path: root/16674.txt

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pride of Palomar, by Peter B. Kyne,
Illustrated by H. R. Ballinger and Dean Cornwell


This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org





Title: The Pride of Palomar


Author: Peter B. Kyne



Release Date: September 8, 2005  [eBook #16674]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustrations.
      See 16674-h.htm or 16674-h.zip:
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/6/7/16674/16674-h/16674-h.htm)
      or
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/6/7/16674/16674-h.zip)





THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR

by

PETER B. KYNE

Author of Kindred of the Dust, etc.

Illustrated by H. R. Ballinger and Dean Cornwell

Cosmopolitan Book Corporation
New York

MCMXXII







[Frontispiece: The man--Don Miguel Farrel.]




DEDICATION


FRANK L. MULGREW, ESQ.
  THE BOHEMIAN CLUB
    SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

DEAR FRIEND MUL.--

I have at last finished writing "The Pride of Palomar."  It isn't at
all what I wanted it to be; it isn't at all what I planned it to be,
but it does contain something of what you and I both feel, something of
what you wanted me to put into it.  Indeed, I shall always wish to
think that it contains just a few faint little echoes of the spirit of
that old California that was fast vanishing when I first disturbed the
quiet of the Mission Dolores with infantile shrieks--when you first
gazed upon the redwood-studded hills of Sonoma County.

You adventured with me in my quest for local color for "The Valley of
the Giants," in Northern California; you performed a similar service in
Southern California last summer and unearthed for me more local color,
more touches of tender sentiment than I could use.  Therefore, "The
Pride of Palomar" is peculiarly your book.

On a day a year ago, when the story was still so vague I could scarcely
find words in which to sketch for you an outline of the novel I
purposed writing, you said: "It will be a good story.  I'm sold on it
already!"  To you the _hacienda_ of a Rancho Palomar will always bring
delightful recollections of the gracious hospitality of Senor Cave
Coutts, sitting at the head of that table hewed in the forties.  Little
did Senor Coutts realize that he, the last of the dons in San Diego
County, was to furnish copy for my novel; that his pride of ancestry,
both American and Castilian, his love for his ancestral _hacienda_ at
the Rancho Guajome, and his old-fashioned garden with the great
Bougainvillea in flower, were the ingredients necessary to the
production of what I trust will be a book with a mission.

When we call again at the Moreno _hacienda_ on the Rio San Luis Rey,
Carolina will not be there to metamorphose her home into a restaurant
and serve us _galina con arroz_, _tortillas_ and _frijoles refritos_.
But if she should be, she will not answer, when asked the amount of the
score: "What you will, _senor_."  Ah, no, Mul.  Scoundrels devoid of
romance will have discovered her, and she will have opened an inn with
a Jap cook and the tariff will be _dos pesos y media_; there will be a
strange waiter and he will scowl at us and expect a large tip.  And
Stephen Crane's brother, the genial judge, will have made his fortune
in the mine on the hill, and there will be no more California wine as a
first aid to digestion.

I had intended to paint the picture that will remain longest in your
memory--the dim candle-light in the white-washed chapel at the Indian
Reservation at Pala, during Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament--the
young Indian Madonna, with her naked baby lying in her lap, while she
sang:

  "Come, Holy Ghost, creator blest,
  And in my heart take up thy rest."

But the picture was crowded out in the make-up.  There was too much to
write about, and I was always over-set!  I saw and felt, with you, and
regarded it as more poignantly pathetic, the tragedy of that little
handful of San Luisanos, herded away in the heart of those barren hills
to make way for the white man.  And now the white man is almost gone
and Father Dominic's Angelus, ringing from Mission San Luis Rey, falls
upon the dull ear of a Japanese farmer, usurping that sweet valley,
hallowed by sentiment, by historical association, by the lives and
loves and ashes of the men and women who carved California from the
wilderness.

I have given to this book the labor of love.  I know it isn't
literature, Mul, but I have joyed in writing it and it has, at least,
the merit of sincerity.  It is an expression of faith and for all its
faults and imperfections, I think you will find, tucked away in it
somewhere, a modicum of merit.  I have tried to limn something, however
vague, of the beauty of the land we saw through boyish eyes before the
real estate agent had profaned it.

You were born with a great love, a great reverence for beauty.  That
must be because you were born in Sonoma County in the light of God's
smile.  Each spring in California the dogwood blossoms are, for you, a
creamier white, the buckeye blossoms more numerous and fragrant, the
hills a trifle greener and the old order, the old places, the old
friends a little dearer.

Wherefore, with much appreciation of your aid in its creation and of
your unfaltering friendship and affection, I dedicate "The Pride of
Palomar" to you.

Faithfully,

PETER B. KYNE.


SAN FRANCISCO

JUNE 9, 1921.




_Acknowledgment is made of the indebtedness of the author for much of
the material used in this book to Mr. Montaville Flowers, author of
"The Japanese Conquest of American Opinion."_

P. B. K.




THE ILLUSTRATIONS

LOI
The Man--Don Miguel Farrel . . . . _Frontispiece_

Here amidst the golden romance of the old mission,
  the girl suddenly understood Don Mike

The Girl--Kay Parker
ELOI





THE PRIDE of PALOMAR

I

For the first time in sixty years, Pablo Artelan, the majordomo of the
Rancho Palomar, was troubled of soul at the approach of winter.  Old
Don Miguel Farrel had observed signs of mental travail in Pablo for a
month past, and was at a loss to account for them.  He knew Pablo
possessed one extra pair of overalls, brand-new, two pairs of boots
which young Don Miguel had bequeathed him when the Great White Father
at Washington had summoned the boy to the war in April of 1917, three
chambray shirts in an excellent state of repair, half of a fat steer
jerked, a full bag of Bayo beans, and a string of red chilli-peppers
pendant from the rafters of an adobe shack which Pablo and his wife,
Carolina, occupied rent free.  Certainly (thought old Don Miguel) life
could hold no problems for one of Pablo's race thus pleasantly situated.

