Days of '49/Chapter 21

The Rancho El Crucifijo lay in a siesta-like stillness.

The afternoon was warm. No one was moving about. Little Pedro dozed against a sunny wall and dreamed of fiestas, dark girls moving amid a tempestuous swirl of gay skirts, handsome tall men prancing merrily to the tinkety-tink-tink of strings. He dreamed so intently that, though his eyes were open—for if one sleeps, reveries are useless—that presently he heard the music, faintly; actually heard it, as if it came from elsewhere than out of his own head. Pedro was dimly mystified, too pleased, too warmly comfortable, to stir. Then

"Eh?" said Pedro, and sat upright, listening.

He rubbed rubbed an ear, cocked his head, listening.

"Mother of Saints! It is a miracle!" said said Pedro, looking up at the sky, for the music floated about him so faintly that that it it might well seem that he caught the dropping notes of a happy invisible procession that passed overhead.

Then it ended, died out, was gone.

"Ah," said little Pedro, staring, thrilled, uneasy. "All things have meaning, and was it wrong that I heard!"

He crossed himself and remembered some sins that he had better carry to a padre and tell.

Then it came again, those sounds, nearer, stronger, and with a voice, too, singing.

Little Pedro forgot saints. He knew that voice. He scrambled to his feet and ran around the corner of the house; and there was Ferdinand, coming among the oaks, on a mule, and fiddling away like a troubadour made mad by spring, and singing.

Unless there was danger to his life, Pedro would rarely run; but now he ran, waving his arms, shouting welcome.

"Ho-oh, Don Turnip! I am home! The sun makes herself merry to see me. What news!"

"No news, señor, but that you are home! I thought I heard saints—and it was you!"

"The same, one an' the same, Señor Lazee-bones. Oh-ho, Doña Ilona—she is happy?"

"Si, señor."

"An' Kredra frowns in silence, the same? Eh?"

"Ah, señor, she puts what I eat out of doors, as one feeds a dog! Make it, señor, that she forgets what was all the fault of that damn of a muleteer!"

"That you eat at all, Turnip-top, shows the wise Kredra has a good heart. But you shall see that she smiles an' has no more the frown. An' Señor Hales?"

"He rides much with the blessed Doña, an' looks at her, so!"

"Ah-a-ha!" cried Ferdinand. "So it is come to that, eh! Well, Sir Turnip, where is there a better man than he—excepting here!" And Ferdinand patted his own broad breast.

Then Ferdinand struck up his fiddle and lifted his voice. Pedro ran ahead to cry the news that Ferdinand was home; but his own voice brought out the people before Pedro got to the doorway. Hales stood apart, rolling a cigaret. Burton waved his hat. Ilona, indeed glad to see him, called merrily.

But Ferdinand answered no one. He sang, full-throated, with a varied tumbling upward rise of tones; the bow danced upon the strings. It was as if he were indeed a wandering player, and would pass his hat for pennies. The fiddle-case, tied to the horn of the saddle, dangled like something captured. He had no other belongings; and the mule was not the one on which he had ridden away.

His roving eyes looked repeatedly within the doorway. Again and again he looked; then Kredra was visible, dimly visible, well back from the doorway, watching. He was chanting strangely of rivers crossed, of mountains climbed, of men defied, of steel that sped in darkness. She watched, bold-eyed, listening; then withdrew as a shadow vanishes into deeper darkness.

When she reappeared it was from around the house. Ferdinand had dismounted, and now was talking to everybody, waving an arm. He made them laugh. Even Kredra smiled readily. Little Pedro hopped about with proprietory [sic] happiness.

They went into the house, trooping in. Kredra brought a mug of wine. Ferdinand flung his hat—not the one which he had worn when leaving—into a corner, shook his head, throwing back the tangled hair. He dropped into a chair, spread his arms wide, and talked.

Like all far travelers, he was full of news and talked freely; and like many another of them, he did not tell the truth. He joked, laughed, drank more wine; then, suddenly, as if just remembering a little incident of his travels, said:

"Oh-o-oh, señors, that gambler Dawez, it was heem that stole the gol' coins at the Diamon' Gulch. Ho, yees, señors! Poor leetle man that was hanged.. But ho! The miner-men, they fin' out! Yees, yees, an' Dawez he tried to run away. Yees, yees! Weeked men they have no luck, señors! Now to show how hones' men like Ferdinand are love in heaven—this same Ferdinand"—he patted his breast—"he fell into the deep beeg river, an' the mule he drown. But God put a tree there for Ferdinand. Yees! Dawez? Before he die, talk? Ho-ooh yees, he talk enough. Yees. More wine, pleese, Kredra of the good heart. A dry throat it is silent."

Ilona had told Judge Deering that she expected to return to Europe as soon as it became late enough in the spring to expect a calm voyage; and Judge Deering, consulting his conscience, had confided to her the whole tangle of El Crucifijo's ownership, and of Hales' search for the unfortunate woman, Anna.

Kredra, who knew hidden things—which, however, were not so deeply hidden but that little Pedro had perceived them—felt sure Ilona would not soon leave California. And after Ilona's return from her last visit to the city, though she said nothing of what Judge Deering had told, Hales felt a subtle intangible warmth in her attitude toward him.

A day or so after Ferdinand's return, John Taylor came out from the city as he did every week to visit his brother.

"Nothing has been heard of the de Solas. Colonel Nevinson says they have been frightened out of the country," Taylor told them.

"Rain and bad roads," Hales answered, "make highwaymen and bandits seek shelter, like other people. While José de Sola lives, Nevinson will be in danger of worse than death."

The next morning Burton, who had some business in the city, and Taylor rode toward San Francisco together. They had not reached the public road before they met a vaquero riding on the way to El Crucifijo. He was merely the common sort of Spanish Californian on a very good horse. The fellow was small, dark, with a quick eager look on his face, and a gentle thin voice. He wished them a "good day" in English.

Burton, without drawing rein, looked over his shoulder at the fellow, trying to recall where, if ever, he had seen him before. There was, somehow, a glimmering of familiarity about the vaquero.

Pasquito, the vaquero, rode on without looking behind him. He recalled very well where he had met this giant of a gringo. Pasquito one night in the mountains had crept cautiously forward to the camp-fire of two Americanos while Don Gil Diego and his horsemen waited. Luck had been with the gringos, since one of them was that Señor Hales against whom even the savage Don Gil would not raise his hand.

Pasquito knew that Col. Nevinson talked in big tones of how he had broken up the de Sola bandits. What fools were these gringos who thought that Spanish blood ever forgot or forgave the humiliating blow, or ceased to wait watchfully.

