked it over thoughtfully as he began to figure on the work to be done. Undoubtedly there was a mine there—and the remains of an old Spanish smelter down the creek showed that the ground had once been very rich—but if Kruger had not told him in advance he would have passed up the job in a minute.
"Well," he said, turning coldly upon the fawning Mendez, who was all curves in his desire to please, "where is your prospecto?"
"Aqui, señor!" replied the Mexican, pointing to the disrupted rock-slide. "Here it was that theAmericanoCrooka had his mine—rich with gold—muchgold!"
He shrilled his voice emphatically, and De Lancey shrilled his in reply.
"Here?" he exclaimed, gazing blankly at the hillside, and then he broke into a laugh. "All right, my friend," he said, giving Bud a facetious wink; "how much do you want for this prospect?"
"Four hundred dollars," answered Mendez in a tone at once hopeful and apologetic. "It is very rich. Señor Crooka shipped some ore that was full of gold. I packed it out for him on my burros; but, I am sorry, I have no piece of it."
"Yes," responded De Lancey, "I am sorry, too. So, of course, we cannot buy the prospecto since you have no ore to show; but I am glad for this, Señor Mendez," he continued with a kindly smile; "it shows that you are an honest man, or you would have stolen a piece of ore from the sacks. So show us now where the gold was found, the nearest that you can remember, and perhaps, if we think we can find it, we will pay you to denounce the claim for us."
At this the one good eye of Cruz Mendez lighted up with a great hope and, skipping lightly over the rock-piles with his sandaled feet, he ran to a certain spot, locating it by looking across the cañon and up and down the creek.
"Here,señores," he pronounced, "is where the mouth of the old tunnel came out. Standing inside it I could see that tree over there, and looking down the river I could just see the smelter around the point. So, then, the gold must be in there." He pointed toward the hill.
"Surely," said De Lancey; "but where?"
The old Mexican shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"I do not know,señor," he answered; "but if you wish to dig I will denounce the claim for you."
"For how much?" inquired De Lancey guardedly.
"For one hundred dollars," answered Mendez, and to his delight the American seemed to be considering it. He walked back and forth across the slide, picking up rocks and looking at them, dropping down into the futile trenches of Aragon, and frowning with studious thought. His pardner, however, sat listlessly on a boulder and tested the action of his six-shooter.
"Listen, my friend," said De Lancey, coming back and poising his finger impressively. "If I should find the ledge the one hundred dollars would be nothing to me,sabe? And if I should spend all my money for nothing it would be but one hundred dollars more. But listen! I have known some false Mexicans who, when an American paid them to denounce a mine, took advantage of his kindness and refused to give it over. Or, if it turned out to be rich, they pulled a long face and claimed that they ought to be paid more. Now if—"
"Ah, no, no,señor!" clamored Mendez, holding up his hand in protest. "I am a poor man, but I am honest. Only give me the hundred dollars—"
"Not a dollar do you get!" cried De Lancey sternly; "not a dollar—until you turn over the concession to the mine. And if you play us false—" he paused impressively—"cuidado, hombre—look out!"
Once more Cruz Mendez protested his honesty and his fidelity to any trust, but De Lancey silenced him impatiently.
"Enough,hombre!" he said. "Words are nothing to us. Do you see my friend over there?" He pointed to Bud who, huge and dominating against the sky-line, sat toying with his pistol. "Buen'!He is a cowboy,sabe? A Texan! You know theTejanos, eh? They do not like Mexicans. But my friend there, he likes Mexicans—when they are honest. If not—no! Hey, Bud," he called in English, "what would you do to this fellow if he beat us out of the mine?"
Bud turned upon them with a slow, good-natured smile.
"Oh, nothing much," he answered, putting up his gun; and the deep rumble of his voice struck fear into the old man's heart.
Phil laughed and looked grimly at Mendez while he delivered his ultimatum.
"Very well, my friend," he said. "We will stay and look at this mine. If we think it is good we will take you to the mining agent and get a permit to dig. For sixty days we will dig, and if we find nothing we will pay you fifty dollars, anyway. If we find the ledge we will give you a hundred dollars. All right?"
"Sí, señor—sí, señor!" cried Mendez, "one hundred dollars!"
"When you give us the papers!" warned Phil. "But remember—be careful! The Americans do not like men who talk. And come to the hotel at Fortuna to-morrow—then we will let you know."
"And you will buy the mine?" begged Mendez, backing off with his hat in his hand.
"Perhaps," answered De Lancey. "We will tell you to-morrow."
"Buen'!" bowed Mendez. "And many thanks!"
"It is nothing," replied De Lancey politely, and then with a crooked smile he gazed after the old man as he went hurrying off down the cañon.
"Well," he observed, "I guess we've got Mr. Mendez started just about right—what? Now if we can keep him without the price of a drink until we get out papers we stand a chance to win."
"That's right," said Bud; "but I wish he had two good eyes. I knowed a one-eyed Mex up in Arizona and he was sure a thieving son of a goat!"
There are doubtless many philanthropists in the Back Bay regions of Boston who would consider the whipsawing of Cruz Mendez a very reprehensible act. And one hundred dollars Mex was certainly a very small reward for the service that he was to perform.
But Bud and Phil were not traveling for any particular uplift society, and one hundred pesos was a lot of money to Cruz Mendez. More than that, if they had offered him a thousand dollars for the same service he would have got avaricious and demanded ten thousand.
He came to the hotel very early the next morning and lingered around an hour or so, waiting for the American gentlemen to arise and tell him his fate. A hundred dollars would buy everything that he could think of, including a quantity ofmescal. His throat dried at the thought of it.
Then the gentlemen appeared and asked him many questions—whether he was married according to law, whether his wife would sign the papers with him, and if he believed in a hereafter for those who played false with Americans. Having answered all these in the affirmative, he was taken to theagente mineral, and, after signing his name—his one feat in penmanship—to several imposing documents, he was given the precious permit.
Then there was another trip to the grounds with a surveyor, to make report that the claim was actually vacant, and Mendez went back to his normal duties as a packer.
In return for this service as a dummy locator, and to keep him under their eye, the Americans engaged El Tuerto, the one-eyed, to pack out a few tools and supplies for them; and then, to keep him busy, they employed him further to build a stone house.
