XIII

"The jade—coquetting openly on the highroad!" cried the Senora furiously, stepping out from the shadow of the wall after the Captain had disappeared down the road.

"Will she stop at nothing? It's true, she loves him! What would Don Felipe do had he witnessed what she had just seen?" and she shuddered as she paused breathlessly before the high iron gate, her cheeks aglow and her eyes flashing with indignation. Cautiously pushing open the gate which stood ajar, she paused for an instant on the inside, casting her eyes nervously about her in search of Chiquita, but seeing no one, she advanced slowly along the walk leading in the direction of the house. She had not far to go before she came upon the object of her quest, seated on a rough stone bench in the shade of a thick cluster of tamarisk bushes which grew close to the wall.

The surprise Chiquita felt on seeing the Senora standing before her so unexpectedly, caused her to let fall the book which she was vainly endeavoring to read—an action which the Senora regarded as an admission of her guilt; and she exulted in her evident embarrassment.

The episode of the rose had caused her to quite forget her mission for the moment. From her general air of excitement, flushed face and flashing eyes, Chiquita rightly conjectured that something unusual had happened and that an outburst of some sort or other was imminent. It came like an explosion.

"Holy Virgin!" she cried, eyeing Chiquita critically. "What is the meaning of this; dressed in your very best? Is this the Sabbath, or one of the blessed Saints' days, or perhaps a Palm-Sunday that you should array yourself thus? Mother of God! when has it become the fashion for young ladies to disport themselves in their best clothes on common, ordinary week days? Why, 'tis not even a Fish-Friday! Merciful Heaven! to what are we coming?" she gasped between breaths, clasping her hands and glancing heavenward. "Do such dresses grow upon bushes that they are so easily obtained? Doubtless," she concluded with withering sarcasm, "when they are worn threadbare as they soon will be owing to such constant usage, you will purchase others with those golden pesos which you earned so recently."

Chiquita, accustomed to the Senora's outbursts, did not deign an immediate reply, but sat quietly fanning herself, a faint smile wreathing her lips; she was thoroughly enjoying the Senora's discomfort. What would not the latter give to know something concerning those pesos? Chiquita's composure under the fire of her words only tended to increase her irritation.

"Oh, I know why you have thus suddenly turned the peacock! You do not deceive me! You have arrayed yourself thus for the grand Senor—Capitan Forest."

"Bah!" ejaculated Chiquita composedly, as though nothing unusual were taking place. "Is that all you have to say Dona Fernandez?"

"All! Is that not enough? Holy God!" she cried with increasing vexation. "You are in love—in love, I say!" A ripple of laughter bubbled over the two rosy petals of Chiquita's lips, revealing the pearly whiteness of her teeth. Now that she realized the real cause of the Senora's anger, it was impossible to become angry herself. The Senora, however, was by no means abashed by Chiquita's indifference, and vigorously renewed the attack.

"So our little ring-dove is in love, is she?" she continued mockingly, strutting back and forth before her. "You think Capitan Forest will notice you in that finery—that he will fall in love with you and will marry you, and that you will become a grand lady like the Senorita Lennox and ride in a fine carriage for the rest of your days. Mercedes Dios! and all because you have succeeded in turning the heads of a few country bumpkins that hang about the place casting sheep's-eyes at you. Ha, ha, ha!" she laughed derisively. "Believe me, when Capitan Forest makes up his mind to marry, he will not stoop so low to pick up so little."

"Dona Fernandez!" said Chiquita sharply rising from the bench with an ominous look in her eyes.

"Foolish child," Senora went on without heeding her, "to imagine that some day your hands will be white like a lady's! I suppose you have nothing further to do to-day but to pick flowers?" she added, pausing for breath.

"I have never worried about my color, Dona Fernandez," replied Chiquita indignantly. "Indeed, I sometimes think it holds its own better than that of some persons I might mention."

"Holy Mother! how your tongue runs on! Am I not to be allowed to say anything? Oh, you do not deceive me! I saw you give him the rose as I came here. If he's sensible, he'll throw it away."

Chiquita laughed derisively. "Perhaps it is well for the world that all people are not so sensible as you are, Dona Fernandez," and her fan closed with a sudden snap. "So this is the advice you came to give me, Dona Fernandez? How very considerate of you!"

Her words recalled the Senora to the purpose of her coming. For some time she paced up and down before Chiquita without replying. Then stopping and facing her, and watching closely for the effect her words would have upon her, she said: "I came to tell you—that Don Felipe Ramirez has returned."

Chiquita started. "Don Felipe here?"

"Aye. He's stopping at my house, and I came to warn you that perhaps it would be well to be cautious and exercise a little more self-control than is your wont when in his and Capitan Forest's presence."

The Senora was satisfied with her morning's work; her words had had their effect. Besides, had she not had her say—unburdened her soul of many things which she had long been dying to give utterance to? All things considered she had scored.

"A Dios, Senorita," she added sarcastically, her black eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction as with mock courtesy she bowed and turned, leaving Chiquita silent and motionless, her eyes cast on the ground and lost in thought.



XIV

"Don Felipe here? The coward, the cur! How dare he return?" she cried with a sudden outburst, her words ringing with indignation and resentment. She impatiently tapped the palm of her hand with her fan as she began to realize what his return might mean to her.

She knew that Senora had come to warn her not on her own account, but solely on Don Felipe's. Knowing as she did the reckless character of the man, she thoroughly realized the danger, and knew that she must be on her guard, not only for her own sake, but for Captain Forest's as well. Like the bird of ill omen that he was, his presence boded no good to her. Already she felt his baleful shadow fall across her path.

The unusual attention which Chiquita had begun to pay to her personal appearance did not escape the observant eye of Padre Antonio. Knowing the nature of woman as few men did, he was wise enough not to question her, experience having taught him that the majority of women can only keep a secret for a certain length of time. He smiled and admired, or twitted her with the simple remark: "For whom are we dressing this morning, Chiquita mia?" But she only laughed in reply, or shaking her finger at him with a mysterious air, would say: "What woman would not dress for Padre Antonio?" But Padre Antonio was not so innocent as he tried to appear. Instinct, reenforced by long experience, told him that these were the first real symptoms of love which his wild little Indian girl, as he chose to call her, had shown.

He had always suspected that she never really cared for Don Felipe, and had done his best to break off the engagement before the catastrophe had overtaken the latter; but this was different. That of which he was loath to think, yet which he knew must inevitably happen, had come to pass.

His knowledge of human nature told him that she had at last met the man worthy of her love, but, he asked himself, would Captain Forest, of a different race and reared under totally different conditions, reciprocate that love? He could not endure the thought that his little girl might be made unhappy should the Captain fail to respond to her love.

He, too, had seen Chiquita give him the rose from his study window which overlooked the garden. So, when the sermon upon which he was engaged was completed, he quietly descended to the garden with the intention of administering to her a gentle admonition as well as giving her a little wholesome advice. Chiquita, hearing the sound of his measured tread on the gravel as he approached along the pathway, reseated herself on the bench and began to fan herself unconcernedly.

What a picture she made against the pale plumy branches of the tamarisk, thought Padre Antonio.

"I thought I heard voices," he said, seating himself beside her. "Has any one been here?"

"Dona Fernandez has just gone," replied Chiquita absently. "She has been giving me some of her advice."

"Advice?" echoed Padre Antonio, realizing the moment of his arrival to be most opportune. "That's just what I have come to give you, my child—advice!"

"What! You, too, Padre?" she exclaimed petulantly, looking at him inquiringly. "Dios! what have I done that everybody comes to give me advice when I have so many other things to think of?"

"Chiquita," slowly began Padre Antonio, laying his hand gently on her own, "I have always known you to be wiser than most women, the result no doubt, of your early life and training in the wilds where people must live by their wits for self-preservation if for nothing else." He paused that he might the better collect his thoughts. She guessed what was coming and began toying with her fan, an arch smile playing about her delicate, sensitive mouth as she regarded him out of the corners of her large dark eyes.

"Chiquita," he continued, "I do not like your extravagance. Have a care, child, lest you become addicted to vanity."

"Again, just what the Senora said! Am I so vain as all that, Padre mio, that you should be obliged to remind me of it?"

"Then why this continual display?" he asked pointedly. "You never used to show such consideration for your admirers." She felt that it would be not only foolish, but worse than useless to attempt to fence about the truth with him.