Coming upon Pablo this morning, as the latter sat in his favorite seat
under the catalpa tree just outside the wall of the ancient adobe
compound, where he could command a view of the white wagon-road winding
down the valley of the San Gregorio, Don Miguel decided to question his
ancient retainer.

"My good Pablo," he queried, "what has come over thee of late?  Thou
art of a mien as sorrowful as that of a sick steer.  Can it be that thy
stomach refuses longer to digest thy food?  Come; permit me to examine
thy teeth.  Yes, by my soul; therein lies the secret.  Thou hast a
toothache and decline to complain, thinking that, by thy silence, I
shall be saved a dentist's bill."  But Pablo shook his head in
negation.  "Come!" roared old Don Miguel.  "Open thy mouth!"

Pablo rose creakily and opened a mouth in which not a tooth was
missing.  Old Don Miguel made a most minute examination, but failed to
discover the slightest evidence of deterioration.

"Blood of the devil!" he cried, disgusted beyond measure.  "Out with
thy secret!  It has annoyed me for a month."

"The ache is not in my teeth, Don Miguel.  It is here."  And Pablo laid
a swarthy hand upon his torso.  "There is a sadness in my heart, Don
Miguel.  Two years has Don Mike been with the soldiers.  Is it not time
that he returned to us?"

Don Miguel's aristocratic old face softened.

"So that is what disturbs thee, my Pablo?"

Pablo nodded miserably, seated himself, and resumed his task of
fashioning the hondo of a new rawhide riata.

"It is a very dry year," he complained.  "Never before have I seen
December arrive ere the grass in the San Gregorio was green with the
October rains.  Everything is burned; the streams and the springs have
dried up, and for a month I have listened to hear the quail call on the
hillside yonder.  But I listen in vain.  The quail have moved to
another range."

"Well, what of it, Pablo?"

"How our beloved Don Mike enjoyed the quail-shooting in the fall!
Should he return now to the Palomar, there will be no quail to shoot."
He wagged his gray head sorrowfully.  "Don Mike will think that, with
the years, laziness and ingratitude have descended upon old Pablo.
Truly, Satan afflicts me."  And he cursed with great depth of
feeling--in English.

"Yes, poor boy," old Don Miguel agreed; "he will miss more than the
quail-shooting when he returns--if he should return.  They sent him to
Siberia to fight the Bolsheviki."

"What sort of country is this where Don Mike slays our enemy?" Pablo
queried.

"It is always winter there, Pablo.  It is inhabited by a wild race of
men with much whiskers."

"Ah, our poor Don Mike!  And he a child of the sun!"

"He but does his duty," old Don Miguel replied proudly.  "He adds to
the fame of an illustrious family, noted throughout the centuries for
the gallantry of its warriors."

"A small comfort, Don Miguel, if our Don Mike comes not again to those
that love him."

"Pray for him," the old Don suggested piously.

Fell a silence.  Then,

"Don Miguel, yonder comes one over the trail from El Toro."

Don Miguel gazed across the valley to the crest of the hills.  There,
against the sky-line, a solitary horseman showed.  Pablo cupped his
hands over his eyes and gazed long and steadily.

"It is Tony Moreno," he said, while the man was still a mile distant.
"I know that scuffling cripple of a horse he rides."

Don Miguel seated himself On the bench beside Pablo and awaited the
arrival of the horseman.  As he drew nearer, the Don saw that Pablo was
right.

"Now, what news does that vagabond bear?" he muttered.  "Assuredly he
brings a telegram; otherwise the devil himself could not induce that
lazy wastrel to ride twenty miles."

"Of a truth you are right, Don Miguel.  Tony Moreno is the only man in
El Toro who is forever out of a job, and the agent of the telegraph
company calls upon him always to deliver messages of importance."

With the Don, he awaited, with vague apprehension, the arrival of Tony
Moreno.  As the latter pulled his sweating horse up before them, they
rose and gazed upon him questioningly.  Tony Moreno, on his part,
doffed his shabby sombrero with his right hand and murmured courteously,

"_Buenas tardes_, Don Miguel."

Pablo he ignored.  With his left hand, he caught a yellow envelope as
it fell from under the hat.

"Good-afternoon, Moreno."  Don Miguel returned his salutation with a
gravity he felt incumbent upon one of his station to assume when
addressing a social inferior.  "You bring me a telegram?"  He spoke in
English, for the sole purpose of indicating to the messenger that the
gulf between them could not be spanned by the bridge of their mother
tongue.  He suspected Tony Moreno very strongly of having stolen a
yearling from him many years ago.

Tony Moreno remembered his manners, and dismounted before handing Don
Miguel the telegram.

"The delivery charges?" Don Miguel queried courteously.

"Nothing, Don Miguel."  Moreno's voice was strangely subdued.  "It is a
pleasure to serve you, _senor_."

"You are very kind."  And Don Miguel thrust the telegram, unopened,
into his pocket.  "However," he continued, "it will please me, Moreno,
if you accept this slight token of my appreciation."  And he handed the
messenger a five-dollar bill.  The don was a proud man, and disliked
being under obligation to the Tony Morenos of this world.  Tony
protested, but the don stood his ground, silently insistent, and, in
the end, the other pouched the bill, and rode away.  Don Miguel seated
himself once more beside his retainer and drew forth the telegram.