With such pleasant reflections to entertain himself, he rode on; and now and then he smiled in much the same way as smooth water is rippled without being broken.

Under the shadow of the oak before the rancho of El Crucifijo, Ferdinand stood in the road and cried his greeting to Pasquito:

"Ah-ho, Señor Pasquito, you are far, far out of your way, my good friend. But come, if you are hungry. There is coffee and meat, and the welcome of an honest man. Then you tell me where it is you go, and I will point my finger to show you the way. You are lost, eh?"

"No, señor, but my horse needs the rest of a day and a night and I come to where is a good friend, like Señor Ferdinand."

"So fine a horse! Rest! He has too much fat and should be rode fast and far," said Ferdinand with the air of a man who knew all about horses. "Ride him hard, señor. That is the cure for such lazy-bones!"

"No, Señor Ferdinand."

Ferdinand frowned doubtfully, then with less amiability:

"What do you here?"

"Don Gil Diego he said to me, 'Pasquito, when you are tired, stop and rest at the rancho of our good friend, Señor Ferdinand, whom I love.'"

"The devil take that same Ferdinand and those who love him," said Ferdinand, not loudly, being very impatient at having further dealings with men whom he wished to forget. Then, loudly enough, "Why are you here, señor?"

Pasquito lied plausibly enough for his purpose, saying he was tired; and Ferdinand knew that he lied a little; but as it could not be helped he hoped for the best and said:

"Come then and rest. But if you would live long and die happy, keep from sight. There are gringos here."

"How many?" asked Pasquito quickly.

"Ho, many! They come and go."

"Be it so, señor. I must wait."

"Wait?" cried Ferdinand. "You must wait? For who and what?"

"For the brave Don Gil, Señor Ferdinand."

"Don Gil! Here! He comes here. Ho, there is danger! He must not come!" Ferdinand swore with deep feeling. "When does he come?"

Pasquito, who was neither a fool nor the son of a fool, rather distrusted Ferdinand, though having been very well assured that Ferdinand was a true fellow, one to be counted on; and so Pasquito lied:

"Two days from this night he rides by. And I am to wait here, with news."

"News, what news, señor? I am a friend. You can tell me!"

"Tonight, Señor Ferdinand, when all is quiet, I will tell you, señor—all."

Ferdinand went along while Pasquito put away his horse in the corral, then took him to the kitchen, fed him, talked, pulling with oblique questions and subtle friendliness; but Pasquito was wary, and a very good liar; which, together with his ability to speak English, was why Don Gil placed him in considerable trust.

Hales, crossing from the Taylor house which was some distance off, met Ferdinand, Pedro and Pasquito; and after looking at Pasquito for a moment said:

"My honest and lone traveler, you are far from the mountains? Are you lost again and wish the shelter of a gringo camp-fire?"

"Si, Señor Hales," said Pasquito, grinning frankly. "When there are so many bad men in the world, I come near to those who are good!"

"And do you mean to stop long?"

"No, señor. Tonight I go, far, very far."

"You," said Hales, "have a bad habit of getting lost when your friends are within voice-call. Where are they now, these friends?"

"Don José has taken his wife—God love her!—to Mexico, that he may be far from all gringos. Don Gil rides south. There are too many Americanos here. They come like flies at the time of taking hides."

To the Spaniards, before the gold rush, a cow was worth no more than its hide and tallow. Thousands were killed and skinned and left to the coyotes, buzzards, flies.

When Hales had passed, Ferdinand said:

"You lie well for an honest man, Señor Pasquito. Now let us have the truth."

"Tonight, señor, when all is quiet. My story is long."

Fog-like clouds lay nearly motionless in the sky. There was no rain in them, but they obscured the warmth of the sun.

That afternoon, after shivering by the fire, Ilona asked Ferdinand for the horse, Prince. She looked about for Hales, meaning to ask him to ride with her, but he was not to be found readily.

She loved to ride, and was never lonely on horseback. She wore the divided skirt used by Spanish women in California, and often had ridden far toward the hills, alone, and had never seen any one, never thought of any one.

The ground was springy with moisture, soft with fresh grass. The horse flew with noiseless hoofbeats; and she rode the finest horse she had ever known.

The wind whipped against her face, and though by a fire she had felt chilled, now there seemed a moist warmth in the air. Her blood raced, and she was merry, all by herself.

She had gone several miles, then in a roundabout way returned toward the ranch. After a swift gallop she pulled down to a walk, and rounded a hill. Below her lay a narrow gully.

"Come, good boy, jump!" she said, stroking the horse's neck.

But Prince, with ears thrust forward, paused, looking off to one side.

Ilona looked, and saw a group of many men, some ten or twelve, staring at her in attitudes of surprise. Some still squatted, but others had sprung upright, staring. They were Spaniards, wild looking fellows. Here and there on down the gully she saw horses, grazing against the bank. The horses were unsaddled.

She was startled, but not afraid. They were two or three hundred feet off; she was on a fast horse, they were afoot. The ranch was less than two miles away. She could hear their voices rattling in startled exclamations.

"Come, Prince-boy," she said quietly, and struck him with her heels.

The horse was inattentive. He looked with eager pricking of ears and out-thrust nose toward the men and other horses. Usually, after her lightest touch she had to draw the reins, firmly. She struck him sharply with the ends of the reins, and he gathered himself for the jump, but at that moment a clear shrill ringing whistle seemed to fill the air. The horse jumped instantly, and nearly jolted her from the saddle, for he had jumped straight down, and bolted furiously toward the men who sprang, scrambling, out of the way; that is, all excepting one thick-bodied, savage fellow with black bristling mustache. With jolting abruptness, the horse stopped before him, and head out-thrust, ears pointed, nuzzled against the upraised hand, while the man looked up at her with an expression of mock surprise, his eyebrows lifted, his mouth shaped as if to say, "Oh!"

Ilona was angered and a little frightened. The expression on the faces of these men made her uneasy. Three or four of them were scrambling up the bank. They scattered to high ground and peered in all directions, then shouted back that no one was in sight.

The fierce looking man, plainly their leader, walked from side to side, examining the horse like a cautious buyer about to make a high bid; and the horse tried to follow every move and step that the man made.

"Señorita," said the man unpleasantly, "who are you?"

"Señorita Tesla"—she spoke Spanish—"and you are on my rancho, without my permission!"

This was not strictly true, but under the circumstances she felt privileged to say it. There were low explosive murmurs all about her; and this man's eyes widened. Then he smiled, but with a hint of mocking her, and removed his sombrero. His voice was harsh, like the voice of one habitually contemptuous.