"Ah, Padre mio," she sighed softly, blushing and laying her hand lightly on his shoulder and looking up into his face with deep lustrous eyes that softened with her words, "you—you forget—that I have never been in love before."

"In love!" echoed Padre Antonio in turn. "Ah! I knew it was that," and into his eyes there came an expression of tenderness and a far-away look as though the word recalled memories of other days. Memories which music or the glories of the sunset, or the cooing of the wood-dove at eventide might awaken within the soul. The sunlight played along the path at their feet. The breeze wafted the fragrance of the roses about them and a linnet, perched on the swaying branch of a tree overhead, gave voice to his song, singing of the joy of life. Again he sighed, and Chiquita looking up quickly, saw in his eyes that which she had never suspected.

"Padre mio," she said at length, lowering her eyes and slowly opening and shutting her fan, "have—have you ever been in love?"

"My child!" he cried with a start, suddenly recollecting where he was. "You forget what I am! What are you thinking of?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" she returned quietly. "Only it's so—so sweet to be in love, Padre mio. And yet so—"

"So what, my child?" he interrupted hurriedly, as if to get through with the subject as quickly as possible.

"So terrible," she answered.

"So terrible?"

"Yes, terrible, Padre mio, for I never knew before how ugly I am."

"My poor child, you have quite lost your head!" he answered sympathetically.

"Ah, no," she said rising and facing him, "you do not understand; I have a most dangerous rival. To win the Senor I am compelled to use every means and strategy within my power. Can you not see?" she continued passionately; "she has everything; I have nothing. She is not only beautiful, but rich, and Blessed Virgin, what dresses she has, and jewels enough to cover an altar-cloth!"

"My child!" he cried. "You are merely jealous of the Senorita's beauty. For shame, that you should set such store upon worldly things!"

"Padre mio, you would not have your little Chiquita unhappy, would you?" she went on without heeding his words, a beseeching tone in her voice. "Should I fail to win Captain Forest's love, my heart will break!" She stood with downcast eyes before him, an expression of pain on her face.

"Ah, yes, my child, I understand," he answered compassionately, also rising from the bench. "Your temptation is great. Beware of pride and the vanities of this world, for he that exalteth himself shall be humbled.

"Chiquita," he continued earnestly, "my greatest care in bringing you up has ever been to keep you the pure and simple being that you were when you came to me. Do not forget—God demandeth that the souls which he gave into our keeping should be returned unto him again in the same pure unblemished state that we received them. Therefore, take heed, my child, for although God has endowed you with great beauty of both mind and body, do not foolishly imagine that, by arraying yourself in the vanities of this world, you can add an atom to the natural beauty He has bestowed upon you already. Be but pleasing in God's sight and it must follow that you will please all men as well."

"Oh! you really do think me beautiful, Padre?" she cried, a radiant look on her face.

"My child, my child, you do not listen to what I have to say!" he groaned despairingly.

"Oh, yes, I do, Padre mio! But you forget that, when God endowed woman with a soul, he gave her a heart as well. Willingly we render our souls unto God, but our hearts belong to men." The logic of her argument was too much for Padre Antonio, and he laughed as she had never seen him laugh before.

"Verily," he said at length, wiping the tears from his eyes and reseating himself on the bench, "the spirit and flesh must ever contend for the mastery of the soul on earth; it is our fate—the good Lord intended that it should be so."

"Ah, yes," she returned. "It's not always the good that seems to please us most in this world."

"Aye, verily!" he rejoined, relapsing into silence. Again the linnet gave voice to his song, and the cooling breeze sighed among the tamarisk plumes that waved about their heads.

"Do you remember when you first came to me, Chiquita mia?" he asked at last.

"That was ten years ago, Padre."

"I then thought," he went on, "that the good Lord had sent you to me to make a little angel out of you, but—"

"Ah, Padre mio," she interrupted, "it's too bad! I'm afraid I'm still the little devil that I was!" and laughing, she rose from her seat and passing around to his end of the bench, stood beside him and began to pull the leaves from a rose-bush.

"Padre mio," she said softly, looking down at him with mischievous lights dancing in her eyes, "you don't really regret that I have remained what I am, do you?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to infer that, my child!" he answered with a note of reproach in his voice, looking up into her shadowy, downcast face. She gave a little laugh, and tapping him gently on one shoulder with her fan, said: "Do you know what you are, Padre mio?"

"What, my child?" he asked innocently, his face brightening at the question.

"You're the dearest old goose that ever lived!" and bending over him, she kissed him lightly on the crown of his head before he could prevent it.

"Chiquita, my child—you're too impulsive! Have I not repeatedly forbade you—" but the sound of her laughter and retreating footsteps on the pathway leading to the house was the only response his words invoked. "Dios!" he exclaimed, recovering his breath. "I sometimes think that God created man, but woman—the devil! They never listen to anything one has to tell them!"

Chiquita went quietly to her room, walked straight to her bureau and opening the lower drawer, took out a small pistol which lay concealed beneath a chemise in one corner. Examining it carefully with the practiced eye and hand of one who has been accustomed to the use of firearms all her life, she loaded it and then placed it inside her breast. She knew Don Felipe as no one else did, and thoroughly realized the danger that threatened her. From that hour, waking or sleeping, the weapon must never leave her.



XV

Who was Richard Yankton? Many had asked that question, foremost of whom was Dick himself; but years of unremitting search had failed to reveal his origin.

In the spring of 1870 Colonel Yankton, who with his regiment of cavalry was stationed in Arizona, came one day upon the smoldering remains of an immigrant train—the work of the Apache Indians.

The scalped and mutilated remains of men, women and children lay scattered over the plain where they had fallen. It was a melancholy sight; one with which the Colonel had long become familiar during years of campaigning against the Red man. His scouts had picked up the trail and just as he was about to start in pursuit of the depredators, he fancied he heard a cry, causing him to pause and listen.

Presently the cry was repeated, and riding in the direction whence the sound proceeded, he came upon a little child of about two and a half years of age sitting on the ground among the sage-brush; the sole survivor of the disaster. It was a pretty, rosy-cheeked, dark-eyed baby—a boy. He was frightened at being left alone so long and was crying bitterly. But when he saw the Colonel looking down at him from the back of his horse, the little fellow brightened up. He forgot his troubles, and ceasing to cry, began to laugh and stretch out his tiny hands, and in his incoherent baby way, began to babble.

"Horsie, horsie, widie!" he cried, in the most beseeching, irresistible manner, just as he must have been accustomed to ask the men of the camp for a ride whenever they appeared with a horse. In an instant the Colonel was on the ground and had the little fellow in his arms. As no clew to the child's parents or relatives was ever found, the Colonel adopted him, giving him his own name.

Dick received an excellent schooling up to his sixteenth year and probably would have entered West Point had not his benefactor suddenly died. Strange to say, the life of a soldier with which he had become familiar during the years spent at the different posts assigned to the Colonel, did not appeal to him. The restraint and routine of the life appeared irksome, and a year later the then great undeveloped West numbered him among her sons.

Indeed, as subsequent events proved, it was fortunate that he had renounced the life of a soldier. The success which later attended his efforts in the search for wealth far overshadowed that which he probably would have attained in the army, especially as his heart was not in the life.

Dick was a born miner and prospector, and passed successively through New Mexico, Arizona and California in his search for the precious metals, finally drifting into old Mexico where he met with his first important success.

It seemed as though he were directed by an invisible power. For weeks and months at a time he would idle—read and smoke and ride or travel. Then suddenly the spirit would move him, and without saying a word to any one, he would quietly slip away into the mountains by himself in whichever direction he seemed most impelled to go. Where other men paused and lingered in the hope of finding gold, he passed on and discovered the metal where others least expected to find it.

Perhaps one of the chief reasons for his success lay in the fact that he did not assert his own will by planning a systematic search for the metal, but allowed himself to be drawn by that mysterious, attractive affinity that existed between him and the precious metals. Dick became aware of the existence of this strange affinity early in his career and acted upon it. Already at the age of thirty he possessed two of the greatest gold and silver mines in the world and began to find it difficult to know what to do with his income.

The fact that he cared nothing for money beyond the simple comforts of life which it afforded, was perhaps another inscrutable reason why he was permitted during the course of the next eight years to add two more rich mines to his possessions.