"It must be evil news," he murmured, with the shade of a tremor in his
musical voice; "otherwise, that fellow could not have felt so much pity
for me that it moved him to decline a gratuity."

"Read, Don Miguel!" Pablo croaked.  "Read!"

Don Miguel read.  Then he carefully folded the telegram and replaced it
in the envelope; as deliberately, he returned the envelope to his
pocket.  Suddenly his hands gripped the bench, and he trembled
violently.

"Don Mike is dead?" old Pablo queried softly.  He possessed all the
acute intuition of a primitive people.

Don Miguel did not reply; so presently Pablo turned his head and gazed
up into the master's face.  Then he knew--his fingers trembled slightly
as he returned to work on the hondo, and, for a long time, no sound
broke the silence save the song of an oriole in the catalpa tree.

Suddenly, the sound for which old Pablo had waited so long burst forth
from the sage-clad hillside.  It was a cock quail calling, and, to the
majordomo, it seemed to say: "Don Mike!  Come home!  Don Mike!  Come
home!"

"Ah, little truant, who has told you that you are safe?" Pablo cried in
agony.  "For Don Mike shall not come home--no, no--never any more!"

His Indian stoicism broke at last; he clasped his hands and fell to his
knees beside the bench, sobbing aloud.

Don Miguel regarded him not, and when Pablo's babbling became
incoherent, the aged master of Palomar controlled his twitching hands
sufficiently to roll and light a cigarette.  Then he reread the
telegram.

Yes; it was true.  It was from Washington, and signed by the
adjutant-general; it informed Don Miguel Jose Farrel, with regret, that
his son, First Sergeant Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel,
Number 765,438, had been killed in action in Siberia on the fourth
instant.

"At least," the old don murmured, "he died like a gentleman.  Had he
returned to the Rancho Palomar, he could not have continued to live
like one.  Oh, my son, my son!"

He rose blindly and groped his way along the wall until he came to the
inset gate leading into the patio; like a stricken animal retreating to
its lair, he sought the privacy of his old-fashioned garden, where none
might intrude upon his grief.




II

First Sergeant Michael Joseph Farrel entered the orderly-room and saluted
his captain, who sat, with his chair tilted back, staring mournfully at
the opposite wall.

"I have to report, sir, that I have personally delivered the battery
records, correctly sorted, labeled, and securely crated, to the
demobilization office.  The typewriter, field-desk, and stationery have
been turned in, and here are the receipts."

The captain tucked the receipts in his blouse pocket.

"Well, Sergeant, I dare say that marks the completion of your duties--all
but the last formation."  He glanced at his wrist-watch.  "Fall in the
battery and call the roll.  By that time, I will have organized my
farewell speech to the men.  Hope I can deliver it without making a fool
of myself."

"Very well, sir."

The first sergeant stepped out of the orderly-room and blew three long
blasts on his whistle--his signal to the battery to "fall in."  The men
came out of the demobilization-shacks with alacrity and formed within a
minute; without command, they "dressed" to the right and straightened the
line.  Farrel stepped to the right of it, glanced down the long row of
silent, eager men, and commanded,

"Front!"

Nearly two hundred heads described a quarter circle.

Farrel stepped lithely down the long front to the geometrical center of
the formation, made a right-face, walked six paces, executed an
about-face, and announced complainingly:

"Well, I've barked at you for eighteen months--and finally you made it
snappy.  On the last day of your service, you manage to fall in within
the time-limit and dress the line perfectly.  I congratulate you." Covert
grins greeted his ironical sally.  He continued: "I'm going to say
good-by to those of you who think there are worse tops in the service
than I.  To those who did not take kindly to my methods, I have no
apologies to offer.  I gave everybody a square deal, and for the
information of some half-dozen Hot-spurs who have vowed to give me the
beating of my life the day we should be demobilized, I take pleasure in
announcing that I will be the first man to be discharged, that there is a
nice clear space between these two demobilization-shacks and the ground
is not too hard, that there will be no guards to interfere, and if any
man with the right to call himself 'Mister' desires to air his grievance,
he can make his engagement now, and I shall be at his service at the hour
stipulated.  Does anybody make me an offer?"  He stood there, balanced
nicely on the balls of his feet, cool, alert, glancing interestedly up
and down the battery front.  "What?" he bantered, "nobody bids?  Well,
I'm glad of that.  I part friends with everybody.  Call rolls!"

The section-chiefs called the rolls of their sections and reported them
present.  Farrel stepped to the door of the orderly-room.

"The men are waiting for the captain," he reported.

"Sergeant Farrel," that bedeviled individual replied frantically, "I
can't do it.  You'll have to do it for me."

"Yes, sir; I understand."

Farrel returned to the battery, brought them to attention, and said:

"The skipper wants to say good-by, men, but he isn't up to the job.  He's
afraid to tackle it; so he has asked me to wish you light duty, heavy
pay, and double rations in civil life.  He has asked me to say to you
that he loves you all and will not soon forget such soldiers as you have
proved yourselves to be."

"Three for the Skipper!  Give him three and a tiger!" somebody pleaded,
and the cheers were given with a hearty generosity which even the most
disgruntled organization can develop on the day of demobilization.

The skipper came to the door of the orderly-room.

"Good-by, good luck, and God bless you, lads!" he shouted, and nod with
the discharges under his arm, while the battery "counted off," and, in
command of Farrel (the lieutenants had already been demobilized), marched
to the pay-tables.  As they emerged from the paymaster's shack, they
scattered singly, in little groups, back to the demobilization-shacks.
Presently, bearing straw suitcases, "tin" helmets, and gas-masks (these
latter articles presented to them by a paternal government as souvenirs
of their service), they drifted out through the Presidio gate, where the
world swallowed them.