All these activities were, of course, not lost on Don Cipriano Aragon y Tres Palacios, since, by a crafty arrangement of fences, he had made it impossible for anyone to reach the lower country without passing through the crooked street of Old Fortuna.
During the first and the second trip of the strange Americans he kept within his dignity, hoping perhaps that they would stop at his store, where they could be engaged in conversation; but upon their return from a third trip, after Cruz Mendez had gone through with their supplies, he cast his proud Spanish reserve to the winds and waylaid them on the street.
"Buenas tardes, señores," he saluted, as they rode past his store, and then, seeing that they did not break their gait, he held up his hand for them to stop.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, speaking genially but with an affected Spanish lisp. "I have seen you ride past several times—are you working for the big company up at New Fortuna?"
"No,señor," answered De Lancey courteously, "we are working for ourselves."
"Good!" responded Aragon with fatherly approval. "It is better so. And are you looking at mines?"
"Yes," said De Lancey non-committally; "we are looking at mines."
"That is good, too," observed Aragon; "and I wish you well, but since you are strangers to this country and perhaps do not know the people as well as some, I desire to warn you against that one-eyed man, Cruz Mendez, with whom I have seen you riding. He is a worthless fellow—a verypeladoMexican, one who has nothing—and yet he is always seeking to impose upon strangers by selling them old mines which have no value.
"I have no desire to speak ill of my neighbors, but since he has moved into the brush house up the river I have lost several fine little pigs; and his eye, as I know, was torn from his head as he was chasing another man's cow. I have not suffered him on my ranch for years, he is such a thief, and yet he has the effrontery to represent himself to strangers as a poor but honest man. I hope that he has not imposed upon you in any way?"
"No; not at all, thank you," responded De Lancey, as Bud raised his bridle-reins to go. "We hired him to pack out our tools and supplies and he has done it very reasonably. But many thanks, sir, for your warning.Adios!"
He touched his hat and waved his hand in parting, and Bud grinned as he settled down to a trot.
"You can't help palavering 'em, can you, Phil?" he said. "No matter what you think about 'em, you got to be polite, haven't you? Well, that's the way you get drawn in—next time you go by now the old man will pump you dry—you see. No, sir, the only way to get along with these Mexicans is not to have a thing to do with 'em. 'No savvy'—that's my motto."
"Well, 'muchas gracias' is mine," observed De Lancey. "It doesn't cost anything, and it buys a whole lot."
"Sure," agreed Bud; "but we ain't buying nothing from him—he's the one particularhombrewe want to steer clear of, and keep him guessing as long as we can. That's my view of it, pardner."
"Oh, that's all right," laughed De Lancey, "he won't get anything out of me—that is, nothing but a bunch of hot air. Say, he's a shrewd-looking old guinea, isn't he? Did you notice that game eye? He kept it kind of drooped, almost shut, until he came to the point—and then he opened it up real fierce. Reminds me of a big fighting owl waking up in the daytime. But you just watch me handle him, and if I don't fool the old boy at every turn it'll be because I run out of bull."
"Well, you can hand him the bull if you want to," grumbled Bud, "but the first time you give anything away I'm going to pick such a row with the old cuss that we'll have to make a new trail to get by. So leave 'im alone, if you ever expect to see that girl!"
A close association with Phil De Lancey had left Bud not unaware of his special weaknesses, and Phil was undoubtedly romantic. Given a barred and silent house, shut off from the street by whitened walls and a veranda screened with flowers, and the questing eyes of Mr. De Lancey would turn to those barred windows as certainly as the needle seeks the pole.
On every trip, coming and going, he had conned the Aragon house from the vine-coveredcorredorin front to the walled-in summer-garden behind, hoping to surprise a view of the beautiful daughter of the house. And unless rumor and Don Juan were at fault, she was indeed worthy of his solicitude—a gay and sprightly creature, brown-eyed like her mother and with the same glorious chestnut hair.
Already those dark, mischievous eyes had been busy and, at the last big dance at Fortuna, she had set many heads awhirl. Twice within two years her father, in a rage, had sent her away to school in order to break off some ill-considered love-affair; and now a battle royal was being waged between Manuel del Rey, the dashing captain of theruralesstationed at Fortuna, and Feliz Luna, son of a richhaciendadodown in the hot country, for the honor of her hand.
What more romantic, then, than that a handsome American, stepping gracefully into the breach, should keep the haughty lovers from slaying each other by bearing off the prize himself?
So reasoned Philip De Lancey, musing upon the ease with which he could act the part; but for prudential purposes he said nothing of his vaunting ambitions, knowing full well that they would receive an active veto from Bud.
For, while De Lancey did most of the talking, and a great deal of the thinking for the partnership, Hooker was not lacking in positive opinions; and upon sufficient occasion he would express himself, though often with more force than delicacy. Therefore, upon this unexpected sally about the girl, Phil changed the subject abruptly and said no more of Aragon or the hopes within his heart.
It was not so easy, however, to avoid Aragon, for that gentleman had apparently taken the pains to inform himself as to the place where they were at work, and he was waiting for them in the morning with a frown as black as a thunder-cloud.
"He's on!" muttered Phil, as they drew near enough to see his face. "What shall we do?"
"Do nothing," growled Bud through his teeth; "you jest let me do the talking!"
He maneuvered his horse adroitly and, with a skilful turn, cut in between his pardner and Aragon.
"'S días," he greeted, gazing down in burly defiance at the militant Aragon; and at the same moment he gave De Lancey's horse a furtive touch with his spur.
"Buenos días señores!" returned Aragon, striding forward to intercept them; but as neither of the Americans looked back, he was left standing in the middle of the street.
"That's the way to handle 'im," observed Hooker, as they trotted briskly down the lane. "Leave 'im to me."
"It'll only make him mad," objected De Lancey crossly. "What do you want to do that for?"
"He's mad already," answered Bud. "Iwantto quarrel with him, so he can't ask us any questions. Get him so mad he won't talk—then it'll be a fair fight and none of this snake-in-the-grass business."
"Yes, but don't put it on him," protested De Lancey. "Let him be friendly for a while, if he wants to."