At thirty-eight he owned four mines, the possession of any one of which would have caused the average man to see visions. For example, Dick would have regarded Colonel Van Ashton's fortune, handsome though it was, as mere loose change in his pocket.

But this modern young Croesus was not unworthy of the fortune that had been showered upon him so bountifully as the majority of men who acquire great wealth invariably become. He not only constantly strove to improve his mind, but maintained a pension-roll and list of public charities and beneficiaries that would have done credit to a small European Principality. In short, he thoroughly realized what the responsibility of great wealth entailed.

True to his supersensitive nature and fastidious taste, he always dressed in the height of fashion. This was the only extravagance he allowed himself which, considering his fortune, was reasonable enough.

Experience had taught him that the majority of men and women were fakirs pure and simple, whose chief motives were prompted solely by self-interest; and any suggestion to reform the world he invariably greeted with laughter. In fact, the world in his opinion, was not worth reforming; yet, in spite of this melancholy truth, he had remained human to the core, and took a live interest in that world of men which he knew to be nothing more nor less than a great gamble. And therein lay the chief distinction between him and Captain Forest, for they were otherwise strangely alike. Dick was still more or less interested in molding the clay—the Captain had done with it. Possibly because the latter had fallen heir to that which Dick had acquired through effort and, therefore, set less store upon it.

There were few countries which he had not visited. After making his first rich strike, he attempted to settle in New York, but was unable to do so. To use his own words, "he was only able to sit down, but there wasn't room enough for him to stretch his arms and legs."

During his travels he had collected numerous works of art; tapestries, paintings, marbles and bronzes by the best modern masters, which he placed in a beautiful Spanish hacienda especially designed by one of the foremost architects of the day. The house occupied the site of an old Spanish rancho situated in a beautiful valley about ten miles from Santa Fe and was generally conceded to be the most attractive estate in Chihuahua, though not the largest and most valuable; Don Felipe Ramirez possessed that. Both house and garden were a living monument to Dick's natural refinement and good taste. There were no jarring notes or lavish, tawdry display, the pitfalls into which the parvenue and petit bourgeois invariably fall. This was his only hobby, and just why he indulged it, he himself would have found it difficult to answer, for in reality, he cared but little for it.

He regarded it chiefly as a precaution against old age. He would continue to improve and beautify the place until the day arrived when he would retire from the world to pass the few remaining years of life amid the quiet and seclusion which the country afforded. And he often pictured himself when alone and musing over his cigar, as a lonely, white-haired patriarch, without offspring to perpetuate his name, seated in the center of his patio, smiling benignly upon the frolicsome little brown children of his Indian retainers as they laughed and disported themselves about him.

"Ah!" cries the world. "Mr. Yankton has a history!" Of course. What man or woman has not, even though they dare not admit it? Had he loved too much or too little? There were even some who attributed that exquisite vein of melancholy in his nature to the shadow of a married woman. Was he haunted by the fear that some fair, false one might marry him for his fortune, not for himself? Or, was his aversion to marriage due solely to the fact that the right woman had not yet arrived?

These and many other questions had been asked and thoroughly discussed by the matrons and daughters of Santa Fe, especially by the latter, to all of whom he had made love and sent flowers and serenaded in turn until, out of sheer desperation, they called alternately upon God and the devil to keep or punish this gay Lothario who loved all and yet none, and who gave such exquisite fiestas in his beautiful hacienda.

Now it so chanced that, at the same hour Don Felipe was conducting Blanch and Bessie to the canon, Dick was returning to Santa Fe on horseback from his hacienda where he had passed the night. As there was no particular reason why he should reach the Posada before noon, he decided to indulge his fancy by lingering in the cooling shade of the canon close to the river's edge, where he might listen to the voices of the waters as they went singing by him on their way to the old town and thence to the sea.

He accordingly dismounted, and after lighting a fresh cigar, stretched himself at full length upon the grass which grew on the river's bank, allowing his horse to graze at will. Just behind him rose the abrupt wall of the canon some thirty or forty feet in height which, at this hour of the morning, cast a deep shadow over the spot where he lay and halfway across the river in front of him. It was just the sort of place for an Indian or one of Dick's nature to linger in and dream and muse. The tips of the tall grass and reeds which grew close to the water's edge, swayed gently in the fresh morning breeze. The song of the finch and linnet issued from the thick, low willow copse growing along the river's banks.

How peaceful it was, and how sweetly the waters sang! No wonder the Indian prized the peace and beauty of nature above all else. What was his hacienda to this? He was never really happy when the roof of a house intervened between himself and the sky.

Suddenly his attention was attracted by a noise overhead, and glancing upward, he sprang to his feet just in time to avoid a mass of earth and stones that came rolling down over the face of the cliff and fell on the very spot where he had been lying. The next instant, before he had time to realize what was happening, a soft, fluffy mass dropped into his arms with an impact that nearly brought him to his knees. For some seconds Dick looked hard at the object in his arms in order to assure himself that he really was awake and not still dreaming in the grass by the side of the river.

There was no doubt about it; the woman had arrived.

Miss Van Ashton lay quite still in his arms; she had fainted. For the first time in his life, a panic seized him.

"Miss Van Ashton!" he cried excitedly, bending over her. She seemed like nothing, as light as a feather as she lay so still and pale in his strong arms. It seemed as though he could have held her thus forever, and he was almost beginning to wish that he might as he watched the pallor of her face slowly give way to its natural pink and white glow, delicate as the lining of a conch-shell. Strange that he had not noted this peculiarly piquant and attractive face before.

"Miss Van Ashton!" he cried once more. But again there was no response. He lowered her gently on one knee in order that she might breathe more freely. As he did so, one of her hands came into sudden contact with his own. Instinctively his hand closed over it and held it captive; it was so soft and warm, just like a little bird. His soul was sorely tempted, and sad to relate, he raised it to his lips and held it there, at which juncture Bessie Van Ashton slowly opened her eyes.

With a cry, she was on her feet—flushed and furious.

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Van Ashton!" he exclaimed, quite unconscious of the cause of her sudden fright. "You're not hurt a bit; you didn't touch the ground. You only fainted."

"How dare you hold me in your arms?" she cried.

"I couldn't help it, Miss Van Ashton; you dropped right into them."

"How dare you kiss me, sir?"

"I couldn't help that either," stammered Dick, covered with confusion and blushing like a school-boy.

"Insolence!" cried Bessie with increased vehemence, stamping her small foot furiously on the ground.

"Miss Van Ashton," stammered Dick again, "I apologize! I—I beg your pardon—"

"For taking advantage of a helpless woman while in an unconscious state!" she interrupted. "A most gentlemanly act!" she added contemptuously. Her words cut him like the lash of a whip, causing him to wince, his face turning a deep red.

"I'm sorry—" he began.

"You know you're not sorry at all!" she broke in again with unabated fury.

"Miss Van Ashton," he said again, with increasing embarrassment, "when you fell into my arms I was so surprised and frightened—"

"Frightened?" She laughed in his face. "A man who single handed held a furious crowd of men at bay as you did—frightened? You mean that you were so overcome with weakness and the joy at finding a helpless woman in your power you could think of nothing better to do than to kiss her," she answered with all the sarcasm she could command.

A twinkle came into Dick's dark eyes as he regarded her for some time in silence.

"Miss Van Ashton," he said, "if you only knew it, you are far more dangerous than a tame mob of boys."

"Pshaw!" she exclaimed, turning her back upon him, and tapping the ground nervously with her daintily shod foot. Dick regarded her narrowly during the pause that ensued. She seemed taller than he at first had thought her, and was as slender as a birch. The sun, which by this time had begun to peep over the top of the canon wall, cast a golden aureole about her head. Again he heard the waters sing and the notes of the birds issuing from the willow copse.

"Well! how much longer are you going to stand there? Why don't you say something?" she snapped, still keeping her back turned toward him. Her words inspired him with fresh confidence. He recognized in them a faint glimmer of interest which even her fierce spirit of resentment had not entirely succeeded in overcoming.

"Miss Van Ashton, ignore me, trample me in the dust if you like, but do you know, if it had been any other woman than yourself, I should have laid her quietly down upon the ground and left her to regain consciousness as best she could!" She wheeled around abruptly, looking him straight in the eyes. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his words, or the look that accompanied them. And she instinctively felt that an impulsive, passionate nature like his could not have helped doing what he did.