"And my horse, señorita. How is it that you ride upon him?"

"It is not your horse, señor. It is Colonel Nevinson's horse!"

"Ah, it is, eh?" Again the fellow's ugly face took on the look of mock surprise. "Do you think this horse would come if the gringo whistled, eh?"

"Perhaps not, señor. But I wish to get home. If there is a misunderstanding about who owns this horse, you can find Colonel Nevinson at San Francisco. Please step aside, señor!"

Don Gil stepped aside, bowing ironically.

Ilona struck with her heels, with the reins, clucked sharply. The horse, reluctantly, started forward, but, as Don Gil whistled, wheeled instantly and came up to him. Don Gil laughed at her.

Ilona was flushed, confused, and gave him so angry a look that he said:

"Oh, señorita, your eyes are like the dagger! If the horse loves me more than the colonel gringo, why should you be so angry?"

"Will you kindly allow me to go, señor!"

"Señorita," he cried with an air of wrath, "the man that would stop you with hand or word—ha! Let him beware of me! Out of the way there, you! The señorita wishes to pass!"

The men, grinning, edged off a little.

"May I go now, señor?" she asked far more coolly than she felt.

"This is your rancho, señorita?"

"It is."

"Ah. We lost horses that wandered, señorita, and in the search came here. The day is nearly night, and hungry men eat supper. If it is not pleasing that we camp on your rancho, we leave, now! Eh, señorita?"

"Of course you may stay, señor. And may I go?"

"One little moment, señorita. You do not know how this colonel-man got to own my horse? No?"

"No, señor. I have heard that there was some trouble, and though I have permission to ride him, I was asked not to ride him to the city. But I know nothing beyond that. May I go, now?"

"Pardon, señorita. One little word more. This man, is he a friend to you? A very good friend, ah? Better than a good friend, eh?"

Ilona flushed indignantly. "My friend, señor, yes!" she said angrily.

"Ah"—Don Gil's voice was contemptuous, his inference unmistakable—"but he has other friends, not like you! The Doña Elvira, you know of her? Eh? Ha, I see anger! Go, señorita, as you wish, an' we too ride at once from your rancho."

He stepped aside and pointed. She urged the horse, and the horse moved with hesitant steps, then, not being called, went faster, but as if half-minded to turn anyhow. She coaxed him up a place in the bank that afforded footing, then urged him into a gallop.

The ugly Spaniard's last words and tone echoed within her ears. She did know, vaguely, of the Doña Elvira, and did not want to know more than vaguely of her.

Ilona reached the ranch in the first gathering of dusk; and as she rode up at a clatter she noticed two horses tied near the house, and wondered, without much thought about it, who had come.

Ferdinand, as if he had been hiding as he waited, stepped from behind a tree and ran toward her. She jumped off, swung the reins at him, saying:

"The strangest thing happened to me over there. I met"

"Queek! On your horse. To the corral ride! The strange theeng has happen here—queek!"

He cut short her questions by seizing her as if in anger and lifting her, and when she was in the saddle he slapped the horse, which sprang forward, frightened, and in two jumps was past the house.

Ilona, in passing, glanced at the wide doorway. Candles were burning and she saw vaguely a man's tall figure moving toward the door.

"Has she come? That was Miss Tesla, wasn't it?" a voice demanded peremptorily through the gloom.

"Si, señor," said Ferdinand agreeably. "She rode to the corral and comes back."

The man's figure withdrew, then Ferdinand, flinging his hands up in a gesture as if resigning to heaven all responsibility for what might follow, began to run toward the corral.

As he rounded the house he saw a small fire burning and two silhouetted figures moved idly near by, tossing on straw.

He changed his course and ran to the fire, demanding:

"What do you do, eh?"

"We make a fire to talk by, and tell the news, señor," said Pasquito. "The night is not warm and my story is long."

"He will tell his story to us," said Pedro.

"Your story, bah! I have my own story this night! And yours is not long, Señor Pasquito, if it can be told by a straw fire. You, Turnip, come and take your señorita's horse. Do you sleep when I talk!"

"I come, señor. I come!"

He followed with a stumbling trot to where Ilona, almost almost invisible in deepening of night, impatiently waited.

"Take him the the horse!" said Ferdinand, shoving the reins against Pedro, then shoving Pedro.

"Ferdinand! What is wrong? You, why you are excited!" she grasped his arm, trying to peer at his face.

"Nothin' it is wrong, Leetle One. I know you do not want to stop an' see who it is there, so I tell you to come here. Go to where the seek woman is. Write a leetle note. Say you will not come to the house. I will take it."

"What do you mean, Ferdinand? Who is there?"

"That colonel."

"Colonel Nevinson! Why, I do want to see him. And why shouldn't I see him? I had the strangest thing happen a while ago and I"

"No, no, you mus' not go!"

"Why, Ferdinand? Why?"

He was shaking his head vigorously, but she could not see that—

"No, you mus' not!"

"I want to see him. I really do. Why, you act so strange!"

"No, no, he is not alone. You mus' not go. No!"

"Who is with him?"

"May the devil fly away with heem, to bring that woman here! Ah, she is bad, Leetle One. Do not go near! She is the Evil One, an' make troubles. I do not know why she comes, but I know why I weesh her off! E-ah! It is bad. She is a bad woman, Leetle One!"

"He has brought that woman here?" Ilona demanded, amazed, indignant.

"An' how to be rid of her! There is the wagon an' mules, with some straw—when she got from her horse she sleeped an' could not walk. With her arm to my neck, between that colonel an' me, she got to the house. She say, 'Oh, oh, it hurts! an' I say, 'Oh, oh, good!' but quietly to myself. She, oh, one I love, she put the men here to hang Ferdinand, but does not know I know! An' how she looked at firs' to see me! Do not go!"

"Ferdinand!"

"It is truth. I have tol' lies, but nevare when God watch an' listen as he mus 'watch an' listen this night to see what the Devil has in the stew pot! You mus' not go!"

"What can he mean, bringing her—here!"

"You write the leetle note, eh? The colonel he come to have you seel to heem our rancho. But you weel not do that—eh?"

"No! I will go and see. Where is Mr. Hales?"

"He is with the seek woman. From far off he saw that colonel come. He went into the seek woman's house. He has hate for that bad Doña. He is no freen' to that colonel, an'"

"Go tell him that I want him. Quickly. Run!"

Ferdinand made all the protests that he could, but she would not listen, and imperiously commanded; so with no pleasure in his haste, he ran, and came back with Hales.