"Can't be friends," said Bud laconically; "we jumped his claim."
"Maybe he doesn't want it," suggested Phil hopefully. "He's dropped a lot of money on it."
"You bet he wants it," returned Hooker, with conviction. "I'm going to camp out there—the old boy is liable to jump us."
"Aw, you're crazy, Bud!" cried Phil; but Hooker only smiled.
"You know what happened to Kruger," he answered. "I'll tell you what, we got to keep our eye open around here."
They rode on to their mine, which was only about five miles from Fortuna, without discussing the matter further; for, while Phil had generally been the leader, in this particular case Kruger had put Bud in charge, and he seemed determined to have his way so far as Aragon was concerned. In the ordering of supplies and the laying out of development work he deferred to Phil in everything, but for tactics he preferred his own judgment.
It was by instinct rather than reason that he chose to fight, and people who follow their instincts are hard to change. So they put in the day in making careful measurements, according to the memoranda that Kruger had given them; and, having satisfied themselves as to the approximate locality of the lost vein, they turned back again toward town with their heads full of cunning schemes.
Since it was the pleasure of the Señor Aragon to make war on all who entered his preserves, they checkmated any attempt on his part to locate the lead by driving stakes to the north of their ledge; and, still further to throw him off, they decided to mark time for a while by doing dead work on a cut. Such an approach would be needed to reach the mouth of their tunnel.
At the same time it would give steady employment to Mendez and keep him under their eye, and as soon as Aragon showed his hand they could make out their final papers in peace and send them to the City of Mexico.
And not until those final papers were recorded and the transfer duly made would they so much as stick a pick into the hillside or show a lump of quartz.
But for a Spanish gentleman, supposed to be all supple curves and sinuous advance, Don Cipriano turned out somewhat of a surprise, for when they rode back through his narrow street again he met them squarely in the road and called them to a halt.
"By what right, gentlemen—" he demanded in a voice tremulous with rage,—"by what right do you take possession of my mine, upon which I have paid the taxes all these years, and conspire with that rogue, Cruz Mendez, to cheat me out of it? It is mine, I tell you, no matter what theagente mineralmay say, and—"
"Your mine, nothing!" broke in Hooker scornfully, speaking in the ungrammatical border-Mexican of the cowboys. "We meet one Mexican—he shows us the mine—that is all. The expert of the mining agent says it is vacant—we take it.Stawano!"[1]
[1](A shortening of está bueno—it is good—a common expression in cowboy Spanish.)
He waved the matter aside with masterful indifference, and Aragon burst into a torrent of excited Spanish.
"Very likely, very likely," commented Bud dryly, without listening to a word; "sí, señor, yo pienso!"
A wave of fury swept over the Spaniard's face at this gibe and he turned suddenly to De Lancey.
"Señor," he said, "you seem to be a gentleman. Perhaps you will listen to me. This mine upon which you are working is mine. I have held it for years, seeking for the lost vein of the old padres. Then the rebels came sweeping through the land. They stole my horses, they drove off my cattle, they frightened my workmen from the mine. I was compelled to flee—myself and my family—to keep from being held for ransom. Now you do me the great injustice to seize my mine!"
"Ah, no, señor," protested De Lancey, waving his finger politely for silence, "you are mistaken. We have inquired about this mine and it has been vacant for some time. There is no vein—no gold. Anyone who wished could take it. While we were prospecting we met this poor one-eyed man and he has taken out a permit to explore it. So we are going to dig—that is all."
"But,señor!" burst out Aragon—and he voiced his rabid protests again, while sudden faces appeared in the windows and wide-eyed peons stood gawking in a crowd. But De Lancey was equally firm, though he glimpsed for the first time the adorable face of La Gracia as she stared at him from behind the bars.
"No,señor," he said, "you are mistaken. The land was declared forfeit for non-payment of taxes by the minister of Fomento and thrown open for location. We have located it—that is all."
For a minute Don Cipriano stood looking at him, his black eyes heavy with rage; then his anger seemed to fall away from him and he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Very well," he said at last, "I perceive that you are a gentleman and have acted in good faith—it is only that that fellow Mendez has deceived you. Let it pass, then—I will not quarrel with you, my friend—it is the fortune of war. But stop at my store when you go by and come and see me. It is indeed lonely here at times, and perhaps I can pass a pleasant hour with you. My name,señor, is Don Cipriano Aragon y Tres Palacios—and yours?"
He held out his hand with a little gesture. "Philip De Lancey," replied that gentleman, clasping the proffered hand; and with many expressions of good-will and esteem, with a touching of hats and a wriggling of fingers from the distance, they parted, in spite of Bud, apparently the best of friends.
There are some people in this world with whom it seems impossible to quarrel, notably the parents of attractive daughters.
Perhaps, if Gracia Aragon had not been watching him from the window, Philip De Lancey would not have been quite so cordial with her father—at least, that was what Hooker thought, and he was so badly peeved at the way things had gone that he said it, too.
Then, of course, they quarreled, and one thing leading to another, Phil told Bud he had a very low way of speaking. Bud replied, that whatever his deficiencies of speech might be, he was not fool enough to be drawn in by a skirt, and Phil rebuked him again. Then, with a scornful grunt, Bud Hooker rode on in silence and they said no more about it.
It was a gay life that they led at night, for the Fortuna Hotel was filled with men of their kind, since all the staid married men had either moved across the line with their families or were under orders to come straight home.
In the daytime the hotel was nearly deserted, for every man in town was working for the company; but in the evening, when they gathered around the massive stove, it was a merry company indeed.
There were college men, full of good stories and stories not so good, world-wanderers and adventurers with such tales of the East and West as never have been written in books. But not a college boy could match stories with Phil De Lancey, and few wanderers there were who could tell him anything new about Mexico. Also, when it came to popular songs, he knew both the words and the tune. So he was much in demand, and Don Juan passed many drinks across the bar because of him.
In all such festivities the two pardners stayed together; Bud, with a broad, indulgent grin, listening to the end, and Phil, his eyes alight with liquor and good cheer, talking and laughing far into the night.
Outside the winter winds were still cold and the Mexicans went wrapped to the eyebrows; but within the merry company was slow to quit, and Phil, making up for the lonely months when he had entirely lacked an audience, sat long in the seat of honor and was always the last to go.