"I don't believe a word you say," she said, softening somewhat, a faint smile lurking about the corners of her mouth. Then, as the ludicrousness of the situation came over her, she burst into fit after fit of laughter until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed at length.

"You do forgive me!" he pleaded, picking up her dainty straw hat which lay on the ground close by and handing it to her.

"No, I don't forgive you. I don't think I ever shall," she answered in the severest tone she could command. "It was foolish of me to wander away from the others," she continued. "I might have known that something would happen, because something is always happening in this country. It's perfectly marvelous!" Then, after a pause, during which she placed her hat rakishly on one side of her head, she added: "As a punishment, Mr. Yankton, I'll allow you to accompany me back to the Posada." Her words caused his heart to jump.

"I don't deserve it," he answered, assuming an air and tone of humility.

"I'm glad you realize that," she returned. "I suppose I'm indebted to you for saving my life," she went on. "And I don't want you to think me ungrateful. Perhaps it would have been better though—" She broke off abruptly, and then laughed a strange little laugh that puzzled him greatly. She had at least grown communicative again, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He had gotten off so much easier than he expected.

"One moment, Miss Van Ashton," he said, as she was about to take the lead. He turned and gave a shrill whistle. His horse which had been feeding quietly the while on the grass a short distance from them, raised his head at the sound, and giving a low whinny, came trotting up to them.

"Won't you ride?" he asked, turning to her. "He's quite gentle."

"No," she answered rather curtly, "I prefer to walk."

"Just as you say," he answered in a tone of complete submission, taking his place quietly by her side.

"No—not that way!" she said. "We'll keep the horse's head between us."



XVI

There had been no more shooting or attempts at murder. The mail began to arrive from home, and Colonel Van Ashton and Mrs. Forest began to breathe easier.

Life at the old Posada had settled down once more to its accustomed calm and routine. The sun shone benignly and the birds sang daily in the garden where the guests were wont to pass the greater part of the day. The gay little songsters were a veritable revelation to them—especially to the Colonel. How could such gentle creatures go on singing with such indifference to the future in a land where life was held so cheap and all things so uncertain?

Blanch had turned a deaf ear to the others' entreaties to return home at once. The more they talked, the firmer she became, and finally, taking matters into her own hands, settled the question by telegraphing home for the twenty trunks of clothes she left there on her departure.

"Can't you see," she said by way of explanation, "how disastrous it would be to leave Jack alone in this country with that—"

"Don't mention her!" interrupted Mrs. Forest.

"I don't see how we can help it," replied Blanch, "since fate has thrust her unbidden into our lives. We might as well recognize facts first as last since we are no longer in a position to choose either our surroundings or the persons with whom we are to associate. There is only one way to avert the catastrophe threatening us, and that is—by my marrying Jack."

Chiquita's beauty filled Mrs. Forest with a vague and nameless terror. But a glimpse of that dark siren was enough to apprise her of her son's peril, and she unhesitatingly implored Blanch not to let him out of her sight—to go off with him alone as often as possible and flirt with him to any length; a tremendous concession on Mrs. Forest's part—nothing less than a complete surrender, she being one of those proud but insipid mortals whose temperature could be easily gauged by the inclination of her long, slender, slightly upturned nose which seemed to be forever pointing toward a better world. For her, it was not enough that one's appearance and innate refinement marked one as a lady or a gentleman, but it must be proven by a long deduction beginning with some obscure ancestor of whom the world has never heard and whose shortcomings have been happily buried in the oblivion of time. Could she have had her way, the world would have been long since wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied with blue ribbon and labeled safe. How she ever came by her dauntless son remains a mystery; it certainly was no fault of hers.

Somebody of a pessimistic turn of mind once remarked that, if the human race were suddenly stripped naked, it would be impossible to distinguish the refined from the vulgar. A truly inspired utterance. For as Captain Forest viewed his family from his plane of vantage, especially after the leveling process had set in, they strangely reminded him of a flock of tame geese rioting in a pond. They made a great noise and stir, but convinced nobody.

Everybody having reached his level and been shorn of airs and affectations, it no longer remained a question of what one was, but what one could do. Consequently, it became daily more and more difficult to distinguish between personalities. It is true there were occasional flashes suggestive of submerged, latent faculties, but only flashes; stupidity and the commonplace were the dominating notes.

It was a wonderful study in human nature, and hopeless though the general outlook appeared, the future was not entirely without its promise. The souls of Blanch and Chiquita shone like radiant twin stars from out the gloomy, abysmal depths of the Egyptian darkness that had settled over the world.

Perhaps the most remarkable and amusing feature of it all was that, with the exception of Blanch, the others still seemed able to take themselves seriously. They regarded the Captain's new outlook upon life as a complete reversion to the primitive type, but luckily for them, he had not yet lost his sense of compassion.

Recognizing the deplorable mental state to which his uncle was fast sinking, he kept him supplied with wines and cigars, obtained from his friend, Pedro Romero, the gambler. No man can partake of excellent wines and cigars for any length of time without feeling his oats, as the saying goes; and the Colonel proved no exception to the rule.

He had just finished a bottle of Burgundy and, as he sat in the garden with his sister, sipping his demitasse and inhaling the fragrant aroma of a Havana, he began to feel the return of his nerve. In fact, had he been approached on the subject, he would have admitted that he felt like a fighting-cock, in just the proper condition to quarrel with his nephew. Happily for the Colonel, the subject of his thoughts came sauntering into view at this juncture, and he squared himself, assuming an aggressive attitude preparatory to the encounter which he intended to precipitate with all possible dispatch.

The disgusting complacency with which his nephew had taken to wearing long trousers over his riding-boots in place of those precious balloon breeches originally designed for lackeys but since adopted as a becoming apparel for a gentleman, affected the Colonel's tender susceptibilities to an extent almost inducing nausea. He quite forgot that he had been guilty of a similar offense during his campaigning in the Civil War, and naively imagined that his nephew had acquired this vulgar habit from his friend, Mr. Yankton; a person whose lack of etiquette and easy-going ways were enough to set his teeth on edge.

The Captain was looking for Blanch whom he had seen entering the garden with his mother and the Colonel, but whose return to the house he had not noticed, and he, therefore, walked unsuspectingly into the arms of his uncle.

"I wish you would get rid of that infernal horse of yours," began the Colonel by way of a preliminary to the skirmish, while his nephew seated himself unconcernedly in a chair opposite him, tilting it backwards and leisurely crossing his legs. "He positively threatened to devour me bodily as I passed the corral this morning."

"I suppose it's because he has not yet learned that you are my uncle," replied the Captain, suppressing a smile. "It's strange what dislikes he takes to certain persons when one considers that he's as gentle as a kitten when children are around; but I'll try to teach him to distinguish members of the family in the future."

"Look here, Jack! I've had enough of this beating about the bush. It's time we came to an understanding."

"There's nothing to prevent it that I can see," answered the Captain with maddening coolness. "I was merely apologizing for an ill-mannered horse."

"Damn your horse, sir!" cried the Colonel with increasing choler.

"Any time you are ready, dear Uncle," replied the Captain calmly, taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it. The Colonel ground his teeth in silence. His first encounter with his nephew could hardly be called satisfactory and he did not wish a repetition of it. He had come to argue his nephew out of his folly through sheer force of logic and it behooved him to remain as calm as possible during the interview, for his nephew had a most surprising way of answering back and turning the argument against one.

"Tell me," he began, "what possible attraction this country can have for you?"

"It would be quite as impossible to explain that satisfactorily to you as to make my reasons clear for being here at all. But since you again ask me for those reasons, I can only answer as I did before. I have exhausted that felicitous state called civilization. I want to be free."

"Rot!" cried the Colonel, literally snorting and bounding into the air. "You've no right to be free! Only savages and criminals want to be free! If that's all you have to say—" but his voice choked and he resumed his seat in silence.

"I've never heard anything quite so silly!" exclaimed Mrs. Forest who up to this point had maintained a discreet silence.