"Mr. Hales," she said, "Colonel Nevinson is here, and with a person I have no wish to meet. But I shall go and hear what this means. I am not afraid, but I—under the circumstances, I would like for you to come with me. Ferdinand says it is something about buying this ranch, and I think you had better come—since it is your ranch! It is almost cowardly of me—but will you come?"

It was now as dark as any hour of the night would be, and that cloud-haze, which is called a high fog and obscures much of the Californian springtime sky, blotted the stars and the moon. The heavy buildings were perceptible as solid blocks of darkness; the candles within made faintly luminous squares at some of the deep windows. The kitchen door was open. A candle on a high shelf threw a glow on the floor and barely across the stone that made the threshold step.

On the ground, between the house and the corral, all that was now left of the bonfire was a glowing disk. The straw with rapid flare had burned. There were no silhouetted figures near. Pasquito and Pedro had withdrawn.

Ferdinand followed Ilona and Hales a few steps, then, seeing some one cross the kitchen, he ran ahead.

The Spanish woman who had been brought from somewhere by Pedro as a cook sat phlegmatically on a low three-legged stool and indifferently eyed the supper, now ready and warm.

Kredra stood near the inner doorway, looking through, motionlessly, into the other room where Col. Nevinson paced up and down and the Doña Elvira sat in a chair, holding a slim hand to her ankle. The colonel waited restively, turning expectantly at every sound, now and then solicitously asking Elvira how was the pain. And did she not think she could sit in a saddle, if they rode slowly, in returning?

"Kredra? Kredra?" Ferdinand called softly from outside the kitchen door.

Kredra turned unhurriedly, without change of expression. Even the focus in her eyes seemed set, so that though she looked toward Ferdinand she did not look at him.

"Kredra, Wise Woman, tell me, what do you see? What will come?"

He waited breathlessly, confident.

"There is nothing here," she said calmly, touching her breast. She shook her head slightly. "There is nothing here, so I have no fear." But her air of mystery was not lessened.

"But you know something—can see—can tell"

His faith was the faith that would believe anything except that this sibylline woman did not know, could not see at least a little way into the hours that were coming.

"Ah, Kredra, Woman of Wisdom, you know something. Tell me."

"That man"—she hardly moved a hand, but conveyed the suggestion of having pointed—"is a fool!"

"Yes, yes, it is so!" said Ferdinand, nodding rapidly.

"She has no hurt. She feels no pain," Kredra continued impersonally, having for some time watched Elvira, unobserved.

"Ah, you know that? Then why—why does she make the cry and limp? She put her arm to my neck—I could feel her pray for the strength to break it! Why did she slip and say it hurt?"

And Kredra, who could be very expressive when she looked upon one whom she did not like, answered enigmatically:

"Her lips have the curve that a serpent leaves in the dust!"

"It is so!"

"E-ah! They have come!"

She turned quickly from

Ferdinand and again stood where she could look within the room beyond.

Ilona and Hales had reached the doorway at the front of the house.

For the past few weeks what went on at El Crucifijo had been as far removed from Col. Nevinson's knowledge and attention as if it were situated a hundred miles off. He had, when nearly bankrupt, and with no other impulse than one of generosity, given what he thought was the ranch to Miss Tesla. He had done so because he knew that in bankruptcy he would lose it, and because when a generous impulse—as with any other—came to him, he followed it.

Subsequently, he and Doña Elvira were reconciled; not only reconciled, but his attachment for her was stronger than it had ever been.'But he was no sooner securely infatuated than she began, though with too much subtlety, to risk a quarrel, to reproach him for having never given the ranch to her. His explanations were ineffectual. With a woman's heedless insistence, Elvira wanted, or pretended to want, that ranch.

She insisted upon his taking her out to El Crucifijo and getting it, as if it was something that could be put in a purse and carried off. Her original idea may have been to dispossess and triumph in a way that would have pleased her over Ilona Tesla.

Not even for Elvira herself would Col. Nevinson demand the return of his gift; but he had heard through the business gossip that attended the settling of Mr. Tesla's affairs that Ilona expected to return to Europe; and he did promise that he would call upon Miss Tesla with a view toward regaining possession when she left. This did not please Elvira and at first she let him understand that it did not please her; but he was firm. Then she insisted upon accompanying him; and to this, reluctantly, he agreed. After some delay she had named the day, and he kept his word.

He was now standing before Elvira, regarding her ankle with a kind of exasperation, when Ilona came to the doorway and stood there. He turned quickly, graciously, but paused. Plainly she was angered. Also she appeared somewhat taller than Col. Nevinson remembered her, as if she had grown rapidly. She looked at him and at no one else. As far as she seemed to know, he was alone.

"Ah, Miss Tesla, I—"

He glanced past her and forgot the rest of his greeting. He recognized Hales with just about the same puzzled stare that he would have recognized a ghost. Hales' face, in the outer edge of candlelight, appeared a face of shadows and angles. Nevinson had at first to look carefully to be sure that it was Hales.

Elvira, also recognizing him, made a noiseless gasp. Her dark eyes for an instant took on an abstract look of troubled thoughtfulness. It was as though vaguely she was afraid of Hales, or at least of his presnce [sic] here at this time. His presence, and his attitude, was unmistakably one of protection toward this Tesla girl who stood haughtily, with face lifted, totally ignoring her.

Elvira arose with agitation, casting startled glances about her as if suddenly and greatly alarmed.

"Colonel," she said quickly, her voice anxious, "let us go! We came on a matter of business, but"

She had arisen. Her dark face of cameo outline was strained; the soft Spanish glow of cheek and brow was gone. She was suddenly pale, and broke off with an odd expression of listening an odd as if to some far-off faint sound sound.

"You tremble, Elvira!" cried Col. Nevinson, turning to her. cried "The pain—your ankle. Sit down. We"—he glanced toward Ilona, who, whatever her impulse may have been, had not yet by so much as a glance recognized the presence of Elvira—"we will soon state our business, and if you can bear the pain, go!"

He also was angered by Ilona's hauteur and Hales' presence; but, being Col. Nevinson, would not go with the reason for his coming unstated. Solicitously and forcibly he pushed Elvira back into the chair.

She was strangely excited. Her slim hands fluttered with nervous groping from the arms of her chair to her cheeks, then snatched vaguely at him.

"Please—never mind anything—let us go! Quick, please"

"No," he said sternly, not unkindly. "No, madam, I came for a purpose and until that purpose is stated, I do not go, sir!" Then, "Miss Tesla, this is my friend, my very good friend"—he said it sharply—"Miss Elvira Eton!"