Although he had been the first man in the battery to receive his
discharge, Farrel was the last man to leave the Presidio.  He waited
until the captain, having distributed the discharges, came out of the
pay-office and repaired again to his deserted orderly-room; whereupon the
former first sergeant followed him.

"I hesitate to obtrude, sir," he announced, as he entered the room, "but
whether the captain likes it or not, he'll have to say good-by to me.  I
have attended to everything I can think of, sir; so, unless the captain
has some further use for me, I shall be jogging along."

"Farrel," the captain declared, "if I had ever had a doubt as to why I
made you top cutter of B battery, that last remark of yours would have
dissipated it.  Please do not be in a hurry.  Sit down and mourn with me
for a little while."

"Well, I'll sit down with you, sir, but I'll be hanged if I'll be
mournful.  I'm too happy in the knowledge that I'm going home."

"Where is your home, sergeant?"

"In San Marcos County, in the southern part of the state.  After two
years of Siberia and four days of this San Francisco fog, I'm fed up on
low temperatures, and, by the holy poker, I want to go home.  It isn't
much of a home--just a quaint, old, crumbling adobe ruin, but it's home,
and it's mine.  Yes, sir; I'm going home and sleep in the bed my
great-greatgrandfather was born in."

"If I had a bed that old, I'd fumigate it," the captain declared.  Like
all regular army officers, he was a very devil of a fellow for
sanitation.  "Do you worship your ancestors, Farrel?"

"Well, come to think of it, I have rather a reverence for 'the ashes of
my fathers and the temples of my gods.'"

"So have the Chinese.  Among Americans, however, I thought all that sort
of thing was confined to the descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers."

"If I had an ancestor who had been a Pilgrim Father," Farrel declared,
"I'd locate his grave and build a garbage-incinerator on it."

"What's your grouch against the Pilgrim Fathers?"

"They let their religion get on top of them, and they took all the joy
out of life.  My Catalonian ancestors, on the other hand, while taking
their religion seriously, never permitted it to interfere with a
_fiesta_.  They were what might be called 'regular fellows.'"

"Your Catalonian ancestors?  Why, I thought you were black Irish, Farrel?"

"The first of my line that I know anything about was a lieutenant in the
force that marched overland from Mexico to California under command of
Don Gaspar de Portola.  Don Gaspar was accompanied by Fray Junipero
Serra.  They carried a sword and a cross respectively, and arrived in San
Diego on July first, 1769.  So, you see, I'm a real Californian."

"You mean Spanish-Californian."

"Well, hardly in the sense that most people use that term, sir.  We have
never intermarried with Mexican or Indian, and until my grandfather
Farrel arrived at the ranch and refused to go away until my grandmother
Noriaga went with him, we were pure-bred Spanish blonds.  My grandmother
had red hair, brown eyes, and a skin as white as an old bleached-linen
napkin.  Grandfather Farrel is the fellow to whom I am indebted for my
saddle-colored complexion."

"Siberia has bleached you considerably.  I should say you're an ordinary
brunet now."

Farrel removed his overseas cap and ran long fingers through his hair.

"If I had a strain of Indian in me, sir," he explained, "my hair would be
straight, thick, coarse, and blue-black.  You will observe that it is
wavy, a medium crop, of average fineness, and jet black."

The captain laughed at his frankness.

"Very well, Farrel; I'll admit you're clean-strain white.  But tell me:
How much of you is Latin and how much Farrel?"

It was Farrel's turn to chuckle now.

"Seriously, I cannot answer that question.  My grandmother, as I have
stated, was pure-bred Castilian or Catalonian, for I suppose they mixed.
The original Michael Joseph Farrel (I am the third of the name) was
Tipperary Irish, and could trace his ancestry back to the fairies--to
hear him tell it.  But one can never be quite certain how much Spanish
there is in an Irishman from the west, so I have always started with the
premise that the result of that marriage--my father--was three-fifths
Latin.  Father married a Galvez, who was half Scotch; so I suppose I'm an
American."

"I should like to see you on your native heath, Farrel.  Does your dad
still wear a conical-crowned sombrero, bell-shaped trousers, bolero
jacket, and all that sort of thing?"

"No, sir.  The original Mike insisted upon wearing regular trousers and
hats.  He had all of the prejudices of his race, and regarded folks who
did things differently from him as inferior people.  He was a lieutenant
on a British sloop-of-war that was wrecked on the coast of San Marcos
County in the early 'Forties.  All hands were drowned, with the exception
of my grandfather, who was a very contrary man.  He swam ashore and
strolled up to the hacienda of the Rancho Palomar, arriving just before
luncheon.  What with a twenty-mile hike in the sun, he was dry by the
time he arrived, and in his uniform, although somewhat bedraggled, he
looked gay enough to make a hit with my great-grandfather Noriaga, who
invited him to luncheon and begged him to stay a while.  Michael Joseph
liked the place; so he stayed.  You see, there were thousands of horses
on the ranch and, like all sailors, he had equestrian ambitions."

"Great snakes!  It must have been a sizable place."

"It was.  The original Mexican grant was twenty leagues square."

"I take it, then, that the estate has dwindled in size."

"Oh, yes, certainly.  My great-grandfather Noriaga, Michael Joseph I, and
Michael Joseph II shot craps with it, and bet it on horse-races, and gave
it away for wedding-doweries, and, in general, did their little best to
put the Farrel posterity out in the mesquite with the last of the Mission
Indians."

"How much of this principality have you left?"

"I do not know.  When I enlisted, we had a hundred thousand acres of the
finest valley and rolling grazing-land in California and the hacienda
that was built in 1782.  But I've been gone two years, and haven't heard
from home for five months."