But on the evening after their spat Bud sat off to one side, and even Phil's sprightly and ventriloquistic conversation with the-little-girl-behind-the-door called forth only a fleeting smile.
Bud was thinking, and when engaged in that arduous occupation even the saucy little girl behind the door could not beguile him.
But, after he had studied it all out and come to a definite conclusion, he did not deliver an ultimatum. The old, good-natured smile simply came back to his rugged face; he rolled a cigarette; and then for the rest of the evening he lay back and enjoyed the show. Only in the morning, when they went out to the corral to get their horses, he carried his war-bag with him and, after throwing the saddle on Copper Bottom, he did the same for their spare mount.
"What are you going to pack out, Bud?" inquired Phil, and Bud slapped his canvas-covered bed for an answer. Then, with a heave, he snaked it out of the harness-room where it had been stored and slung it deftly across the pack-saddle.
"Why, what's the matter?" said De Lancey, when they were on their way. "Don't you like the hotel?"
"Hotel's fine," conceded Bud, "but I reckon I'd better camp out at the mine. Want to keep my eye on that Mexican of ours."
"Aw, he's all right," protested Phil.
"Sure," said Bud; "I ain't afraid he'll steal something—but he might take a notion to quit the country."
"Why, what for?" challenged De Lancey. "He's got his wife and family here."
"That's nothing—to a Mexican!" countered Bud. "But I ain't figuring on the excuse he'd give—that won't buy me nothing—what I want to do is to keep him from going. Because if we lose that Mex now, we lose our mine."
"And—"
"No 'and' to it," said Bud doggedly. "We ain't going to lose him."
"But if we did," persisted De Lancey, "why, then you think—"
"Your friend would get it," finished Hooker grimly.
"Ah, I see," nodded De Lancey, noting the accent on "friend." "You don't approve of my making friends with Aragon."
"Oh, that's all right," shrugged the big cowboy. "It won't make no difference now. Go ahead, if you want to."
"You mean you can get along without me?"
"No," answered Bud. "I don't mean nothing—except what I say. If you want to palaver around with Aragon, go to it. I'll round up Mendez and his family and keep 'em right there at the mine until we get them papers signed—after that I don't care what happens."
"Oh, all right," murmured De Lancey in a subdued tone; but if his conscience smote him for the moment it did not lead to the making of any sentimental New Year's resolutions, for he stopped when he came to the store and exchanged salutations with Aragon, who was lounging expectantly before his door.
"Buenos días, Don Cipriano!" he hailed. "How are you this morning?"
"Ah, good morning, Don Felipe," responded Aragon, stepping forth from the shadow of the door. "I am very well, thank you—and you?"
"The same!" answered Phil, as if it were a great piece of news. "It is fine weather—no?"
"Yes, but a little dry," said Aragon, and so they passed it back and forth in the accepted Spanish manner, while Bud hooked one leg over the horn of his saddle and regarded thehaciendawith languid eyes.
But as his gaze swept the length of the vine-coveredcorredorit halted for a moment and a slow smile came over his face. In the green depths of a passion-flower vine he had detected a quick, birdlike motion; and then suddenly, like a transformation scene, he beheld a merry face, framed and illuminated by soft, golden locks, peering out at him from among the blossoms. Except for that brief smile he made no sign that he saw her, and when he looked up again the face had disappeared.
Don Cipriano showed them about hismescalplant, where his men kept a continual stream of liquid fire running from the copper worm, and gave each a raw drink; but though De Lancey gazed admiringly at the house and praised the orange-trees that hung over the garden wall, Spanish hospitality could go no farther, and the visit ended in a series ofadiosesandmuchas graciases.
"Quick work!" commented Phil, as they rode toward the mine. "The old man has got over his grouch."
"Um," mused Bud, with a quiet, brooding smile; and the next time he rode into town he looked for the masked face among the flowers and smiled again. That was the way Gracia Aragon affected them all.
He did not point out the place to Phil, nor betray her by any sign. All he did was to glance at her once and then ride on his way, but somehow his heart stood still when he met her eyes, and his days became filled with a pensive, brooding melancholy.
"What's the matter, Bud?" rallied Phil, after he had jollied him for a week. "You're getting mighty quiet lately. Got another hunch—like that one you had up at Agua Negra?"
"Nope," grinned Bud; "but I'll tell you one thing—if old Aragon don't spring something pretty soon I'm going to get uneasy. He's too dog-goned good-natured about this."
"Maybe he thinks we're stuck," suggested De Lancey.
"Well, he's awful happy about something," said Bud. "I can see by the way he droops that game eye of his—and smiles that way—that he knows we're working for him. If we don't get a title to this mine, every tap of work we do on it is all to the good for him, that's a cinch. So sit down now and think it out—where's the joker?"
"Well," mused Phil, "the gold is here somewhere. He knows we're not fooled there. And he knows we're right after it, the way we're driving this cut in. Our permit is good—he hasn't tried to buffalo Mendez—and it's a cinch he can't denounce the claim himself."
"Maybe he figures on letting us do all the work and pay all the denouncement fees and then spring something big on old One-Eye," propounded Bud. "Scare 'im up or buy 'im off, and have him transfer the title tohim. That's the way he worked Kruger."
"Well, say," urged Phil, "let's go ahead with our denouncement before he starts something. Besides, the warm weather is coming on now, and if we don't get a move on we're likely to get run out by therevoltosos."
"Nope," said Bud; "I don't put this into Mendez's hands until I know he's our man—and if I ever do go ahead I'll keep him under my six-shooter until the last paper is signed, believe me. I know we're in bad somewhere, but hurrying up won't help none.
"Now I tell you what we'll do—you go to the mining agent and get copies of all our papers and send them up to that Gadsden lawyer. I'm going to go down and board with Mendez and see if I can read his heart."
So they separated, and while Phil stayed in town to look over the records Bud ate his beans andtortillaswith the Mendez family.
They were a happy little family, comfortably installed in the stone house that Mendez had built, and rapidly getting fat on three full meals a day. From his tent farther up the cañon Bud could look down and watch the children at play and see the comely Indian wife as she cooked by the open fire.