Ilona took no notice at all of Miss Elvira Eton; but from behind her direct gaze she asked:

"You have something to say to me, Colonel?"

Losing his temper and manners he said explosively:

"I desire to buy this ranch from you, now!"

"No-no!" Elvira cried in a low tone, almost hysterical, arising again, looking at no one. "No, I don't want it, Colonel! I want to leave—we must leave—something terrible will happen—oh, quickly"

She took a hasty step and stumbled on the hem of her riding skirt. Col. Nevinson caught her, supported her.

"You must not try to stand," he said peremptorily. Again she weakly yielded to his hands, and sat down, but begging:

"Please take me! We must go—now. My ankle is all right—I—we must get away from here—Oh, oh, oh!"

Ilona answered him, and there seemed a proud note of satisfaction in her tone:

"El Crucifijo does not belong to me, Colonel Nevinson!"

"Then who—what have you done with it?" he demanded, but his gaze shifted suspiciously toward Hales.

"It belongs to Mr. Hales, who bought it from the de Coronals! Though called Cowden's ranch, it was never Mr. Cowden's to sell!"

"He, that greaser there—he told you that!" cried Col. Nevinson. "He lied. You sir, if you say that, you lie!"

Doña Elvira groaned as if struck. Her hands flew to her eyes, pressing them. It was as if suddenly she valued Col. Nevinson, his friendship, his generosities. And as he spoke Nevinson made a sweeping gesture, pushing aside his coat, reaching toward his hip, glaring at Hales.

Hales folded his arms. His anger burned like a flame in his browned face. He was greatly angered, but in his heart he did not actually blame Col. Nevinson for his astonished rage. Buying El Crucifijo from the de Coronals, and saying nothing, had been like a trick. He was not now proud of it, though unashamed. For the moment he did not dare try to speak.

"Do you hear me, sir! I say, you lie, you damn greaser!"

"Sir!" Ilona spoke with a sharpness that even Col. Nevinson could not ignore. Then, "I refer you to Judge Deering who"

Hales, standing so tensely that he hardly gave thought to what he was doing, looked quickly behind him into the darkness where there was the sound of feet. Dimly he saw figures, two or three, approaching and glimpsed their Spanish dress. Pedro, Pasquito, he thought, coming to listen.

"Colonel! Colonel—oh, go—let us go"

Elvira again started to rise; but there was a confused sound of heavy feet, an explosive flurry of voices, seemingly all about the house, at all the doorways. With a low cry she dropped back, her hands flattened against her cheeks, her eyes in a stare.

And at the instant that Hales knew these were other men than he had thought, he felt the jab of something blunt against his side, and as his hand snatched at his holster, he felt his gun jerked away.

"Do not move, señor!" a voice in Spanish told him.

And as men rushed by him, pushing by Ilona, there was also a hurrying clatter of feet through the kitchen, and six or seven wild vaqueros came into the room.

Col. Nevinson, looking determinedly toward the front doorway, stepped back rapidly, reaching at his hip under his coat; but the first Spaniard to enter from the kitchen was the savage Don Gil, with mustache bristling; and before Col. Nevinson realized that any one was so near behind him, Don Gil caught at his shoulder and laid the muzzle of a revolver against Col. Nevinson's forehead.

"Oh, ho-ho," said Don Gil mockingly. "It is the brave gringo colonel, eh? You are a brave man, eh? Good! Soon Don José de Sola will be here to ask why you make of his brother's head a peekle! This is a good night!" Then, as if throwing the words into the air to be obeyed by anybody they happened to strike, "Tie his hands!"

And, as more than two or three men already stood by, eagerly menacing Nevinson, Don Gil turned away with a swaggering air of indifference.

Hales had been marched into the room with the muzzle of a gun in the middle of his back.

"Ho-oh! Señor Hales!" cried Don Gil. "Ah, this it is pleasant. Stan' right over there, señor, where you can watch well. Ha! These women, out with them"—Don Gil flung his hands as if scattering flies—"into a room an' watch them." But as Elvira with trembling stagger started to rise, her face averted, Don Gil caught her by the the shoulder, pushed her back. "No, no, not you!" He spoke in Spanish.

Nevinson swore and struggled, crying:

"Keep your hands from her, you dirty ! Don't you dare"

Don Gil turned and looked at him, then he moved his eyes slowly and looked at Elvira who sat crumpled in the chair, pressing her arms to her face, her body trembling. Don Gil smiled a little, very slightly, nodding his head slowly, watching her. In Spanish, "Man is a fool. Even now he would fight for you!"

Then Don Gil, with a wrinkling of contempt still on his lips, turned slowly toward Hales, and by the staring in Hales' eyes saw that Hales knew that this woman, with much artful scheming, had revengefully betrayed Nevinson into the hands of these men.

"It is our promise that he there shall never know," said Don Gil, with arms folded and staring aslant at the wretched woman. "Ha!"

Don Gil, with sombrero pushed back and a cigaret in the corner of his mouth, sat on a corner of the table carefully examining Hales' revolver. He had daubed candle grease on the table near him and stuck the candle there. Near the candle was a bowl of moist black sugar. Sugar was a weakness with him, and he had demanded it; and now from time to time dipped his fingers into it.

Ilona and Kredra had been taken from the room. Doña Elvira, with her face bowed to her hands, wept.

Hales stood against the wall behind the table. No one was near him. Vaqueros, fingering their weapons, slouched with attitudes of mingled laziness and alertness at the doorways.

As Don Gil examined the gun or dipped his fingers into the sugar and nibbled absently, he would lift a slow oblique glance at Col. Nevinson, just as if to make sure that he was still near by. His hands had been tied with a riata behind him, and some feet away a man held the other end of the rope. Nevinson stood erect and, for once, silent. Shadows of haggardness were already on his face, and more than at any one else, he looked at Hales.

Don Gil, who had a gift for all sorts of torture and a kind of ironic contempt for everybody, sat with studied delay, nibbling sugar, fingering the revolver. He grasped the handle, pointing it at his own head, closed an eye, stared into the muzzle as if seeing something. Then he handed the gun to Ferdinand, saying in English:

"Give eet back to our good freen'."

Ferdinand walked around the table and held out the gun to Hales, who hesitated, then took it.

"Now I know—you have done this!" Col. Nevinson thundered at Hales. Oaths followed.

Don Gil looked up obliquely, watching Nevinson, listening, amused. He twisted about, with sugared fingers on the way to his mouth, and maliciously said in English:

"Ha, Señor Hales. He does not like it that you are our freen'."