"Mortgaged?"

"Of course.  The Farrels never worked while money could be raised at ten
per cent.  Neither did the Noriagas.  You might as well attempt to yoke
an elk and teach him how to haul a cart."

"Oh, nonsense, Farrel!  You're the hardest-working man I have ever known."

Farrel smiled boyishly.

"That was in Siberia, and I had to hustle to keep warm.  But I know I'll
not be home six months before that delicious _manana_ spirit will settle
over me again, like mildew on old boots."

The captain shook his head.

"Any man who can see so clearly the economic faults of his race and
nevertheless sympathize with them is not one to be lulled to the ruin
that has overtaken practically all of the old native California families.
That strain of Celt and Gael in you will triumph over the easy-going
Latin."

"Well, perhaps.  And two years in the army has helped tremendously to
eradicate an inherited tendency toward procrastination."

"I shall like to think that I had something to do with that," the officer
answered.  "What are your plans?"

"Well, sir, this hungry world must be fed by the United States for the
next ten years, and I have an idea that the Rancho Palomar can pull
itself out of the hole with beef cattle.  My father has always raised
short-legged, long-horned scrubs, descendants of the old Mexican breeds,
and there is no money in that sort of stock.  If I can induce him to turn
the ranch over to me, I'll try to raise sufficient money to buy a couple
of car-loads of pure-bred Hereford bulls and grade up that scrub stock;
in four or five years I'll have steers that will weigh eighteen hundred
to two thousand pounds on the hoof, instead of the little
eight-hundred-pounders that have swindled us for a hundred years."

"How many head of cattle can you run on your ranch?"

"About ten thousand--one to every ten acres.  If I could develop water
for irrigation in the San Gregorio valley, I could raise alfalfa and
lot-feed a couple of thousand more."

"What is the ranch worth?"

"About eight per acre is the average price of good cattle-range nowadays.
With plenty of water for irrigation, the valley-land would be worth five
hundred dollars an acre.  It's as rich as cream, and will grow
anything--with water."

"Well, I hope your dad takes a back seat and gives you a free hand,
Farrel.  I think you'll make good with half a chance."

"I feel that way also," Farrel replied seriously.

"Are you going south to-night?"

"Oh, no.  Indeed not!  I don't want to go home in the dark, sir."  The
captain was puzzled.  "Because I love my California, and I haven't seen
her for two years," Farrel replied, to the other's unspoken query.  "It's
been so foggy since we landed in San Francisco I've had a hard job making
my way round the Presidio.  But if I take the eight-o'clock train
tomorrow morning, I'll run out of the fog-belt in forty-five minutes and
be in the sunshine for the remainder of the journey.  Yes, by
Jupiter--and for the remainder of my life!"

"You want to feast your eyes on the countryside, eh?"

"I do.  It's April, and I want to see the Salinas valley with its oaks; I
want to see the bench-lands with the grape-vines just budding; I want to
see some bald-faced cows clinging to the Santa Barbara hillsides, and I
want to meet some fellow on the train who speaks the language of my
tribe."

"Farrel, you're all Irish.  You're romantic and poetical, and you feel
the call of kind to kind.  That's distinctly a Celtic trait."

"_Quien sabe_?  But I have a great yearning to speak Spanish with
somebody.  It's my mother tongue."

"There must be another reason," the captain bantered him.  "Sure there
isn't a girl somewhere along the right of way and you are fearful, if you
take the night-train, that the porter may fail to waken you in time to
wave to her as you go by her station?"

Farrel shook his head.

"There's another reason, but that isn't it.  Captain, haven't you been
visualizing every little detail of your home-coming?"

"You forget, Farrel, that I'm a regular-army man, and we poor devils get
accustomed to being uprooted.  I've learned not to build castles in
Spain, and I never believe I'm going to get a leave until the old man
hands me the order.  Even then, I'm always fearful of an order recalling
it."

"You're missing a lot of happiness, sir.  Why, I really believe I've had
more fun out of the anticipation of my home-coming than I may get out of
the realization.  I've planned every detail for months, and, if anything
slips, I'm liable to sit right down and bawl like a kid."

"Let's listen to your plan of operations, Farrel," the captain suggested.
"I'll never have one myself, in all probability, but I'm child enough to
want to listen to yours."

"Well, in the first place, I haven't communicated with my father since
landing here.  He doesn't know I'm back in California, and I do not want
him to know until I drop in on him."

"And your mother, Farrel?"'

"Died when I was a little chap.  No brothers or sisters.  Well, if I had
written him or wired him when I first arrived, he would have had a week
of the most damnable suspense, because, owing to the uncertainty of the
exact date of our demobilization, I could not have informed him of the
exact time of my arrival home.  Consequently, he'd have had old Carolina,
our cook, dishing up nightly fearful quantities of the sort of grub I was
raised on.  And that would be wasteful.  Also, he'd sit under the catalpa
tree outside the western wall of the hacienda and never take his eyes off
the highway from El Toro or the trail from Sespe.  And every night after
the sun had set and I'd failed to show up, he'd go to bed heavy-hearted.
Suspense is hard on an old man, sir."

"On young men, too.  Go on."

"Well, I'll drop off the train to-morrow afternoon about four o'clock at
a lonely little flag-station called Sespe.  After the train leaves Sespe,
it runs south-west for almost twenty miles to the coast, and turns south
to El Toro.  Nearly everybody enters the San Gregorio from El Toro, but,
via the short-cut trail from Sespe, I can hike it home in three hours and
arrive absolutely unannounced and unheralded.

