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A Daughter of the Dons; A Story of New Mexico Today, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 2. The Two Grants |
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_ CHAPTER II. THE TWO GRANTS The clock in the depot tower registered just twelve, and the noon whistles were blowing when Pesquiera knocked at apartment 14, of the Gold Nugget Rooming-House. In answer to an invitation to "Come in," he entered an apartment which seemed to be a combination office and living-room. A door opened into what the New Mexican assumed to be a sleeping chamber, adjoining which was evidently a bath, judging from the sound of splashing water. "With you in a minute," a voice from within assured the guest. The splashing ceased. There was the sound of a towel in vigorous motion. This was followed by the rustling of garments as the bather dressed. In an astonishingly short time the owner of the rooms appeared in the doorway. He was a well-set-up youth, broad of shoulder and compact of muscle. The ruddy bloom that beat through the tanned cheeks and the elasticity of his tread hinted at an age not great, but there was no suggestion of immaturity in the cool steadiness of the gaze or in the quiet poise of the attitude. He indicated a chair, after relieving his visitor of hat and cane. Pesquiera glanced at the bandage round the head. "I trust, _senor_, your experience of yesterday has not given you a wakeful night?" "Slept like a top. Fact is, I'm just getting up. You heard this morning yet how Tom is?" "The morning newspaper says he is doing very well indeed." "That's good hearing. He's a first-rate boy, and I'd hate to hear worse of him. But I mustn't take your time over our affairs. I think you mentioned business, sir?" The Castilian leaned forward and fixed his black, piercing eyes on the other. Straight into his business he plunged. "Senor Gordon, have you ever heard of the Valdes grant?" "Not to remember it. What kind of a grant is it?" "It is a land grant, made by Governor Facundo Megares, of New Mexico, which territory was then a province of Spain, to Don Fernando Valdes, in consideration of services rendered the Spanish crown against the Indians." Dick shook his head. "You've got me, sir. If I ever heard of it the thing has plumb slipped my mind. Ought I to know about it?" "Have you ever heard of the Moreno grant?" Somewhere in the back of the young man's mind a faint memory stirred. He seemed to see an old man seated at a table in a big room with a carved fireplace. The table was littered with papers, and the old gentleman was explaining them to a woman. She was his daughter, Dick's mother. A slip of a youngster was playing about the room with two puppies. That little five-year-old was the young mine operator. "I have," he answered calmly. "You know, then, that a later governor of the territory, Manuel Armijo, illegally carved half a million acres out of the former grant and gave it to Jose Moreno, from whom your grandfather bought it." The miner's face froze to impassivity. He was learning news. The very existence of such a grant was a surprise to him. His grandfather and his mother had been dead fifteen years. Somewhere in an old trunk back in Kentucky there was a tin box full of papers that might tell a story. But for the present he preferred to assume that he knew what information they contained. "I object to the word illegal, Don Manuel," he answered curtly, not at all sure his objection had any foundation of law. Pesquiera shrugged. "Very well, _senor_. The courts, I feel sure, will sustain my words." "Perhaps, and perhaps not." "The law is an expensive arbiter, Senor Gordon. Your claim is slight. The title has never been perfected by you. In fifteen years you have paid no taxes. Still your claim, though worthless in itself, operates as a cloud upon the title of my client, the Valdes heir." Dick looked at him steadily and nodded. He began to see the purpose of this visit. He waited silently, his mind very alert. "_Senor_, I am here to ask of you a relinquishment. You are brave; no doubt, chivalrous----" "I'm a business man, Don Manuel," interrupted Gordon. "I don't see what chivalry has got to do with it." "Senorita Valdes is a woman, young and beautiful. This little estate is her sole possession. To fight for it in court is a hardship that Senor Gordon will not force upon her." "So she's young and beautiful, is she?" "The fairest daughter of Spain in all New Mexico," soared Don Manuel. "You don't say. A regular case of beauty and the beast, ain't it?" "As one of her friends, I ask of you not to oppose her lawful possession of this little vineyard." "In the grape business, is she?" "I speak, _senor_, in metaphor. The land is barren, of no value except for sheep grazing." "Are you asking me to sell my title or give it?" "It is a bagatelle--a mere nothing. The title is but waste paper, I do assure. Yet we would purchase--for a nominal figure--merely to save court expenses." "I see," Dick laughed softly. "Just to save court expenses--because you'd rather I'd have the money than the lawyers. That's right good of you." Pesquiera talked with his hands and shoulders, sparkling into animation. "Mr. Gordon distrusts me. So? Am I not right? He perhaps mistakes me for what you call a--a pettifogger, is it not? I do assure to the contrary. The blood of the Pesquieras is of the bluest Castilian." "Fine! I'll take your word for it, Don Manuel. And I don't distrust you at all. But here's the point. I'm a plain American business man. I don't buy and I don't sell without first investigating a proposition submitted to me. I'm from Missouri." "Oh, indeed! From St. Louis perhaps. I went to school there when I was a boy." Gordon laughed. "I was speaking in metaphor, Don Manuel. What I mean is that I'll have to be shown. No pig-in-a-poke business for me." "Exactly. Most precisely. Have I not traveled from New Mexico up this steep roof of the continent merely to explain how matters stand? Valencia Valdes is the true and rightful heiress of the valley. She is everywhere so recognize' and accept' by the peons." The miner's indolent eye rested casually upon his guest. "Married?" "I have not that felicitation," replied the Spaniard. "It was the lady I meant." "Pardon. No man has yet been so fortunate to win the _senorita_" "I reckon it's not for