Certainly no one could be more innocent and contented than she was, and El Tuerto was all bows and protestations of gratitude. And yet, you never can tell.
Bud had moved out of the new house to furnish quarters for El Tuerto and had favored him in every way; but this same consideration might easily be misinterpreted, for the Mexicans are slow to understand kindness.
So, while on the one hand he had treated them generously, he had always kept his distance, lest they be tempted to presume. But now, with Phil in town for a few days, he took his meals with Maria, who was too awed to say a word, and made friends with the dogs and the children.
The way to the dog's heart was easy, almost direct, and he finally won the attention of little Pancho and Josefa with a well-worn Sunday supplement. This gaudy institution, with its spicy stories and startling illustrations, had penetrated even to the wilds of Sonora, and every Sunday as regularly as the paper came Bud sat down and had his laugh over the funny page.
But to Pancho, who was six years old and curious, this same highly colored sheet was a mystery of mysteries, and when he saw the big American laughing he crept up and looked at it wistfully.
"Mira," said Bud, laying his finger upon the smirking visage of one of the comic characters, "look, and I will tell you the story."
And so, with laborious care, he translated the colored fun, while the little Mendezes squirmed with excitement and leaped with joy. Even the simple souls of El Tuerto and Maria were moved the bycomicas, and Mendez became so interested that he learned the words by heart, the better to explain them to others.
But as for Mexican treachery, Bud could find none of it. In fact, finding them so simple-hearted and good-natured, he became half ashamed of his early suspicions and waited for the return of Phil to explain Don Cipriano's complacency.
But the next Sunday, as Bud lay reading in his tent, the mystery solved itself. Cruz Mendez came up from the house, hat in hand and an apologetic smile on his face, and after the customary roundabout remarks he asked the boss as a favor if he would lend him the page of comic pictures.
"Seguro!" assented Bud, rolling over and fumbling for the funny sheet; then, failing to find it instantly, he inquired: "What do you want it for?"
"Ah, to show to my boy!" explained El Tuerto, his one eye lighting up with pride.
"Who—Pancho?"
"Ah, no,señor," answered Mendez simply, "my boy in La Fortuna, the one you have not seen."
Bud stopped fumbling for the paper and sat up suddenly. Here was a new light on their faithful servitor, and one that might easily take away from his value as a dummy locator.
"Oh!" he said, and then: "How many children have you, Cruz?"
Cruz smiled deprecatingly, as parents will, and turned away.
"By which woman?" he inquired, and Bud became suddenly very calm, fearing the worst. For if Cruz was not legally married to Maria, he could not transfer the mining claim.
"By all of them," he said quietly.
"Five in all," returned Cruz—"three by Maria, as you know—two by my first woman—and one other. I do not count him."
"Well, you one-eyed old reprobate!" muttered Bud in his throat, but he passed it off and returned smiling to the charge.
"Where does your boy live now?" he asked with flattering solicitude, the better to make him talk, "and is he old enough to understand the pictures?"
"Ah, yes!" beamed Mendez, "he is twelve years old. He lives with his mother now—and my little daughter, too. Theirmamais the woman of themayordomoof the Señor Aragon—a bad man, very ugly—she is not married tohim."
"But with you—" suggested Bud, regarding him with a steely stare.
"Only by the judge!" explained Mendez virtuously. "It was a love-match and the priest did not come—so we were married by the judge. Then this badmayordomostole her away from me—the pig—and I married Maria instead. Maria is a good woman and I married her before the priest—but I love my other children too, even though they are not lawful."
"So you married your first wife before the judge," observed Bud cynically, "and this one before the priest. But how could you do that, unless you had been divorced?"
"Ah,señor," protested Mendez, holding out his hands, "you do not understand. It is only the church that can really marry—the judge does it only for the money. Maria is my true wife—and we have three nice children—but as I am going through La Fortuna I should like to show the picture paper to my boy."
Bud regarded him in meditative silence, then he rose up and began a determined search for the funny sheet.
"All right," he said, handing it over, "and here is apanocheof sugar for your little girl—the one in La Fortuna. It is nothing," he added, as Mendez began his thanks.
"But oh, you marrying Mexican," he continued, relapsing into his mother tongue as El Tuerto disappeared; "you certainly have dished us right!"
Not the least of the causes which have brought Mexico to the brink of the abyss is the endless quarrel between church and state, which has almost destroyed the sanctity of marriage and left, besides, a pitiful heritage of deserted women and fatherless children as its toll.
Many an honest laborer has peoned himself to pay the priest for his marriage, only to be told that it is not legal in the eyes of the law; and many another, married by the judge, has been gravely informed by thepadrethat the woman is only his mistress, and the children born out of wedlock.
So that now, to be sure that she is wedded, a woman must be married twice, and many a couple, on account of the prohibitive fees, are never married at all.
Cruz Mendez was no different from the men of his class, and he believed honestly that he was married to the comely Maria; but Hooker could have enlightened him on that point if he had cared to do it.
Bud was playing a game, with the Eagle Tail mine for a stake; and, being experienced at poker, he stood pat and studied his hand. Without doubt Mendez had lost his usefulness as a locator of the mine, since Maria was not his legal wife and could not sign the transfer papers as such. According to the law of the land, the woman now living with Aragon'smayordomowas the "legitimate" wife of the contract, and she alone could release the title to the mine once Mendez denounced the claim.
But Mendez had not yet denounced the claim—though for a period of some thirty days yet he had the exclusive privilege of doing so—and Bud did not intend that he should.
Meanwhile they must walk softly, leaving Aragon still to hug the delusion that he would soon, through hismayordomo, have them in his power—and when the full sixty days of Cruz Mendez's mining permit had expired they could locate the mine again.
But how—and through whom? That was the question that Bud was studying upon when Phil rode up the trail, and in his abstraction he barely returned his gay greeting.
"Well, cheer up, old top!" cried De Lancey, throwing his bridle-reins to the ground and striding up to the tent. "What ho, let down the portcullis, me lord seneschal! And cease your vain repining, Algernon—our papers are all O.K. and the lawyer says to go ahead. But that isn't half the news! Say, we had a dance up at the hotel last night and I met—"
"Yes—sure you did," broke in Bud; "but listen to this!" And he told him of El Tuerto's matrimonial entanglements.