"Now, as I pop up over the mile-high ridge back of Sespe, I'll be looking
down on the San Gregorio while the last of the sunlight still lingers
there.  You see, sir, I'm only looking at an old picture I've always
loved.  Tucked away down in the heart of the valley, there is an old ruin
of a mission--the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa--the Mother of Sorrows.
The light will be shining on its dirty white walls and red-tiled roof,
and I'll sit me down in the shade of a manzanita bush and wait, because
that's my valley and I know what's coming.

"Exactly at six o'clock, I shall see a figure come out on the roof of the
mission and stand in front of the old gallows-frame on which hang eight
chimes that were carried in on mules from the City of Mexico when
Junipero Serra planted the cross of Catholicism at San Diego, in 1769.
That distant figure will be Brother Flavio, of the Franciscan Order, and
the old boy is going to ramp up and down in front of those chimes with a
hammer and give me a concert.  He'll bang out 'Adeste Fideles' and
'Gloria in Excelsis.'  That's a cinch, because he's a creature of habit.
Occasionally he plays 'Lead, Kindly Light' and 'Ave Maria'!"

Farrel paused, a faint smile of amusement fringing his handsome mouth.
He rolled and lighted a cigarette and continued:

"My father wrote me that old Brother Flavio, after a terrible battle with
his own conscience and at the risk of being hove out of the valley by his
indignant superior, Father Dominic, was practising 'Hail, The Conquering
Hero Comes!' against the day of my home-coming.  I wrote father to tell
Brother Flavio to cut that out and substitute 'In the Good Old
Summertime' if he wanted to make a hit with me.  Awfully good old hunks,
Brother Flavio!  He knows I like those old chimes, and, when I'm home, he
most certainly bangs them so the melody will carry clear up to the
Palomar."

The captain was gazing with increasing amazement upon his former first
sergeant.  After eighteen months, he had discovered a man he had not
known heretofore."

"And after the 'Angelus'--what?" he demanded.

Farrel's smug little smile of complacency had broadened.

"Well, sir, when Brother Flavio pegs out, I'll get up and run down to the
Mission, where Father Dominic, Father Andreas, Brother Flavio, Brother
Anthony, and Brother Benedict will all extend a welcome and muss me up,
and we'll all talk at once and get nowhere with the conversation for the
first five minutes.  Brother Anthony is just a little bit--ah--nutty, but
harmless.  He'll want to know how many men I've killed, and I'll tell him
two hundred and nineteen.  He has a leaning toward odd numbers, as
tending more toward exactitude.  Right away, he'll go into the chapel and
pray for their souls, and while he's at this pious exercise, Father
Dominic will dig up a bottle of old wine that's too good for a nut like
Brother Anthony, and we'll sit on a bench in the mission garden in the
shade of the largest bougainvillea in the world and tuck away the wine.
Between tucks, Father Dominic will inquire casually into the state of my
soul, and the information thus elicited will scandalize the old saint.
The only way I can square myself is to go into the chapel with them and
give thanks for my escape from the Bolsheviki.

"By that time, it will be a quarter of seven and dark, so Father Dominic
will crank up a prehistoric little automobile my father gave him in order
that he might spread himself over San Marcos County on Sundays and say
two masses.  I have a notion that the task of keeping that old car in
running order has upset Brother Anthony's mental balance.  He used to be
a blacksmith's helper in El Toro in his youth, and therefore is supposed
to be a mechanic in his old age."

"Then the old padre drives you home, eh?" the captain suggested.

"He does.  Providentially, it is now the cool of the evening.  The San
Gregorio is warm enough, for all practical purposes, even on a day in
April, and, knowing this, I am grateful to myself for timing my arrival
after the heat of the day.  Father Dominic is grateful also.  The old man
wears thin sandals, and on hot days he suffers continuous martyrdom from
the heat of that little motor.  He is always begging Satan to fly away
with that hot-foot accelerator.

"Well, arrived home, I greet my father alone in the patio.  Father
Dominic, meanwhile, sits outside in his flivver and permits the motor to
roar, just to let my father know he's there, although not for money
enough to restore his mission would he butt in on us at that moment.

"Well, my father will not be able to hear a word I say until Padre
Dominic shuts off his motor; so my father will yell at him and ask him
what the devil he's doing out there and to come in, and be quick about
it, or he'll throw his share of the dinner to the hogs.  We always dine
at seven; so we'll be in time for dinner.  But before we go in to dinner,
my dad will ring the bell in the compound, and the help will report.
Amid loud cries of wonder and delight, I shall be welcomed by a mess of
mixed breeds of assorted sexes, and old Pablo, the majordomo, will be
ordered to pass out some wine to celebrate my arrival.  It's against the
law to give wine to an Indian, but then, as my father always remarks on
such occasions: 'To hell with the law!  They're my Indians, and there are
damned few of them left.'

"Padre Dominic, my father, and I will, in all probability, get just a
little bit jingled at dinner.  After dinner, we'll sit on the porch
flanking the patio and smoke cigars, and I'll smell the lemon verbena and
heliotrope and other old-fashioned flowers modern gardeners have
forgotten how to grow.  About midnight, Father Dominic's brain will have
cleared, and he will be fit to be trusted with his accursed automobile;
so he will snort home in the moonlight, and my father will then carefully
lock the patio gate with a nine-inch key.  Not that anybody ever steals
anything in our country, except a cow once in a while--and cows never
range in our patio--but just because we're hell-benders for conforming to
custom.  When I was a boy, Pablo Artelan, our majordomo, always slept
athwart that gate, like an old watchdog.  I give you my word I've climbed
that patio wall a hundred times and dropped down on Pablo's stomach
without wakening him.  And, for a quarter of a century, to my personal
knowledge, that patio gate has supported itself on a hinge and a half.
Oh, we're a wonderful institution, we Farrels!"