want of trying, since the heiress is so beautiful. There's always plenty of willing lads to take over the job of prince regent under such circumstances." The spine of the New Mexican stiffened ever so slightly. "Senorita Valdes is princess of the Rio Chama valley. Her dependents understan' she is of a differen' caste, a descendant of the great and renowned Don Alvaro of Castile." "Don't think I know the gentleman. Who was he?" asked Gordon genially, offering his guest a cigar. Pesquiera threw up his neat little hands in despair. "But of a certainty Mr. Gordon has read of Don Alvaro de Valdes y Castillo, lord of demesnes without number, conqueror of the Moors and of the fierce island English who then infested Spain in swarms. His retinue was as that of a king. At his many manors fed daily thirty thousand men at arms. In all Europe no knight so brave, so chivalrous, so skillful with lance and sword. To the nobles his word was law. Young men worshiped him, the old admired, the poor blessed. The queen, it is said, love' him madly. She was of exceeding beauty, but Don Alvaro remember his vows of knighthood and turn his back upon madness. Then the king, jealous for that his great noble was better, braver and more popular than he, send for de Valdes to come to court." "I reckon Don Alvaro ought to have been sick a-bed that day and unable to make the journey," suggested Dick. "So say his wife and his men, but Don Alvaro scorn to believe his king a traitor. He kiss his wife and babies good-bye, ride into the trap prepare' for him, and die like a soldier. God rest his valiant soul." "Some man. I'd like to have met him," Gordon commented. "Senorita Valencia is of the same blood, of the same fine courage. She, too, is the idol of her people. Will Mr. Gordon, who is himself of the brave heart, make trouble for an unprotected child without father or mother?" "Unprotected isn't quite the word so long as Don Manuel Pesquiera is her friend," the Coloradoan answered with a smile. The dark young man flushed, but his eyes met those of Dick steadily. "You are right, sir. I stand between her and trouble if I can." "Good. Glad you do." "So I make you an offer. I ask you to relinquish your shadowy claim to the illegal Moreno grant." "Well, I can't tell you offhand just what I'll do, Don Manuel. Make your proposition to me in writing, and one month from to-day I'll let you know whether it's yes or no." "But the _senorita_ wants to make improvements--to build, to fence. Delay is a hardship. Let us say a thousand dollars and make an end." "Not if the court knows itself. You say she's young. A month's wait won't hurt her any. I want to look into it. Maybe you're offering me too much. A fifth of a cent an acre is a mighty high price for land. I don't want any fairest daughter of Spain to rob herself for me, you know," he grinned. "I exceed my instructions. I offer two thousand, Mr. Gordon." "If you said two hundred thousand, I'd still say no till I had looked it up. I'm not doing business to-day at any price, thank you." "You are perhaps of an impression that this land is valuable. On the contrary, I offer an assurance. And our need of your shadowy claim----" "I ain't burdened with impressions, except one, that I don't care to dispose of my ghost-title. We'll talk business a month from to-day, if you like. No sooner. Have a smoke, Don Manuel?" Pesquiera declined the proffered cigar with an impatient gesture. He rose, reclaimed his hat and cane, and clicked his heels together in a stiff bow. He was a slight, dark, graceful man, with small, neat hands and feet, trimly gloved and shod. He had a small black mustache pointing upward in parallels to his smooth, olive cheeks. The effect was almost foppish, but the fire in the snapping eyes contradicted any suggestion of effeminacy. His gaze yielded nothing even to the searching one of Gordon. "It is, then, war between us, Senor Gordon?" he asked haughtily. Dick laughed. "Sho! It's just business. Maybe I'll take your offer. Maybe I won't. I might want to run down and look at the no-'count land," he said with a laugh. "I think it fair to inform you, sir, that the feeling of the country down there is in favor of the Valdes grant. The peons are hot-tempered, and are likely to resent any attempt to change the existing conditions. Your presence, _senor_, would be a danger." "Much obliged, Don Manuel. Tell 'em from me that I got a bad habit of wearing a six-gun, and that if they get to resenting too arduous it's likely to ventilate their enthusiasm." Once more the New Mexican bowed stiffly before he retired. Pesquiera had overplayed his hand. He had stirred in the miner an interest born of curiosity and a sense of romantic possibilities. Dick wanted to see this daughter of Castile who was still to the simple-hearted shepherds of the valley a princess of the blood royal. Don Manuel was very evidently her lover. Perhaps it was his imagination that had mixed the magic potion that lent an atmosphere of old-world pastoral charm to the story of the Valdes grant. Likely enough the girl would prove commonplace in a proud half-educated fashion that would be intolerable for a stranger. But even without the help of the New Mexican the situation was one which called for a thorough personal investigation. Gordon was a hard-headed American business man, though he held within him the generous and hare-brained potentialities of a soldier of fortune. He meant to find out just what the Moreno grant was worth. After he had investigated his legal standing he would look over the valley of the Chama himself. He took no stock in Don Manuel's assurance that the land was worthless, any more than he gave weight to his warning that a personal visit to the scene would be dangerous if the settlers believed he came to interfere with their rights. For many turbulent years Dick Gordon had held his own in a frontier community where untamed enemies had passed him daily with hate in their hearts. He was not going to let the sulky resentment of a few shepherds interfere with his course now. A message flashed back to a little town in Kentucky that afternoon. It was of the regulation ten-words length, and this was the body of it: Send immediately, by express, little brown leather trunk in garret. The signature at the bottom of it was "Richard Gordon." _ |
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