"Why, the crooked devil!" exclaimed De Lancey, leaping up at the finish. "Oyez!Mendez!"
"Don't say a word," warned Bud, springing to the tent door to intercept him, "or you'll put us out of business! It is nothing," he continued in Spanish as Mendez came out of his house, "but put Don Felipe's horse in the corral when he is cool."
"Sí, señor—with great pleasure!" smirked Mendez, running to get the horse, and after he had departed Bud turned back and shook his head.
"We can't afford to quarrel with Mr. Mendez," he said; "because if Aragon ever gets hold of him we're ditched. Jest let everything run on like we'd overlooked something until the sixty days are up—then, if we get away with it, we'll locate the mine ourselves."
"Yes; but how?"
"Well, the's two ways," returned Bud; "either hunt up another Mexican citizen or turn Mexican ourselves."
"Turn Mexican!" shrilled Phil, and then he broke down and laughed. "Well, you're a great one, Bud," he chortled; "you sure are!"
"I come down here to get this mine," said Bud laconically.
"Yes, but you're a Texan—or was one!"
"That makes no difference," answered Bud stoutly. "The hot weather is coming on—revolution is likely to begin any time—and there ain't a single Mexican we can trust. Jest one more break now and we lose out—now how about it?"
"Who's going to turn Mexican," questioned De Lancey, "you or me?"
"Well—Iwill, then!"
"No, you won't, either!" cried Phil, forgetting his canny shrewdness. "I'll do it myself! I'm half Mexican already, I've been eating chili so long!"
"Now here," began Bud, "listen to me. I've been thinking this over all day and you jest heard about it. The man that turns Mexican is likely to get mixed up with the authorities and have to skip the country, but the other feller is in the other way—he's got to stay with the works till hell freezes over.
"Now you're an engineer and you know how to open up a mine—I don't. So, if you say so, I'll take out the papers and you hold the mine—or if you want toyoucan turn Mex."
"Well," said De Lancey, his voice suddenly becoming soft and pensive, "I might as well tell you, Bud, that I'm thinking of settling in this country, anyway. Of course, I don't look at Aragon the way you do—I think you are prejudiced and misjudge him—but ever since I've known Gracia I've—"
"Gracia!" repeated Bud; and then, stirred by some great and unreasoning anger, he rose up and threw down his hat pettishly. "I'd think, Phil," he muttered, "you'd be satisfied with all the other girls in the world without—"
"Now here!" shouted Phil, rising as unreasoningly to his feet, "don't you say another word against that girl, or I'll—"
"Shut your mouth, you little shrimp!" bellowed Bud, wheeling upon him menacingly. "You seem to think you're the only man in the world that—"
"Oh, slush, Bud!" cried Phil in disgust. "You don't mean to tell me you're in love with Gracia too!"
"Who—me?" demanded Hooker, his face suddenly becoming fixed and mask-like; and then he laughed hoarsely in derision and sank down on the bed.
Certainly, of the two of them, he was the more surprised at his sudden outbreak of passion; and yet when the words were spoken he was quick to know that they were true.
Undoubtedly, in his own way, he was in love—but he would never admit it, that he knew, too. So he sank down on the blankets and swore harshly, while De Lancey stared at him in unfeigned surprise.
"Well, then," he went on, taking Bud's answer for granted, "what're you making such a row about? Can't I go to a dance with a girl without you jumping down my throat?"
"W'y, sure you can!" rumbled Bud, now hot with a new indignation. "But after getting me to go into this deal against my will and swearing me to some damn-fool pledge, the first thing you do is to make friends with Aragon and then make love to his daughter. Is that your idea of helping things along? D'ye think that's the way a pardner ought to act? No, I tell you, it is not!"
"Aw, Bud," protested De Lancey plaintively, "what's the matter with you? Be reasonable, old man; I never meant to hurt your feelings!"
"Hurt my feelings!" echoed Hooker scornfully. "Huh, what are we down here for, anyway—a Sunday-school picnic? My feelings are nothing, and they can wait; but we're sitting on a mine that's worth a million dollars mebbe—and it ain't ours, either—and when you throw in with old Aragon and go to making love to his daughter you know you're not doing right! That's all there is to it—you're doing me and Kruger dirt!"
"Well, Bud," said De Lancey with mock gravity, "if that's the way you feel about it I won't do it any more!"
"I wish you wouldn't," breathed Bud, raising his head from his hands; "it sure wears me out, Phil, worrying about it."
"Well, then, I won't do it," protested Phil sincerely. "So that's settled—now who's going to turn Mexican citizen?"
"Suit yourself," said Bud listlessly.
"I'll match you for it!" proposed De Lancey, diving into his pocket for money.
"Don't need to," responded Bud; "you can do what you please."
"No; I'll match you!" persisted Phil. "That was the agreement—whenever it was an even break we'd let the money talk. Here's your quarter—and if I match you I'll become the Mexican citizen. All set? Let 'er go!"
He flipped the coin into the air and caught it in his hand.
"Heads!" he called, without looking at it. "What you got?"
"Heads!" answered Bud, and Phil chucked his money into the air again and laughed as it dropped into his palm.
"Heads she is again!" he cried, showing the Mexican eagle. "I never did see the time when I couldn't match you, anyway. So now, old socks, you can keep right on being a Texan and hating Mexicans like horny toads, and I'll denounce the Eagle Tail the minute the time is up. And I won't go near the Aragon outfit unless you're with me—is that a go? All right, shake hands on it, pard! I wouldn't quarrel with you for anything!"
"Aw, that's all right," mumbled Bud, rising and holding out his hand. "I knowed you didn't mean nothing." He sat down again after that and gazed drearily out the door.
"Say, Bud," began Phil, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "I've got something to tell you about that dance last night. If I didn't put the crusher on Mr. Feliz Luna and Manuel del Rey! Wow! I sure wished you were there to see me do it.
"This Feliz Luna is the son of an old sugar-planter down in the hot country somewhere. He got run out by therevoltososand now he's up here trying to make a winning with Gracia Aragon—uniting two noble families, and all that junk. Well, sir, of all the conceited, swelled-up little squirts you ever saw in your life he's the limit, and yet the old man kind of favors him.