And Hales, answering in Spanish, dropped his hand, indicating the returned gun and said, "You have done me the greatest injury you could do, Don Gil. It will be believed everywhere that I, I, have done this thing—or had a part in it. It is known that this man and I are not friends. If I try now in any way to make him believe I have no part in it, he will think more than ever that I lie!"

"So? Then, señor, if you would be treated like a devil-born gringo," said Don Gil with increasing anger, "whip a Spaniard! Steal their horses, pay men to kill them, harm their daughters, take their land, curse them for dogs, call them greasers! Does it mean nothing that I, I, Don Gil Diego, who hate all Americanos, have respect for you—and show it? Bah!" he cried, flinging his hands. "You, too, are a fool! I thought long and twice before I gave the gun back to you so that he might see and know you were my friend. Now no more words! I do here as I please" With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the roomful of armed vaqueros.

Col. Nevinson, still glaring at Hales, cried:

"You don't even deny it, you"

"Hol' your mouth tight! All you! Ever'body!" Don Gil bellowed.

The situation, however, was too satisfactory for him to remain angry, and his nature too mercurial. He tossed more sugar into his mouth, gave an up-turning twist to his mustache, then having a new thought, said pleasantly:

"Ah-o, you Ferdinand!"

"Ah-o-ho, Don Gil," answered Ferdinand.

"My horse—on this rancho? You did not send word? You, what devil's trick did you play?" Then, growing really suspicious and angered as things he had not thought of came out as he talked of them:

"This colonel-man, you help him hide my horse! You help him hide from us! You knew it was this colonel and you said no word! That tongue of yours, here, now, I will cut it out if you lie! Let me hear truth, and why you helped this colonel, eh? Answer!"

Don Gil frowned wrathfully. He liked Ferdinand, but he hated traitors.

"Ah, Don Gil, bravest of men, Ferdinand is a sailorman. He knows a horse has four legs and two ears; but a horse, señor—I ride mules. One horse, it is to me as another. There are many horses with the same mark on his hide. I do not know, Benito was here and saw the horse, señor, and"

"Benito is a dead man," said Don Gil, suspiciously, "and cannot tell me if you lie. Gringos hanged him. He would know my horse and tell me! Yes, that is a lie! Ah-er-r-r, you lie!"

Ferdinand made a gesture of mild protest, answering:

"What a wicked world, that when Ferdinand speaks truth, good men like you, señor, say, 'You lie, Ferdinand!' Then ask your man Gomez why, when he came with Americanos to hang Ferdinand and the horse stood where a blind man must see—though a sailorman like Ferdinand does not know more than to tell a horse from a mule—why Gomez when he came"

"Gomez! Gringos? Hang you! What bigger lie is this, now?" Don Gil roared.

"No lie, no lie, señor. Only the bad luck that an hones' man has when he speaks true! It was Señor Hales who came and saw and eased my neck with that good gun of his. He stands there. Ask!"

"Does this man lie to me?" Don Gil demanded of Hales.

"No, Don Gil. So far as I know, it is the truth."

Don Gil swore furiously. He forgot the horse in his rage:

"Gomez? Hang you? Why, Ferdinand? Ah-h-h, now I remember me that he did have his horse go lame yesterday when we rode this way! I will make a fire and put him to sleep on the coals! Why? He came with Americanos! I hate all Americanos! Why was he here, my Ferdinand?"

Ferdinand hesitated, glancing toward Elvira, who, though already in misery, looked up with anxious wretchedness, and shrank as if from an expected blow, for she saw that he knew. Ferdinand answered:

"My gold, Señor Diego. He came with robber-men. Gringos! But for Señor Hales they would have hanged Ferdinand! Gomez was here. Your horse was here. Gomez has eyes! Let him lie to you, good Don Gil, and see if his lies can make you believe him!"

Don Gil swore savagely, questioning Hales, asking many questions, cursing Gomez, threatening a couch of live coals against anybody who would lift a hand against his good friend, Ferdinand.

When that was over, Don Gil looked about as if for something else that might be of interest; and, with his eyes on Col. Nevinson, called:

"Pasquito!"

"Pasquito is outside, on watch, señor!" some one said.

"Devil and his mother! I called Pasquito! Not for reasons why he does not come!"

One, then another of the men by the doorway quickly repeated the call. There was no answer.

"I will get him," said Ferdinand and went out.

Pasquito came humbly: "You call me, señor?"

"Ho, so? You come when it pleases you to come, eh?"

"I watched for the coming of Don José, señor."

"Then why does not Don José come?" said Don Gil, angrily.

"Ah, señor, as you know, Don José waited on the road if it should be this gringo left before my watch-fire called you to him."

"He should come. He should come," said Don Gil impatiently. Then: "Our little ramrod, Pasquito. Bring it!"

Pasquito hurried out and returned with a flexible steel ramrod.

Don Gil threw down his cigaret, took the ramrod, bent it between his hands, then, striking the air, made it whistle.

"Ha!" said Don Gil explosively to Nevinson. "Eet is hungree for the taste of a gringo back. Put eet on the fire, Pasquito. See, the brave gringo grows white in the face! Ho, do you fear a leetle burn, eh—like a woman?"

Col. Nevinson did grow white; but awaiting what was almost worse than death, he had not yet begged. Don Gil wanted that sound in his ears—the gringo's begging cry. But so far every time he tormented Nevinson into saying anything, what he said was blasphemous and defiant. Nevinson's virtues may not have been many, but cowardice was not among his weaknesses.

A far-flung shout was heard outside in the darkness, a dim answer; then the trampling rush of horses over the soft moist earth. Don Gil sprang out into the room, then stood poised, listening with the wariness of an animal used to being hunted. The other men, half ready to bolt, with hands to weapons, listened uncertainly. Some one, peering into the night, cried out reassuringly, turned with a gleeful flourish of hand:

"Don José comes!"

Don José came. At his back were four more vaqueros, eyes bright and mouths parted in grins over white teeth.

In the doorway Don José paused, looking about, fastening his gaze on Col. Nevinson. His youthful face, within a few months, had become severe. He was the avenger, more passionless than Don Gil, who got pleasure from torture, but as merciless.

Don José said nothing until he had looked carefully; but those with him talked rapidly to their friends. They said they were late in coming because just about dusk a party of soldiers, mounted men, had ridden along the road toward San Francisco. Don José had waited there a long time. He knew that Don Gil would have caught Nevinson soon after dark; so Don José waited lest these soldiers, having word that he was in the neighborhood, might reappear and in their search ride toward El Crucifijo. In that case, Don José, whose horses were better than Americanos', meant to lead them a chase, draw them off. The news that soldiers were near troubled the vaqueros, for though the gringo soldiers were not remarkable horsemen they were amazing marksmen.

