Treasure and Trouble Therewith | Page 7

her she had a future. She had
fixed and settled everything, even to her name; she would retain that of
Lopez, which she was already known by in Bakersfield. There was
nothing for it but to let her have her way; a man without home, money
or prospects has no authority. But the sense of his own failure, of the
hopelessness of his desire to shelter and enrich her, fell on his
conscience like a foot on a spark and crushed it out. He returned to the
mountains, his hand against all men, already an outlaw, love for his
own all that was left of the original man. That governed him, gave him
the will to act, stimulated his brain, and lent his mind an unfailing
cunning. The meeting with Knapp crystallized into a partnership, but
when Garland the bandit rose on the horizon, no one, least of all Pancha,
knew he was Michaels the miner.
He stood up in the boat and again reconnoitered; he was near the shore.
The country slept under the stars, gray rollings of hills and black
blotches of trees, very still in its somber repose. Dropping back to the
seat, he plied the paddle with extraordinary softness, wary, listening,
alert. Soon, in a week or two, if he could settle the sale, he would be on
his way to San Francisco to tell Pancha he had sold his claim at last and
had bought the ranch. Under his caution the pleasure of this thought
pervaded him with an exquisite satisfaction. He could not forbear its
indulgence and, leaning on the paddle, allowed himself a last,
delightful vision--the ranch house piazza with Pancha--her make-up
off--sitting on the steps at his feet.
That night he slept in the cowshed of an abandoned ranch. A billet of
wood under his head, his repose was deep and dreamless, but in the
dawn's light he woke, suddenly called out of slumber by a thought. It
floated on the surface of his conciousness, vaguely disturbing, then
took slow shape and he sat up feeling in the pockets of his coat. The

paper was gone; Knapp saying he had taken it was not a dream. For a
space he sat, coming to clearer recollection, his partner's voice calling,
vaguely heard, its request unheeded in his preoccupation. He gave a
mutter of relief, and dropping back settled himself into comfort. The
paper was as safe there as in his own pocket and he'd have it again
inside of a week. With the first light in his eyes, he lapsed off again for
another hour.

CHAPTER III
MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE
A few miles below where the stage was held up a branch road breaks
from the main highway and cuts off at right angles across the plain.
This is a ranchers' road. If you follow it southward you come to the
region of vast holdings, acres of trees in parallel lines as straight as if
laid with a tape measure, great, fawn-colored fields, avenues of palm
and oleander leading to white houses where the balconies have striped
awnings and people sit in cushioned wicker chairs.
The other end of it runs through lands of decreasing cultivation
till--after it passes Tito Murano's cottage--it dips to the tules and that's
the end of it. To be sure, a trail--a horse path--breaks away and makes a
detour round the head of the marshes, but this is seldom used, a bog in
winter and in summer riven with dried water-courses and overgrown
with brambles. To get around the tules comfortably you have to strike
farther in and that's a long way.
The last house before you get to Tito Murano's, which doesn't count, is
the Burrage Ranch. In the white mansions among the fruit trees the
Burrage Ranch doesn't count much either. It is old and small, fifty acres,
a postage stamp of a ranch. There is no avenue to the house, which is
close to the road behind a picket fence, and instead of encircling
balconies and striped awnings, it has one small porch with a sagging
top, over which climbs a rose that stretches long festoons to the gable.
In its yard grow two majestic live oaks, hoary giants with silvered

limbs reaching out in a thick-leaved canopy and casting a great spread
of shade.
Old Man Burrage had had the ranch a long time as they reckon time in
California. In his youth he had seen the great epoch in Virginia City,
figured in it in a humble capacity, and emerged from its final _débâcle_
with twenty thousand dollars. He should have emerged with more and
that he didn't made him chary of mining. Peace and security exerted
their appeal, and after looking about for a few reflective years, he had
married the prettiest waitress