"But this Manuel del Rey is the captain of theruralesaround here and a genuine Mexican fire-eater—all buckskin and fiercemustachios, and smells like chili peppers and garlic—and the two of 'em were having it back and forth as to who got the next dance with Gracia.
"Well, you know how it is at a Mexican dance—everybody is supposed to be introduced to everybody else—and when I saw those two young turkey-cocks talking with their hands and eyebrows and everybody else backing off, I stepped in close and looked at the girl.
"And she's some girl, too, believe me! The biggest brown eyes you ever saw in your life, a complexion like cream, and hair—well, there never was such hair! She was fanning herself real slow, and in the language of the fan that means: 'This don't interest me a bit!' So, just to show her I was wise, I pulled out my handkerchief and dropped it on the floor, and when she saw me she stopped and began to count the ribs in her fan. That was my cue—it meant she wanted to speak with me—so I stepped up and said:
"'Excuse me,señorita, but while the gentlemen talk—and if theseñora, your mother, will permit—perhaps we can enjoy a dance?'
"And say, Bud, you should have seen the way she rose to it. That girl is a sport, believe me, and the idea of those twonovioschewing the rag while she sat out the dance didn't appeal to her at all. So she gave me her hand and away we went, with all the old ladies talking behind their fans and Manuel del Rey blowing up like a volcano in a bunch ofcarambasor worse. Gee, it was great, and she could dance like a queen.
"But here's the interesting part of it—what do you think she asked me, after we'd had our little laugh? Well, you don't need to get so grouchy about it—she asked about you!"
"Aw!"
"Yes, she did! So you see what you get for throwing her down!"
"What did she ask?"
"Well, she asked—" here he stopped and laughed—"she asked if you were a cowboy!"
"No!" cried Bud, pleased in spite of himself. "What does she know about cowboys?"
"Oh, she's wise!" declared Phil. "She's been to school twice in Los Angeles and seen the wild West show. Yes, sir, she's just like an American girl and speaks English perfectly. She told me she didn't like the Mexican men—they were too stuck on themselves—and say, Bud, when I told her you were a genuine Texas cowboy, what do you think she said?"
"W'y, I don't know," answered Bud, smiling broadly in anticipation; "what did she say?"
"She said she'd like to know you!"
"She did not!" came back Bud with sudden spirit.
Though he laughed the thought away, a great burden seemed to be lifted from his heart, and he found himself happy again.
To an American, accustomed to getting things done first and talking about it afterward, there is nothing so subtly irritating as the Old World formalism, the polite evasiveness of the Mexicans; and yet, at times, they can speak to the point with the best of us.
For sixty days Don Cipriano Aragon had smiled and smiled and then, suddenly, as the last day of their mining permit passed by and there was no record of a denouncement by Cruz Mendez, he appeared at the Eagle Tail mine with a pistol in his belt and a triumphant sneer on his lips.
Behind him rode four Mexicans, fully armed, and they made no reply to De Lancey's polite "Buenos días!"
"Take your poor things," burst out Aragon, pointing contemptuously at their tent and beds, "and your low,peladoMexican—and go! This mine no longer stands in the name of Cruz Mendez, and I want it for myself! No, not a word!" he cried, as De Lancey opened his mouth to explain. "Nothing! Only go!"
"No,señor," said Hooker, dropping his hand to his six-shooter which hung low by his leg and stepping forward, "we will not go!"
"What?" stormed Aragon. "You—"
"Be careful there!" warned Bud, suddenly fixing his eyes on one of the four retainers. "If you touch that gun I'll kill you!"
There was a pause, in which the Mexicans sat frozen to their saddles, and then De Lancey broke the silence.
"You must not think, Señor Aragon," he began, speaking with a certain bitterness, "that you can carry your point like this. My friend here is a Texan, and if your men stir he will kill them. But there is a law in this country for every man—what is it that you want?"
"I want this mining claim," shouted Aragon, "that you have so unjustly taken from me through that scoundrel Mendez! And I want you to step aside, so that I can set up my monuments and take possession of it."
"The Señor Aragon has not been to theagente mineralto-day," suggested De Lancey suavely. "If he had taken the trouble he would not—"
"Enough!" cried Aragon, still trying to carry it off cavalierly. "I sent my servant to the mining agent yesterday and he reported that the permit had lapsed."
"If he had taken the pains to inquire for new permits, however," returned De Lancey, "he would have found that one has been issued to me. I am now a Mexican citizen, like yourself."
"You!" screamed Aragon, his eyes bulging with astonishment; and then, finding himself tricked, he turned suddenly upon one of his retainers and struck him with his whip.
"Son of a goat!" he stormed. "Pig! Is this the way you obey my orders?"
But though he raved and scolded, he had gone too far, and there was no putting the blame on his servant. In his desire to humiliate the hated gringos he had thrown down all his guards, and even De Lancey saw all too clearly what his intentions in the matter had been.
"Spare your cursing, Señor Aragon," he said, "and after this," he added, "you can save your pretty words, too—for somebody else. We shall remain here and hold our property."
"Ha! YouAmericanos!" exclaimed Aragon, as he chewed bitterly on his defeat. "You will rob us of everything—even our government. So you are a Mexican citizen, eh? You must value this barren mine very highly to give up the protection of your government. But perhaps you are acquainted with a man named Kruger?" he sneered.
"Hewould sell his honor any time to defraud a Mexican of his rights, and I doubt not it was he who sent you here. Yes, I have known it from the first—but I will fool him yet!
"So you are a Mexican citizen, Señor De Lancey?Bien, then you shall pay the full price of your citizenship. Before our law you are now no more than that poorpelado, Mendez. You cannot appeal now to your consul at Gadsden—you are only a Mexican! Very well!"
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled significantly.
"No," retorted De Lancey angrily; "you are right—I cannot appeal to my government! But let me tell you something, Señor Mexicano! An American needs no government to protect him—he has his gun, and that is enough!"
"Yes," added Bud, who had caught the drift of the last, "and he has his friends, too; don't forget that!" He strode over toward Aragon and menaced him with a threatening finger.
