A Daughter of the Dons | Page 6

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, Señor 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 Valdés grant. The peons are hot-tempered, and
are likely to resent any attempt to change the existing conditions. Your
presence, señor, 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 Valdés 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 Moreño 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."
CHAPTER III
FISHERMAN'S LUCK
A fisherman was whipping the stream of the Rio Chama.
In his creel were a dozen trout, for the speckled beauties had been
rising to the fly that skipped across the top of the riffles as naturally as
life. He wore waders, gray flannel shirt, and khaki coat. As he worked
up the stream he was oftener in its swirling waters than on the shore.
But just now the fish were no longer striking.
"Time to grub, anyhow. I'll give them a rest for a while. They'll likely
be on the job again soon," he told himself as he waded ashore.
A draw here ran down to the river, and its sunny hillside tempted him
to eat his lunch farther up.
Into the little basin in which he found himself the sun had poured shafts
of glory to make a very paradise of color. Down by the riverside the
willows were hesitating between green and bronze. Russet and brown
and red peppered the slopes, but shades of yellow predominated in the
gulch itself.
The angler ate his sandwiches leisurely, and stretched his lithe body
luxuriantly on the ground for a siesta. When he resumed his occupation
the sun had considerably declined from the meridian. The fish were

again biting, and he landed two in as many minutes.
The bed of the river had been growing steeper, and at the upper
entrance of the little park he came to the first waterfall he had seen.
Above this, on the opposite side, was a hole that looked inviting. He
decided that a dead tree lying across the river would, at a pinch, serve
for a bridge, and he ventured upon it. Beneath his feet the rotting bark
gave way. He found himself falling, tried desperately to balance
himself, and plunged head first into the river.
Coming to the surface, he caught at a rock which jutted from the
channel. At this point the water was deep and the current