Don José turned a slow look upon Elvira, running his glance from the hem of her skirt over her huddled back to her hair, now pulled loose, partly bedraggled.

"She weeps well, eh?" said Don Gil. "Yow-yows to make him think she has sorrow. It is the way with"

Don José cut him short with a quick slight gesture. There was no doubt as to who was the real chief, and the blood of the higher caste commanded with the ease of one born to the command of such unruly rough fellows as Don Gil.

With great surprise and a moment's doubtfulness, Don José recognized Hales.

"You, señor! Ah, even revenge must wait on a Spaniard's debt for kindness!"

Don José removed his sombrero, coming to Hales, putting out his hand.

Nevinson's voice, brokenly, almost too enraged to shape the words, cried out that he had known it from the first that these two men were friends, in league; but they ignored him, and Don Gil struck his mouth.

"Señor Hales," said José with emotion, "Doña Lucita is now my wife. She waits with friends near Los Angeles. This night I ride south, and with her on to Mexico. Of all who are gringos to you only would I give my hand. In her prayers for me, señor, Doña Lucita gives your name to God who this night gives me the pleasure to meet you again. As he hates, so does a de Sola love one who has been so much the friend as you. But the night may not be used for even the talk of friends. Soldiers have been near here today."

Then Don José turned at once and coldly, "Strip his coat! Unbind his hands. Spread him across this table!"

Elvira sprang up, begging, a hand out-thrust, crying:

"Oh, no! Oh, don't! No—Oh!"

"You act it well. You act it well." Don Gil shouted at her, though hardly glancing toward her.

Pasquito came running with the ramrod that had been thrust into the fire of the kitchen stove. Its end glittered for a moment, white hot. The men had untied Col. Nevinson's hands, three men to an arm, and more ready to help. He struggled with a sort of writhing; there were too many for him to shake them from him. His coat was stripped. There was a gun in his holster.

"That gun! Take it from him. Give it to me!" said Don José.

The gun was handed to him and he tossed it indifferently to the floor.

They overpowered Nevinson, threw him on the table, face down, held his arms, his feet.

"Kill me! Kill me!" he cried, trying to lift his head.

"Oh, ho, ho! He begs!" shouted Don Gil triumphantly.

"I will talk," said Don José coldly, and Don Gil became silent.

Don José folded his arms and remained behind Nevinson, out of his sight. Don José was the only person of any calmness in the room. Hales was motionless, but not calm. The vaqueros were greatly excited. Many of them were from the de Sola rancho, had been born there of fathers who were born there.

"No," said Don José, "we do not keel you. My brother, Don Esteban, he begged, 'Keel me! Keel me, señors!' when you held an' wheeped heem! You had no mercy. You paid gold to other men to hunt an' keel heem, an took his head to show in a tent an' men paid to look at his head. You Americanos beat Spaniards from the gol' camps, keel them, drive them away. You have no mercy. Give me the iron!"

Hales made a movement, but checked himself as Don José looked at the tip of steel, now grown dark, still hot, but not red.

"Put it to the fire again. It must burn!"

The iron was taken into the kitchen, shoved into the coals.

"José, p" said Hales, speaking Spanish, "do not—do not do this thing!"

"It is my oath, señor. While he lives it must be done!"

"You can't forgive him. That's impossible—but don't—not this—if you will, the whip, but in God's name, José, not this!"

"The head of my brother, Don Esteban—till the floods came, señor, was shown to gringos in a tent at Sacramento. They paid a dollar to look!"

"José! No—I swear" Hales' voice choked.

Pasquito brought the iron, now hot, glowing red.

Don José took the iron, saying:

"The shirt. Tear it more. Off his his back!"

Don Gil clawed at the shirt, and more fully exposed the muscles that ext twitched convulsively against the expected touch of iron.

Don José reached forward, and Hales reached out and caught the arm of Don José in his left hand.

There was a flashing movement at Hales' hip and a gun's muzzle touched the side of Don José.

"You! This to me! Have you become his friend?"

"José, this shall not be—not while I live! He is no friend of mine! Less now than ever since I must do this for him! If you kill him in any way but murder—all right! But to torture—here—before me—any time—José, no! Don't, don't! José, before God I swear you are my friend, and this man I hate! I hate the people who have abused you—your friends country, but this thing, no! I could never again look an American in the face! And here, José, I swear before God, you will have to kill me before you put that iron on him!"

José spoke furiously, but in a low astonished tone:

"He has become your friend!"

He said that, believing that, because he was unable in any other way to understand.

"No!"

"You lie!"

And so they stood, looking into each other's eyes. Neither could move—there could be no movement without death. If any one caught at Hales, or shot him, the hammer of his gun would fall, and its muzzle was against the side of Don José.

José tossed the iron from his upheld hand. It fell with a shivering rattle on the tiles.

"Don Gil," said José, looking straight into Hales' eyes, "take up the iron and lay the de Sola brand upon that man!"

"I have sworn, José! And I will shoot!"

"I too have sworn, señor. And when you shoot me, you die, then he will wear the brand."

"José, no! In God's name, don't make me do it! The two of us—because of such a thing as he is. No, José!"

"While he lives it must be done. If I die, Don Gil has sworn!"

Said Hales: "If you do this thing, Don José, men will say that I had a hand in it; so while I live it shall not be done!"

Not a sound was in the room. Many guns were aimed at Hales. Of all the men there, only the one forcibly held, face down, did not understand or know of what these men talked.

Don Gil, with his eyes on Hales, stooped and reached for the iron, now again turned dark, but still hot enough to make the mark; and with the iron in his hand he paused and cursed Hales for a gringo, like other gringos!

Then abruptly there were shots, and shouts, the plunging stamp of horses; and in a moment Ferdinand leaped through the door as if thrown, crying:

"Gringo soldiers—they come! They left their horses and sneak up! Fly! Fly! The house is taken"

He continued to shout as men, thrilled by panic, leaped for the doors. Don Gil threw away the iron, springing for the door and out, with gun drawn. Ferdinand, shouting and leaping about, knocked out candles. At the first cry of alarm, Hales had jumped back, releasing Done José's arm. Men fled.

José, with but one thought since he and his men must flee from soldiers, cried, "Bring him with us!" at those who still held Nevinson; then José turned toward the door.

All but one candle, high on a shelf, were out, and Ferdinand would have leaped for that, but paused to bawl at the men who were dragging Nevinson:

"The gringos are soldiers"—he pushed at them—"run for your lives! I will bring him."