"It's true nevertheless," continued the Captain composedly, blowing a ring of blue smoke into the air. "Civilization, you know, is practically the same the world over. I have seen and heard everything, read everything, and met everybody that's worth meeting, and I'm tired of seeing and hearing them over and over again, year in and year out, with always the dead certainty of their return to look forward to. Our lives have become too stilted, too artificial—we lack poise, we live in grooves. Everything is overdone—there is nothing left for us to enjoy—our finer sensibilities have become dulled—the simplicity and refinements of life have been swallowed up by luxury, tawdry display and prudism."

"Bosh!" cried the Colonel.

"Everybody," the Captain went on, "knows exactly what his neighbor thinks and is going to say, and should anybody by any chance begin to think differently and seriously on life, society instantly brands that person as stupid, if not a little queer. We have lost our independence."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Forest.

"Granted for the sake of argument," broke in the Colonel, flipping the ash from off his cigar. "But what about art, science and literature, the real things which stand for civilization?"

"Oh! as to them, they are all right in themselves. It is fortunate that man has an outlet through these manifold channels of expression.

"They are the best part of our lives so far as they go, but all art and science and no nature, and what becomes of man? Have they made the world happy, and is there any immediate prospect of their ever doing so? Did the Greeks, who attained the supreme heights in art, find happiness in their art? Their history is the record of one long struggle; and so it was with the renaissance of the Middle Ages, and so it is with us; our sciences and arts can never change the complicated conditions in which we live. They have never developed the sympathy and brotherly love which should exist between man and man; we are still barbarians.

"The most miserable wretches that ever lived were the very ones that passed their lives creating and theorizing. They all forgot and are still forgetting like the rest of the world to-day that, these things, no matter how great, amuse and interest for a time only; that once they are absorbed, their original charm and novelty are gone forever. They become worn and threadbare like all of man's inventions, and humanity is ever left searching for the great panacea of life.

"The God-inspired sing and talk of the great life, but they do not live it themselves, and that is why they never really succeed in delivering their messages. And they may continue to write books and compose music, to paint pictures and build temples and hew statues so long as this planet is habitable, but these things are merely an imitation of the reality—a reflection of the ideal in man. The delivered man must stand above his art and science. He must recognize that he himself is the well-spring, the source of his inspiration and is greater than his emotional expressions. The true message can never be delivered to the world until the life for which these things stand is actually lived out, becomes a part of man's daily life."

"And you intend to deliver that message, I suppose?" observed the Colonel sarcastically, smiling compassionately and twirling the end of his mustache.

"In my own humble way, yes, but I ask no man to follow me!" A chorus of laughter, in which were mingled the voices of Blanch and Bessie who had just joined the group, greeted this confession.

"Did you ever hear the like of the conceit?" exclaimed Mrs. Forest as the laughter subsided.

"Excuse my frankness, Jack, but you're an ass," said the Colonel tartly.

"You set an example to the world? Why, you're as spoiled as the rest of us!" cried Bessie.

"Quite true, Cousin, but with this difference, I realize that fact and the rest of you do not."

"What a charming pedestal you have placed yourself upon, Jack," said Blanch, seating herself beside Mrs. Forest.

"Perhaps," returned the Captain dryly, "but of one thing I am certain. Few people are better prepared to speak on this matter than I am."

"What an interesting lot we women must be in your eyes," broke in Bessie, digressing from the subject. Captain Forest smiled.

"Don't misunderstand me," he went on. "You are trumps, every one of you, if you only knew it, but unfortunately you do not. You are the most attractive women in the world, but you are spoiled—utterly spoiled. You are the well-groomed, lovely curled and pampered darlings of society, but alas! utterly superficial, just like those brilliant women of the great French revolutionary period."

"I admire your frankness, Jack; but what do you really intend doing? What sort of a life do you intend to lead?" asked Blanch.

"Cease chasing will-o'-the-wisps about in the vain pursuit of happiness, and live as man was intended to live by substituting nature's realities for man's creations; those things which we prize most—which please for a time, but which in the end leave us as empty handed as the day we first started in quest of the golden fleece. Live as close as possible to nature; cultivate the soil, watch the fruit and the flowers and the grain grow, and roam throughout the length and breadth of the land when the longing seizes me."

"What!" cried the Colonel, unable to contain himself any longer. "Is this the inane, prosaic existence for which you have given up one of the most brilliant careers the world had to offer a man? It's bad enough to have wrecked that, but for one possessing the wealth you do to waste his life after such fashion; it's simply disgusting! Think of what you might do in the financial world!"

"That's just the sort of answer one might expect from you," replied the Captain, taking a fresh pull at his cigarette. "You talk like a stockbroker. That phase of labor brings no real happiness to any one. Besides, it would be absurd for one possessing the money I do to spend his days earning more. Of course as things are constituted to-day, it is difficult to get along without money, but in reality I don't consider it has anything to do with happiness. Lasting pleasure and peace can only be found in the verities of nature; her beauties and realities are the only satisfying and enduring things.

"What can you who pass your days amid the noise and dirt of cities, breathing their tainted atmosphere, and your intellects nourished upon artificialities and the creations of men's minds, know of nature? How many of you have ever gazed long enough at the stars to appreciate their beauty and mystery, or listened to the sound of the wind and tried to guess its meaning?"

"Bah! you are as sentimental as a school-girl!" ejaculated the Colonel. "You talk like one who has just taken a short course in Thoreau or Rousseau."

The Captain only laughed in return. He rose from his seat and began striding up and down before them with his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze fixed on the ground.

"Who are you," he continued passionately, stopping abruptly before them, "to assume that others should live according to your lackadaisical, sensuous sentimentality—your divan, boudoir conceptions of life? Thoreau and Rousseau and Emerson and Ruskin were great men, but had they talked less and actually lived out the life they preached, the world might possibly have been aroused to a consciousness of something higher by this time; but they were too small for the task. It requires a man cast in a bigger mold to perform the work—it is only in men like me that the future hope of the race lies. I must live the life they preached. Do you understand? Why, I could crush you and the world you represent in the hollow of my hand! You seek happiness in the evanescent wine and laughter of the illusive, superficial life. I, too, sought it there, but like you, I did not find it."

His words sank deep into the soul of Blanch. She admired his strength and yet hated him for it. Why, she asked herself again, as she did on the day he first imparted his new views of life to her, was she not moved? Why was she still unable to thrill at the sound of his words?

She could not understand it. There seemed to be something lacking either in him or in her.

"What assurance have you," she asked, "that you will find happiness in this new life which you propose to lead?"

"The consciousness which tells me I exist, voices the fulfillment of that promise. There can be no doubt of it. The traditions that have come down to us from the past from all nations that once men were free, is no myth. The true poetry of life, I repeat, is not found in the epics men have created, but in the sources that inspired them. In the glories of the earth and the air, in the stars and mountains and forests and fields and streams, in man, in the birds and animals, in the turning of the soil with the plow and the spade, and in the growing corn. These are the things which, before all else, add to the spiritual growth of man and inspire him to pray and hope, to sing and to love, and draw him close to the invisible world because they are a part of the life of man, not imitations of life. The instant man realizes this he will be free.

"I know you cannot understand this," he continued with a shade of impatience in his voice, "for what can a lot of slaves like you, the brick and mortar type of man, know of freedom, all that is best and noble in life? You are so bound to the world of your own creating that it has become as meaningless as a fancy to you. Your souls run on the dead level; the great song of life sweeps by you unheeded, and is gone forever."



XVII

Senora Fernandez erred in her judgment of Don Felipe, which was but natural. She still regarded him as the impetuous, hot-headed youth of former days, not what he really was—the mature man, sobered by years of experience and suffering which had taught him the value of self-control.

He understood the nature, knew as never before the mettle of the woman with whom he had to deal, and on no account would he foolishly precipitate a quarrel with the Captain. He would bide his time and strike only when the moment seemed propitious. The vague rumors which were current concerning Chiquita must have some foundation, else why the continual gossip on every tongue? He would investigate the matter for himself, in his own time and way; meanwhile he would reinstate himself in the good graces of the community by making himself as agreeable and popular as possible, a thing not difficult for one of his wealth and accomplishments.

He had doffed his Mexican costume for the more prosaic attire of the modern man which became him equally well and which was more to his liking. To the cosmopolitan that he had become, the place and the people had shrunk terribly during his absence, and there seemed to be little left in common between him and them. The presence of the Americans was a godsend to him, while he in turn was like a fresh breeze from the outer world to them.