"What did you say this Pablo was?"

"He used to be a majordomo.  That is, he was the foreman of the ranch
when we needed a foreman.  We haven't needed Pablo for a long time, but
it doesn't cost much to keep him on the pay-roll, except when his
relatives come to visit him and stay a couple of weeks."

"And your father feeds them?"

"Certainly.  Also, he houses them.  It can't be helped.  It's an old
custom."

"How long has Pablo been a pensioner?"

"From birth.  He's mostly Indian, and all the work he ever did never hurt
him.  But, then, he was never paid very much.  He was born on the ranch
and has never been more than twenty miles from it.  And his wife is our
cook.  She has relatives, too."

The captain burst out laughing.

"But surely this Pablo has some use," he suggested.

"Well he feeds the dogs, and in order to season his _frijoles_ with the
salt of honest labor, he saddles my father's horse and leads him round to
the house every morning.  Throughout the remainder of the day, he sits
outside the wall and, by following the sun, he manages to remain in the
shade.  He watches the road to proclaim the arrival of visitors, smokes
cigarettes, and delivers caustic criticisms on the younger generation
when he can get anybody to listen to him."

"How old is your father, Farrel?"

"Seventy-eight."

"And he rides a horse!"

"He does worse than that."  Farrel laughed.  "He rides a horse that would
police you, sir.  On his seventieth birthday, at a rodeo, he won first
prize for roping and hog-tying a steer."

"I'd like to meet that father of yours, Farrel."

"You'd like him.  Any time you want to spend a furlough on the Palomar,
we'll make you mighty welcome.  Better come in the fall for the
quail-shooting."  He glanced at his wrist-watch and sighed.  "Well, I
suppose I'd do well to be toddling along.  Is the captain going to remain
in the service?"

The captain nodded.

"My people are hell-benders on conforming to custom, also," he added.
"We've all been field-artillerymen.

"I believe I thanked you for a favor you did me once, but to prove I
meant what I said, I'm going to send you a horse, sir.  He is a chestnut
with silver points, five years old, sixteen hands high, sound as a
Liberty Bond, and bred in the purple.  He is beautifully reined, game,
full of ginger, but gentle and sensible.  He'll weigh ten hundred in
condition, and he's as active as a cat.  You can win with him at any
horse-show and at the head of a battery.  _Dios_!  He is every inch a
_caballero_!"

"Sergeant, you're much too kind.  Really--"

"The things we have been through together, sir--all that we have been to
each other--never can happen again.  You will add greatly to my happiness
if you will accept this animal as a souvenir of our very pleasant
association."

"Oh, son, this is too much!  You're giving me your own private mount.
You love him.  He loves you.  Doubtless he'll know you the minute you
enter the pasture."

Farrel's fine white teeth, flashed in a brilliant smile, "I do not desire
to have the captain mounted on an inferior horse.  We have many other
good horses on the Palomar.  This one's name is Panchito; I will express
him to you some day this week."

"Farrel, you quite overwhelm me.  A thousand thanks!  I'll treasure
Panchito for your sake as well as his own."

The soldier extended his hand, and the captain grasped it.

"Good-by, Sergeant.  Pleasant green fields!"

"Good-by, sir.  Dry camps and quick promotion."

The descendant of a _conquistador_ picked up his straw suitcase, his
helmet, and gas-mask.  At the door, he stood to attention, and saluted.
The captain leaped to his feet and returned this salutation of warriors;
the door opened and closed, and the officer stood staring at the space so
lately occupied by the man who, for eighteen months, had been his right
hand.

"Strange man!" he muttered.  "I didn't know they bred his kind any more.
Why, he's a feudal baron!"




III

There were three people in the observation-car when Michael Joseph
Farrel boarded it a few minutes before eight o'clock the following
morning.  Of the three, one was a girl, and, as Farrel entered,
carrying the souvenirs of his service--a helmet and gas-mask--she
glanced at him with the interest which the average civilian manifests
in any soldier obviously just released from service and homeward bound.
Farrel's glance met hers for an instant with equal interest; then he
turned to stow his impedimenta in the brass rack over his seat.  He was
granted an equally swift but more direct appraisal of her as he walked
down the observation-car to the rear platform, where he selected a
chair in a corner that offered him sanctuary from the cold, fog-laden
breeze, lighted a cigar, and surrendered himself to contemplating, in
his mind's eye, the joys of home-coming.

He had the platform to himself until after the train had passed Palo
Alto, when others joined him.  The first to emerge on the platform was
a Japanese.  Farrel favored him with a cool, contemptuous scrutiny, for
he was a Californian and did not hold the members of this race in a
tithe of the esteem he accorded other Orientals.  This Japanese was
rather shorter and thinner than the majority of his race.  He wore
large, round tortoise-shell spectacles, and clothes that proclaimed the
attention of the very best tailors; a gold-band ring, set with one
blue-white diamond and two exquisite sapphires, adorned the pudgy
finger of his right hand.  Farrel judged that his gray beaver hat must
have cost at least fifty dollars.

"We ought to have Jim Crow cars for these cock-sure sons of Nippon,"
the ex-soldier growled to himself.  "We'll come to it yet if something
isn't done about them.  They breed so fast they'll have us crowded into
back seats in another decade."

He had had some unpleasant clashes with Japanese troops in Siberia, and
the memory of their studied insolence was all the more poignant because
it had gone unchallenged.  He observed, now, that the Japanese
passenger had permitted the screen door to slam in the face of the man
following him; with a very definite appreciation of the good things of
life, he had instantly selected the chair in the corner opposite
Farrel, where he could smoke his cigar free from the wind.  Following
the Japanese came an American, as distinctive of his class as the
Japanese was of his.  In point of age, this man was about fifty years
old--a large man strikingly handsome and of impressive personality.  He
courteously held the door open to permit the passage of the girl whom
Farrel had noticed when he first entered the car.