Ferdinand, powerful as any three of them seized Nevinson, shook loose the men who held him, crying:

"Out to your horses! I will bring him!"

They fled from the dim room into darkness. Men were shouting. Horses trampled and galloped. There were scattered shots, for the vaqueros excitedly shot at nothing.

Hales stood at the doorway, peering out.

Ferdinand, seeing all the vaqueros were out of the room, turned Nevinson free, shouting:

"Queek! Your gun! Bar up the doors! They will come back! There are no gringos! Pedro I made shoot an' we shout an' some horses I turn loose!"

"What's that?" said Hales, turning at the doorway, looking at Ferdinand.

Ferdinand snatched up the revolver from where Don José had thrown it, thrust it at Col. Nevinson, answering:

"It was a treeck! They will come back! Queek, we mu' bar up the door. Oh, what a night!"

"There are many doors—and nothing to bar them with," said Hales. "Get him out before they come back."

Nevinson for a moment stood in a kind of angry daze, confused, unable to understand what had happened, or was happening. He heard men yelling at a distance, and Ferdinand's voice near; but he did not know what it was all about.

Elvira, wretchedly happy, rushed toward him.

Then suddenly Nevinson, with only one thought in his mind, leveled the gun at Hales:

"Now, you greaser! Draw and"

Ferdinand leaped with an oath, struck down his arm, held it, shouted:

"You ten fools, you! He save you! He"

Elvira with her hands in a flutter of groping, caught at him, at his arms, his shoulders, his cheeks, and cried in frantic babbling of what Hales had said and done, saying unintelligibly that Hales was his friend.

Hales, from near the doorway, frowned at him in a sort of dull astonishment, forgetting that this man who understood no word of Spanish had been held face down over the table, unable to see, unable to understand what he had heard.

Ilona and Kredra had entered the room, and stood mystified. The vaqueros had gone, but these people now talked and acted as if mad.

Nevinson stared fixedly at Hales as he listened in incredulous confusion to what Ferdinand and Elvira were saying to him in broken phrases with a mingling of excited voices.

Then Ferdinand broke off to shout at Kredra:

"Away! Out of the room! Queek! Be gone! They will come back—it was a treeck—if they find you and the Doña Ilona—go!"

Nevinson drew a forearm across his face, saying:

"It can't be—I—I hear—but I don't—I hear what you say, but I don't"

He looked slowly about, with a kind of confused inquiry toward Kredra, toward Ilona.

Then Elvira, hardly realizing what she did, tearful, hysterical, ran at Hales, praising him. reaching out to him; but Hales, knowing it was she who had brought the de Sola men, and delivered Nevinson into their hands, drew back his arm, drawing away from her. The gesture was as if he meant to strike her, and Nevinson shot.

Hales, hard hit, made a spinning stagger; but with muscles gun-trained, drew and shot quick as a wolf snaps at one who strikes. And he did not miss. Nevinson lurched sidewise as if jerked, and with out-flung groping, fell.

The savage face of Don Gil appeared in the doorway; beside him, Don José; behind them, other men; and still others, with a noiseless suddenness, came through the kitchen. They pressed within the big room, lighted by a single candle.

"Where is that damn Ferdinand," said Don Gil, "an' that Hales, an' the gringo colonel-man? It is more than a back-brand now!"

Ferdinand stepped out, drew himself up, smote his breast.

"Here is Ferdinand, señor! There"—he pointed to Hales, gun in hand, sagging against the wall, badly hurt but ready to go into another fight—"is Señor Hales, an' there"—Ferdinand turned and pointed to the floor—"is the Colonel Nevinson—dead!"

"Dead!" cried Don Gil, and began many oaths.

But Don José stopped him with a word and came to Hales:

"You have done this, señor?"

"Yes."

"I do not understand you, or why, Señor Hales! You were not his friend, señor!"

"No."

Don José regarded Hales with an unangered mystification, then glanced toward where Don Gil stooped:

"I swore that while he lived, it should be done—and he is dead. Dead, Don Gil?"

"Dead!" Don Gil growled, glowering about with menace.

Don José again looked at Hales with a kind of cool wonder, asking:

"You are hurt, señor? You say not much. But Americanos are mad, madmen! I do not understand you, my friend—my friend now again. It was not for that Nevinson you put your gun to my side and would have shot? Then why, why did you do that thing?"

Hales shook his head slowly, wearily, not answering.

"Mad! Madmen, all Americanos! All in California, madmen! But tonight I ride to leave California forever, señor. And my wife, the Doña Lucita—ah, Señor Hales, I cannot forget!"

He turned, speaking to his men, sharply:

"To your horses! Our work here is done!"

"But this Ferdinand!" cried Don Gil.

Then up spoke Ferdinand quickly:

"Ah, Don Gil, Ferdinand is a wicked man! Leave him to God and God will punish him for that treeck that saved Señor Hales and Don José from being two dead men!"

"Out! To your horses! We ride!" said Don José, and his men with a stumbling rush went through the doorway.

Some two weeks later Ferdinand and Kredra sat together in the spring sunshine, on a bench near an open window.

Through the window came the tones of a man and a woman's voice, and quiet laughter.

"Doctor-men they are fools," said Ferdinand, after listening for a moment. "Two of them they ride all the way out here to tell us he will die. Bah! The Leetle One, she knows more than doctor-men. You, Wise Woman, will Señor Hales marry our Doña?"

"Yes," said Kredra, quietly.

"But he does not know it yet, eh?"

"Not yet, Ferdinand."

"And the good Doña Elvira Oh, I am sorry for her. The doctor-man that came today he says one beautiful eye it is out forever—like a candle when I say pouf! And the face—Oh, that wicked woman out of France to throw the acid stuff! Kredra, Wise One, why are women so wicked?"

"Shh-hh-h," said Kredra, lifting a silencing hand, listening.

Ferdinand listened, and could hear nothing. There was now nothing. no laughter, not even voices.

"What? What is it?" he whispered.

"Shh-hh-h, you will hear."

Ferdinand tilted his head, listening; he heard. It was the sharp sound of lips parting from lips they have pressed tightly.

"A-ho! Now he knows, eh! It has come! A-ho!" He raised the fiddle, tucking it under his chin, and lifted the bow, but paused. "And there will be many children, and I will tell them what a great fine good man was Ferdinand when their birth-land, this California, was a wild gold country. But us good men, we make it a fine place for little children to come and be born!"

Then the bow fell and danced upon the strings, and Ferdinand's voice rose in song.