He instinctively recognized a confederate in Blanch. They possessed a common interest and spent much time together. Strange that the same fate which had overtaken him was now threatening her! Those who deny a fixed destiny and can therefore afford to ignore the laughter of the gods, may answer with some assurance that the lives of most people, especially the marked ones, are tragic—perhaps. But why had Colonel Van Ashton, the bon-vivant and habitue of clubs, the adored of pretty young women and confidant of duennas, taken the one road which led to the wilderness when it is well known that all roads lead to Rome, especially when the Colonel had about as much interest in his present surroundings as a polar bear might reasonably expect to find on the equator? Possibly it was for the same reason that the Colonel also watched with increasing alarm the sudden and growing interest which his daughter began to take in the man he detested most on earth.

Reveal the cause, the hidden well-spring of destiny, and the effect may be predicted with comparative accuracy. Can the lamb lie down with the lion? Were there ever substantial grounds for the assertion, or was it only metaphor—mere poetical allusion? The world has been on the qui vive for the fulfillment of prophecy ever since the expulsion of our common ancestry from Eden. The actual motives and reasons which underlie the workings of destiny are usually about as clear as those which bereft Samson of his locks or left the lone figure of Marius seated amid the ruins of Carthage. And yet, even in the face of time-worn contradictions apparent to the most superficial and credulously minded, pretty, distracting Bessie Van Ashton had begun to cast her eyes in the direction of Dick Yankton, the handsome, open-handed, devil-may-care son of nature who regarded the world of fashion to which she belonged with about as much concern as he did the dust on his boots.

Possibly ennui prompted this willful bit of womanhood to make a plaything of that picturesque child of nature, just as loneliness caused him to open his eyes to the existence of that, which in the logical and ordinary course of events, he would have entirely overlooked. But since life is made up almost entirely of contraries, it is not so much with reasons that we have to deal as with facts—things as they are. Clothe human nature in whatever garb you like, at heart it remains the same. Time and place and condition make little difference; the real man within is sure to assert himself at some time or other by throwing off the disguise.

Was Bessie, the spoilt, pampered child of fashion with her soft, white body, any more fit for a life lived close to nature than Blanch who was naturally strong, sinuous and supple, though so softened by luxury and the overrefinements of civilization? To all appearances, no. And yet, the very things which seemed to pass by Blanch unheeded, began imperceptibly to impress themselves upon Bessie. Possibly because Blanch was so strong and individualized that, having once given herself up wholly to the present life, she was enslaved irrevocably by it—held fast by it with a power that had grown with her strength day by day—so that while a weaker woman might slip through the meshes and escape, she was held irresistibly bound through her own force and strength of character.

The spell and magic of the land seemed to hold like an unseen hand all things as in the grip of a vice, and were no less potent in the present than they were in the past. The plaintive notes of the wood-dove found a response within Bessie's soul. The winds seemed laden with new voices and unconsciously interrupted the train of her thoughts and caused her to pause and listen and wonder. The wild, forbidding landscape from which her stronger companion involuntarily shrank, for some unknown reason attracted her. The broad expanse of heaven and earth, the far horizon, the hazy, mysterious silhouetted peaks of distant mountains aroused vague longings within her—emotions which she did not understand and concerning which she failed in her attempts to analyze.

Had she been at home, she would have regarded these new sensations as sentimental enthusiasm and laughed at them, denying them a permanent place in her nature. But here, it was different. They seemed to have a hold upon one and were as irresistible as those vague longings that come with the awakening of spring. There was music everywhere in the world about her. Flowers of the imagination sprang from the desert on every hand. Voices and hands called and beckoned to her from out the unseen. The quickening and awakening within her gave promise of a new life, and her feet became light as sunbeams. The fact of being alive and the increasing desire to live filled her with a new joy and vigor that darted through her soul like tongues of flame, causing her blood to surge and tingle as never before since the days of childhood.

A genuine interest in the new life and the lives of those about her, took the place of the apathy and indifference with which she regarded the sated pleasures of that jaded world from which she had departed so recently. She had come to be bored—fully resigned for Blanch's sake to endure the ennui of mere vegetation until the prodigal Jack had been safely gathered within the fold once more. After the rude shock of first impressions had passed and she had found time to pause and breathe, she began to cast her eyes about her for something more real and tangible than the memories of the world she had left behind her, but had failed to find anything of interest until the occurrence of that unfortunate episode with Dick.

His arms still clung to her in spite of the persistent efforts she made to shake them off. And stranger still, no amount of scrubbing seemed to remove the sting of those burning kisses he had impressed upon her hand. That unpardonable piece of impudence was unprecedented. Men had made love to her, adored her, and completely lost their heads over her; and one man in particular, as she well knew, was scouring the ends of the earth in an effort to obtain news of her present whereabouts. Much to her astonishment, however, and contrary to her preconceived notions concerning men, she found that she had suddenly lost interest in this particular man for another.

But why? What was the cause of this newly awakened interest in Dick? Was it because he was so different from the men she had known, or was it that strong touch of the feminine in him which certain sensitive masculine natures possess; that rare, distinguishing characteristic which is so attractive to men and women alike? Did any real affinity exist between them? How could it, considering the different conditions and environment in which they had been reared and the width of the gulf that divided them? What then was the cause of this attraction which in spite of her efforts to check it, was beginning to become a source of vexation to a woman of the world who had always prided herself on being able to keep herself well in hand?

That it might be love, or even the dawning of love, she refused to admit. She shuddered at the mere thought of such a catastrophe. The thing, however, was becoming annoying. Like any thought which we hold too long in our minds, it was bound to absorb all others in time, and she resolved to make an end of it. She would play with him. One could not maintain a serious interest in that which one treated as a jest—held up to ridicule. She would play with him like an expert angler plays with a fish, and when landed, would walk over him rough-shod—trample him back into the dust of that coarser clay from which he sprang.

Ah, yes, the country was not so dull after all! It would be a royal lark; a holiday long to be remembered. They were so far from the great world that, when it was all over, not even the slightest rumor or breath of scandal would remain to remind her of the flirtation upon which she had decided to embark.

With these thoughts running through her mind, the fascinating, violet-eyed daughter of Colonel Van Ashton lightly dipped the tips of her dainty fingers into a rouge-pot, glanced into the mirror and drew them across her lips, and then deliberately attired herself in one of her smartest gowns preparatory to flinging the first bones of condescension to the rustic Yankton; the preliminaries of a series of expectations and hopes deferred that were intended to reduce him to a state of submission suitable to receive the final kick which was to leave Mr. Yankton a wiser but a sadder man.



XVIII

Blanch stood before a long mirror that adorned one of the walls of her room, trying the effect of a new tea-gown.

The mirror was an ancient piece of furniture consisting of a faded gilt frame and six separate rows of large, unevenly fitting squares of glass; the style that was in vogue two centuries ago. As she regarded herself in it, she saw herself reflected in sections, probably with much the same effect as Marie Antoinette saw her reflection at Versailles.

"Coronada must have brought this mirror with him on his first expedition," she remarked to Bessie who lounged on the sofa on the opposite side of the room amid a heap of florid cushions. "I feel as though I had a personal grudge against that man," she continued, vainly endeavoring to catch an unbroken outline of herself in the glass.

"It's stunning, Blanch!" broke in Bessie from the sofa. "What is it—a Worth?"

"No—a Doucet. Isn't it absurd that I should array myself in these gorgeous gowns to compete with that Indian in her few flimsy calicoes and silks? The contrast is out of all proportion. It's the sublime and the ridiculous. And yet she looks well in anything! Dress her in rags and she is picturesque; robe her in silks and she is fascinating."

"That's just what I can't understand," said Bessie. "We couldn't wear her clothes, but she can wear ours. Why is it?"

"It's quite simple. We have been handicapped from the start because we have been forced to compete with them on their own ground. They are perfectly natural; they have nothing and aspire to nothing, while we are wholly artificial—have everything and aspire to more."

"Why, to hear you, one would think that Jack was talking!" exclaimed Bessie in genuine surprise.