"If anything happens to my friend," he hissed, "you will havemeto whip! And now,señor," he added, speaking in the idiom of the country, "go with God—and do not come back!"
"Pah!" spat back Aragon, his hate for the pushing foreigner showing in every glance; "I will beat you yet! And I pray God therevoltososcome this way, if they take the full half of my cattle—so long as they get you two!"
"Very well," nodded Bud as Aragon and his men turned away, "but be careful you do not send any!
"Good!" he continued, smiling grimly at the pallid Phil; "now we got him where we want him—out in the open. And I'll just remember them fourpaisanoshe had with him—they're his handy men, the boys with nerve—and don't never let one of 'em catch you out after dark."
De Lancey sat down on a rock and wiped his face.
"Heavens, Bud," he groaned, "I never would have believed it of him—I thought he was on the square. But it just goes to prove the old saying—every Mexican has got a streak of yellow in him somewhere. All you've got to do is to trust him long enough and you'll find it out. Well, we're hep to Mr. Aragon, all right!"
"I have never seen one of these polite, palavering Mexicans yet," observed Bud sagely, "that wasn't crooked. And this feller Aragon is mean, to boot. But that's a game," he added, "that two can play at. I don't know how you feel, Phil, but we been kinder creeping and slipping around so long that I'm all cramped up inside. Never suffered more in my life than the last sixty days—being polite to that damn' Mexican. Now it's our turn. Are you game?"
"Count me in!" cried De Lancey, rising from his rock. "What's the play?"
"Well, we'll go into town pretty soon," grinned Bud, "and if I run across old Aragon, or any one of them four bad Mexicans, I'm going to make a show. And as for that big brindle dog of his—well, he's sure going to get roped and drugged if he don't mend his ways. Come on, let's ketch up our horses and go in for a little time."
"I'll go you!" agreed Phil with enthusiasm, and half an hour later, each on his favorite horse, they were clattering down the cañon. At the turn of the trail, where it swung into the Aragon lane, Bud took down his rope and smiled in anticipation.
"You go on ahead," he said, shaking out his loop, "and I'll try to put the catgut on Brindle."
"Off like a flash!" answered De Lancey, and, putting the spurs to his fiery bay, he went dashing down the street, scattering chickens and hogs in all directions. Behind came Bud, rolling jovially in his saddle, and as the dogs rushed out after his pardner he twirled his loop once and laid it skilfully across the big brindle's back. But roping dogs is a difficult task at best, and Bud was out of practise. The sudden blow struck Brindle to the ground and the loop came away unfilled. The Texan laughed, shifting in his saddle.
"Come again!" commented Bud, leaning sidewise as he coiled his rope, and as the womenfolk and idlers came rushing to see what had happened he turned Copper Bottom in his tracks and came back like a streak of light.
"Look out, you ugly man's dog!" he shouted, whirling his rope as he rode; and then, amid a chorus of indignant protests, he chased the yelping Brindle down the lane and through a hole in the fence. Then, with no harm done, he rode back up the street, smiling amiably and looking for more dogs to rope.
In the door of the store stood Aragon, pale with fury, but Bud appeared not to see him. His eyes were turned rather toward the house where, on the edge of the veranda, Gracia Aragon and her mother stood staring at his antics.
"Good morning to you, ladies!" he saluted, taking off his sombrero with a flourish. "Lovely weather, ain't it?" And with his tongue in his cheek and a roguish glance at Aragon, who was stricken dumb by this last effrontery, he went rollicking after his pardner, sending back a series of joyous yips.
"Now that sure does me good," he confided to Phil, as they rode down between cottonwoods and struck into the muddy creek. "No sense in it, but it gets something out of my system that has kept me from feeling glad. Did you see me bowing to the ladies? Some class to that bow—no? You want to look out—I got my eye on that gal, and I'm sure a hard one to head. Only thing is, I wouldn't like the old man for a father-in-law the way matters stand between us now."
He laughed boisterously at this witticism, and the little Mexican children, playing among the willows, crouched and lay quiet like rabbits. Along the sides of the rocky hills, where the peons had their mud-and-rock houses, mothers came anxiously to open doors; and as they jogged along up the river the Chinese gardeners, working in each separate nook and eddy of the storm-washed creek-bed, stopped grubbing to gaze at them inquiringly.
"Wonder what's the matter with them chinks?" observed Bud, when his happiness had ceased to effervesce. "They sit up like a village of prairie-dogs! Whole country seems to be on the rubber-neck. Must be something doing."
"That's right," agreed Phil. "Did you notice how those peons scattered when I rode down the street? Maybe there's been someinsurrectosthrough. But say—listen!"
He stopped his horse, and in the silence a bugle-call came down the wind from the direction of Fortuna.
"Soldiers!" he said. "Now where did they come from? I was in Fortuna day before yesterday, and—well, look at that!"
From the point of the hill just ahead of them a line of soldiers came into view, marching two abreast, with a mounted officer in the lead.
"Aha!" exclaimed Bud with conviction; "they've started something down below. This is that bunch of Federals that we saw drilling up at Agua Negra."
"Yep," admitted De Lancey regretfully; "I guess you're right for once—the open season for rebels has begun."
They drew out of the road and let them pass—a long, double line of shabby infantrymen, still wearing their last-year's straw hats and summer uniforms and trudging along in flapping sandals.
In front were two men bearing lanterns, to search out the way by night; slatternly women, the inevitable camp-followers, trotted along at the sides with their bundles and babies; and as the little brown men from Zacatecas, each burdened with his heavy gun and a job lot of belts and packs, shuffled patiently past the Americans, they flashed the whites of their eyes and rumbled a chorus of "Adios!"
"Adios, Americanos!" they called, gazing enviously at their fine horses, and Phil in his turn touched his hat and wished them all God-speed.
"Poor devils!" he murmured, as the last tottering camp-followers, laden with their burdens, brought up the rear and a white-skinned Spanish officer saluted from his horse. "What do those littlepelónesknow about liberty and justice, or the game that is being played? Wearing the same uniforms that they had when they fought for Diaz, and now they are fighting for Madero. Next year they may be working for Orozco or Huerta or Salazar."
"Sure," muttered Bud; "but that ain't the question. If the's rebels in the hills, where do we get off?"