A Daughter of the Dons | Page 4

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, señor, 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.
"Señor Gordon, have you ever heard of the Valdés 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
Valdés, 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 Moreño 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 José Moreño, 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, señor. The courts, I feel sure, will
sustain my words."
"Perhaps, and perhaps not."
"The law is an expensive arbiter, Señor 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 Valdés heir."
Dick looked at him steadily and nodded. He began to see the purpose of

this visit. He waited silently, his mind very alert.
"Señor, 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."
"Señorita Valdés is a woman, young and beautiful. This little estate is
her sole possession. To fight for it in court is a hardship that Señor
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, señor, 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