"Oh! I don't pretend to agree with his views, but as regards us, he's about right. I was never able to see ourselves as some others see us until we came here. And I have come to the conclusion that our views of life are about as distorted as the cracked reflection of myself in the mirror yonder. We have unconsciously lived a life antagonistic to nature and consequently find ourselves ridiculous in our simplest endeavors to be natural. Of course," she added, "they would appear the same if things were reversed and we had them on our ground.

"With us," she went on, "marriage is more a game of intrigue than love; here it is purely one of sentiment. Aside from my intrinsic value, what weapon have I to employ against this Indian woman? The things which count for so much with us, fall flat here.

"Why, I'm not even in a position to make Jack jealous! If I were at home, I would have a dozen men at my feet and as many more as I wished to play off against him, not to mention the thousand opportunities for neglect. In fact, all the weapons which we women are so fond of employing against men. Whereas, here I am at the feet of my Lord Jack—his indifference is insufferable! Oh! I'll pay him back for this!" she cried, pale with anger.

"Men are brutes—all of them!" remarked Bessie laconically, rising to a sitting posture on the sofa.

"I hate him—hate him!" continued Blanch in a fresh paroxysm of passion. "To think that he of all men should have been the one chosen to show me myself—the only one of us who was strong enough to break away! Why was I not able to hold him? Why am I not able to come to him now? There is something wrong somewhere. We seem to have lost our grip on things. I can't understand it!" Just then the old, gilt French clock on the white marble mantelpiece slowly chimed the hour of five. The sound of the clock caused Blanch to pause. "Five o'clock," she said, calming herself. "Don Felipe will be waiting for us in the garden."

"That's so," answered Bessie, rising from the sofa and crossing the room to the window which looked out over the patio into the garden. "There he is now, pacing back and forth beneath the trees. What a restless man he is!"

"After the first cup, you might disappear, Bess," said Blanch. "I want to try to find out if he still cares for that Indian?"

"That was the most romantic thing I ever heard!" exclaimed Bessie.

"I wonder he ever returned," answered Blanch, opening the door and leading the way across the patio in the direction of the garden. The tinkle of a guitar attracted their attention to a group of peons and women squatted on their heels on one side of the court, in the shade of the arcades, smoking and chatting. A little beyond them, in the shadow of the doorway, stood the major-domo, Juan Ramon and the pretty housekeeper, Rosita.

"Dios! but she is magnifico—the tall one!" whispered Juan to Rosita as the girls passed them, nodding and smiling in response to Juan's deep salutation and Rosita's courtesy.

"And the little one," said Rosita in turn. "Is she not like a half-blown pink rose?"

"Aye! 'tis a feast for the eyes to look at them!" answered Juan. "There has not been so much life in the place since the old days when the Master was alive."

"If Don Felipe doesn't marry one of them he's a fool," added Rosita.

"That's just what I have been saying to myself," returned Juan.

"What else can he be doing here if he doesn't intend to take one of them back to his hacienda with him?" continued Rosita. "I've noticed that he and the tall one spend much time together."

"Aye!" ejaculated Juan. "It must be lonely at the old rancho without a woman to keep him company."

"The tall Senorita would be just the one for the place!" exclaimed Rosita enthusiastically.

"Rosita mia," began Juan confidentially after a short silence, during which his gaze rested pensively on the retreating figures of the girls, "I've just been thinking that there is no happiness for a man, still less for a woman, in a single life. What say you, Rosita mia," he went on, patting her familiarly on the cheek.

"Juan Ramon," interrupted Rosita with an angry flush, "if you don't want to get your face slapped, you had better behave like a Caballero!"

"Caramba! what a little spitfire!" returned Juan, pulling the end of his thin mustache, yet not in the least disconcerted by her show of temper. "But supposing, my pearl of a housekeeper, that I bought a neat little rancheria—do you know of any one who might care to look after it?"

"Bah! First pay your gambling debts, Juan Ramon. There will then be time enough to look for some one who will allow herself to be beaten on feast-days when you have drunk more pulque than is good for you. But Dios! why am I wasting words with you? The Senoritas will begin to wonder what has become of their chocolate and tortillas if I don't hurry."

"Ungrateful woman," responded Juan, assuming an injured tone. "Would you leave me without a kiss?"

"Holy Mother! what has come over you, Juan Ramon—has the sunshine gone to your head? A kiss, indeed!" and she tossed her head. "Go to Petronita, the cook! She is old; doubtless she will give you a plenty!" and laughing, she hurried into the dining-room in search of a tray with which to serve the ladies. The mere mention of the ancient, withered Petronita, with the parchment-like face, caused Juan's mouth to pucker as though he had bitten into an unripe persimmon.

"Diablos! if the luck would only change!" he muttered. "Rosita would be the very one—" The sound of light footsteps and the tinkle of spurs caused Juan to turn.

"Ah! buenas dias, Senorita!" he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing before Chiquita, who had entered the patio from the opposite side of the house. Her riding-habit, her boots and gloves and gray felt hat beneath which were twisted her thick braids of hair, were covered with thin white particles of dust.

"Where is your mistress, Dona Fernandez, Juan?" she asked.

"I will call her, Senorita," answered Juan, replacing his hat on his head and starting for the hallway.

"Never mind, Juan," called Chiquita, catching sight of Blanch and Bessie in the distance. "I will first speak with the Senoritas," and she turned toward the garden.

Juan's beady black eyes followed her tall figure as she moved toward the girls. Ever since the arrival of the Americans there had been much discussion in the household as to which was the more beautiful, Blanch or Chiquita. The Senora's dislike for the latter was well known, but in spite of this prejudice, opinion was pretty evenly divided concerning the merits of the two. It was a vexing question, and the opportunity of comparing the two women as they met in the garden was too tempting to be missed. So, with one end of his zerape slung carelessly over his shoulder, Juan strolled casually past the little group of women in the direction of the corrals, where he could observe them at his leisure from the recesses of the garden without attracting attention.

Notwithstanding the fact that the dark woman was at a disadvantage in her dust-covered riding-habit, he could not for the life of him tell which was the more beautiful of the two as he passed behind a thicket of lilac bushes, and seated himself on a rustic bench and began rolling a cigarillo between his long slim fingers.

Juan was a born gambler, and like all of his tribe, was usually in want of money. To-day he needed it more than ever, for that very morning his mistress had taunted him and threatened to leave him if he did not pay for the new dresses she had recently purchased, and for which she was now being dunned by her creditors. Never had he had such a run of bad luck. During the great week of the Fiesta he had tried everything from roulette to monte, but fortune's wheel had turned steadily against him. It was truly the devil's own luck and no mistake. If only the luck would turn, he would quit the game of chance forever—cast off the ungrateful Dolores, and.... He drew a much-worn pack of cards from his breast pocket and began cutting them with a dexterity acquired through long years of practice.

Like all of his race, and the majority of mankind for that matter, he was intensely superstitious. Three times in succession he cut and dealt the cards, and three times the ace of hearts, the luckiest card in the pack, turned face upwards on the bench.

"Santa Maria! 'tis a miracle—the luck has changed at last!" he muttered excitedly, as with dilated eyes and trembling hands he gathered up the cards and replaced them carefully in his pocket. His dream of the hacienda and the fair Rosita might yet come true. But how? The cards were too fickle to trust for long. Just then the rich, deep voice of Chiquita fell upon his ears. Without knowing why, yet intuitively he seemed to connect her with the turn in his fortune—and it set him thinking.

Ever since the Fiesta, curiosity had prompted him to learn something concerning Chiquita's motive for dancing; and whenever the opportunity presented itself, he had shadowed her. His patience was soon rewarded by learning that she made frequent visits to the Indian pueblo, Onava, often riding there in the late evening under cover of the dusk. On one occasion he saw an Indian ride forth from the village and meet her on the plain where she awaited him. They engaged in long and earnest conversation, at the end of which he fancied he saw Chiquita draw nearer to her companion and hand him something, and then the darkness shut them from view. He did not dare follow her farther or enter the village, for fear of attracting suspicion to himself; but surely this was a clew to something, to the mystery, perhaps.

At this juncture, Juan rolled a fresh cigarillo as he listened to the voices of the women, his eyes resting on Captain Forest's horse in the corral beyond the garden. The animal fascinated him; never had he laid eyes on such a superb creature. Each day he visited the corral for a look at him, and each time the Chestnut would rush at him with ears laid flat on his neck and mouth wide open, displaying his formidable teeth.

