"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! No blood, 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 from you 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. "I would have killed you! Yes, I would have 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 spend in 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?



CHAPTER XIV

WHEREIN AN OLD FRIEND RETURNS, AND THERE IS A JOYFUL REUNION

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 was experiencing 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. This was God'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 the departure 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 cooeperative 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 Phoenix for it—to celebrate the great event; and Uncle 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 family came. 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 magnificent proportions. 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 like Sunday 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, his lieutenant—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 'er name?"

"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, I am ashamed." 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 see zese 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



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