"Caramba! what an animal to stock a rancho with, if only—" Juan sighed, and for some moments roundly cursed the past run of cards. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and the shade sleep inviting. He threw the burnt end of his cigarillo on the ground, and, drawing up his feet, stretched himself at full length on the bench—the upper half of his fox-like face appearing just above the edge of his zerape.

Dios! was it not better to sleep and even dream bad dreams, than waking, meditate upon the misfortunes of life?



XIX

When Chiquita entered the garden, she had just returned from an Indian Mission School for girls, some ten miles distant from Santa Fe, whither she rode once a week to instruct its pupils in the art of blanket and basket weaving; an art which she had practiced from her earliest days.

Her affair with Don Felipe was bad enough, and though she had been generally condemned for it, her woman's prerogative was recognized nevertheless. But for a lady, and ward of a priest, to dance in public and for money, was a thing unheard of; and gossip was fast giving her an unenviable reputation. This latest escapade, as it was generally termed, had nearly cost her her position in the school. When, however, it was taken into consideration that her services were gratuitous and that it would be impossible to replace her by any one else half as competent, the directors of the institution discreetly demurred, deciding that it would be better to humor the caprices of this fair barbarian who ruled supreme in her department.

The greeting which took place between her and Blanch was cordial enough to all outward appearances. Considering the tension and delicacy of the situation, the volcanic nature of the two and the intense longing of each to fly at the other and settle their differences then and there, the self-control of the two was commendable in the extreme.

"Do you ride much, Senorita?" asked Blanch, eyeing critically her riding-skirt and wondering how it was that such an antiquated cut could sit her so well.

"I don't think I could live without a horse," replied Chiquita. "I often think I must have been born on one; at least, I can't remember the day when I first learned to ride. It was good to get back here after my six years at school for the sake of riding, if for nothing else. I don't believe either of you know what the real joys of riding are," she went on, pulling the glove from her right hand and sipping the chocolate which Bessie had handed her.

"Not until one has passed weeks and months in the saddle at a time does one thoroughly realize what riding means, or appreciate the worth and companionship of a horse." She paused, and a look of longing came into her large, lustrous eyes, as the memory of her early life came back to her, when she, with her people, roamed free through the land.

"Dios! but I have been unhappy ever since you came, Senorita," she resumed, changing the subject abruptly and addressing Blanch. "The knowledge that you are constantly near him almost drives me mad at times. And your dresses—they haunt me in my dreams! I never before imagined that dress was of so much importance in this world." She was so outspoken and withal so natural, that both Blanch and Bessie burst into a peal of good-natured laughter in which Chiquita joined.

"We women," she continued, taking another sip of chocolate, "have nothing to fall back upon except our old antiquated Spanish costumes—you can imagine what we would look like in the modern clothes we procured here. I have never been placed in such a ridiculous position before, and if I only knew that you were as miserable as I am, I think I might begin to enjoy the humor of the situation." Again all three laughed.

"Ah, love, what a thing is love!" she sighed, placing her slender gloved hand over her heart. "It makes one as miserable as it does happy." Then suddenly turning to Blanch, she asked: "Have you always dressed like that?"

"I have always tried to live up to a certain standard," replied Blanch.

"And how long have you known him?"

"Oh! as long as I can remember—twenty years, perhaps."

"Twenty years, and always looked like that and not married to him? Sweet Mother of God!" she cried in the quaintest tone imaginable, sinking back in her chair. "Had I known him as many weeks I had either married him or killed myself!"

"Nobody takes love so seriously as that!" laughed Blanch.

"Ah! you have never loved him!" she said, after a short silence.

"Why do you suppose I am here?" returned Blanch.

"Then how could you have lived near him all these years without marrying him?"

"It was a mistake, I admit," answered Blanch good-humoredly. "But you must understand that we don't regard love in quite the same light as you do. We don't make a great fuss about it and talk of killing ourselves, and that sort of thing. We get married when we find it convenient."

"Ah, yes, I know," answered Chiquita, "but I'm sure you can never be as much to him as I can. What have you endured, what have you suffered to make you feel and realize the full significance of love?"

"Do you imagine," asked Blanch in surprise, "that there is any less of the woman in me because I have been spared the things which you perhaps have been forced to endure, or that one must first suffer before one is capable of loving?"

"No, I don't think that, for love is a thing like sleep, it comes upon us unawares. But it seems to me I am better fitted for him than you are; that my love, tempered by my life's experience, must be fuller and deeper and richer than that which you have to offer him. What," she continued, "do you really know of life? Not the social side of it, of which your life has been so full, but life as it really is? Were you born under the open heavens? Have you slept on the hard, cold ground, exposed to the weather, or nearly perished of hunger and thirst? Could you feed and clothe yourself from the naked earth without the assistance of others? Have you seen men, women and children starve, or ruthlessly struck down by your side, or nursed them through some terrible scourge like the smallpox?

"All your life you have been protected and cared for, while all my life I have been obliged to face the reality of things, forced to work, to procure the simple necessities of life. I have carried wood and water, cooked, and fed and clothed myself and others with the materials provided by my own hands. And yet, when I look back upon my life, I would not surrender one hour of the true happiness the day's work brought with it could I thereby have escaped the suffering and bitterness it often entailed. Barren though my life may appear from your point of view, I know it to be infinitely rich in comparison to yours, for, as I have said, you have never known what life really means—never experienced its hardships, never beheld the bright face of danger, nor tasted the joys of the great free life in the open, the simple daily life devoid of the cares of civilized men, without which the life of a man can never be complete, be he what he may.

"'Where the foot rests, that is home,' is a saying among my people; a truth, that so far as my experience goes, has never been gainsaid."

In spite of themselves and the fact that they could not wholly comprehend the weight and significance of her words, they were fascinated by her discourse, emphasized and illustrated as it was by the dramatic intensity of her gestures and expression.

"Senorita," said Blanch at last, breaking the silence that ensued, "I believe you are still at heart the savage, or better, the nomad you were when you lived in the wilderness."

"When I lived in the Garden of Eden, in God's world, not man's, is what you mean," she replied.

"Do you never have a desire to return to it?" asked Bessie.

"The old days can never be effaced," answered Chiquita. "My thoughts continually revert to them when, as a little girl, I used to set meat and drink before my father and his guests as they sat in a circle about the fire in the center of his lodge or in our house and smoked the long red clay pipes, or, after the crops were harvested, roamed through the land during the hunting season; sometimes afoot, at other times in canoes or on horseback. There are times when such an insatiable longing for the old life seizes me that I become almost unmanageable. I long to throw myself down in the open—lie close in the embrace of Mother Earth, and breathe the smoke of the camp-fire. My unrest is like that of the birds when the spell of the spring and the autumn comes upon them and the migratory instinct seizes them, or like that of the great herds of reindeer in the North which travel each year to the sea to drink of its salty waters, and which, if prevented, die."

"Do you know," said Bessie to Blanch a little later, when they were alone in their room, "she's fascinating when she talks like that."

"Ah! that's just where the danger lies," answered Blanch. "Think of what might happen if she starts talking like that to Jack—it's just what he's waiting to hear."



XX

Juan must have fallen asleep. As he lay stretched upon the bench, he was awakened suddenly by the sound of vehement, passionate words.

Peering cautiously through the bushes, he beheld Chiquita and Don Felipe standing facing one another in the same spot where the three women had been but a short time before. He was not near enough to overhear the conversation, but judging from the vehemence of their gestures and high-pitched voices, he rightly conjectured that their meeting was anything but an amicable one.

On seeing Chiquita with Blanch and Bessie, Don Felipe had discreetly refrained from joining them as he had promised; he would make his apologies to them in the evening. The opportunity for which he had been waiting since his return had come—he must see Chiquita alone. So he withdrew to a far corner of the garden, where he could observe the women without being seen, and when Blanch and Bessie returned to the house, he intercepted her. Although she had hourly expected to meet him ever since she had been apprised of his return, his appearance was so sudden she was taken unawares. She had reseated herself after Blanch and Bessie left and sat leaning with one elbow on the table and her head resting in her hand, lost in thought. She did not hear his approach from behind, but at the first sound of his voice she started to her feet, turning like a flash and facing him. Her movement was so sudden and unexpected that he too was taken aback.