To Farrel, at least, a surprising incident now occurred.  There were
eight vacant seats on the platform, and the girl's glance swept them
all; he fancied it rested longest upon the chair beside him.  Then,
with the faintest possible little _moue_ of disapproval, she seated
herself beside the Japanese.  The other man took the seat in front of
the girl, half turned, and entered into conversation with the Jap.

Farrel studied the trio with interest, decided that they were traveling
together, and that the man in the gray tweeds was the father of the
girl.  She bore a striking resemblance to him and had inherited his
handsome features a thousandfold, albeit her eyes were different, being
large, brown, and wide apart; from them beamed a sweetness, a
benignancy, and tenderness that, to the impressionable Farrel, bespoke
mental as well as physical beauty.  She was gowned, gloved, and hatted
with rich simplicity.

"I think that white man is from the East," Farrel concluded, although
why that impression came to him, he would have been at a loss to
explain.  Perhaps it was because he appeared to associate on terms of
social equality with a Japanese whose boorishness, coupled with an
evident desire to agree with everything the white man said, proclaimed
him anything but a consular representative or a visiting merchant.

Presently the girl's brown eyes were turned casually in Farrel's
direction, seemingly without interest.  Instantly he rose, fixed her
with a comprehending look, nodded almost imperceptibly toward the chair
he was vacating, and returned to his seat inside the car.  Her fine
brows lifted a trifle; her slight inclination of the head was robbed of
the chill of brevity by a fleeting smile of gratitude, not so much for
the sacrifice of his seat in her favor as for the fine courtesy which
had moved him to proffer it without making of his action an excuse to
sit beside her and attempt an acquaintance.

From his exile, Farrel observed with satisfaction how quickly the girl
excused herself to her companions and crossed over to the seat vacated
in her favor.

At the first call for luncheon, he entered the diner and was given a
seat at a small table.  The seat opposite him was unoccupied, and when
the girl entered the diner alone and was shown to this vacant seat,
Farrel thrilled pleasurably.

"Three long, loud ones for you, young lady!" he soliloquized.  "You
didn't care to eat at the same table with the brown beggar; so you came
to luncheon alone."

As their glances met, there was in Farrel's black eyes no hint of
recognition, for he possessed in full measure all of the modesty and
timidity of the most modest and timid race on earth where women are
concerned--the Irish--tempered with the exquisite courtesy of that race
for whom courtesy and gallantry toward woman are a tradition--the
Spanish of that all but extinct Californian caste known as the _gente_.

It pleased Farrel to pretend careful study of the menu.  Although his
preferences in food were simple, he was extraordinarily hungry and knew
exactly what he wanted.  For long months he had dreamed of a
porterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms, and now, finding that
appetizing viand listed on the menu, he ordered it without giving
mature deliberation to the possible consequences of his act.  For the
past two months he had been forced to avoid, when dining alone, meats
served in such a manner as to necessitate firm and skilful manipulation
of a knife--and when the waiter served his steak, he discovered, to his
embarrassment, that it was not particularly tender nor was his knife
even reasonably sharp.  Consequently, following an unsatisfactory
assault, he laid the knife aside and cast an anxious glance toward the
kitchen, into which his waiter had disappeared; while awaiting the aid
of this functionary, he hid his right hand under the table and gently
massaged the back of it at a point where a vivid red scar showed.

He was aware that the girl was watching him, and, with the fascination
peculiar to such a situation, he could not forbear a quick glance at
her.  Interest and concern showed in the brown eyes, and she smiled
frankly, as she said:

"I very much fear, Mr. Ex-First Sergeant, that your steak constitutes
an order you are unable to execute.  Perhaps you will not mind if I
carve it for you."

"Please do not bother about me!" he exclaimed.  "The waiter will be
here presently.  You are very kind, but--"

"Oh, I'm quite an expert in the gentle art of mothering military men.
I commanded a hot-cake-and-doughnut brigade in France."  She reached
across the little table and possessed herself of his plate.

"I'll bet my last copeck you had good discipline, too," he declared
admiringly.  He could imagine the number of daring devils from whose
amorous advances even a hot-cake queen was not immune.

"The recipe was absurdly simple: No discipline, no hot-cakes.  And
there were always a sufficient number of good fellows around to squelch
anybody who tried to interfere with my efficiency.  By the way, I
observed how hungrily you were looking out the window this morning.
Quite a change from Siberia, isn't it?"

"How did you know I'd soldiered in Siberia?"

"You said you'd bet your last copeck."

"You should have served in Intelligence."

"You are blessed with a fair amount of intuition yourself."

"Oh, I knew you didn't want to sit near that Jap.  Can't bear the race
myself."

She nodded approvingly.

"Waiter's still out in the kitchen," she reminded him.  "Now, old
soldier, aren't you glad I took pity on you?  Your steak would have
been cold before he got round to you, and I imagine you've had
sufficient cold rations to do you quite a while."

"It was sweet of you to come to my rescue.  I'm not exactly crippled,
though I haven't used my hand for more than two months, and the muscles
are slightly atrophied.  The knife slips because I cannot close my hand
tightly.  But I'll be all right in another month."

"What happened to it?"

"Saber-thrust.  Wouldn't have amounted to much if the Bolshevik who did
the thrusting had had a clean saber.  Blood-poisoning set in, but our
battalion surgeon got to work on it in time to save me from being
permanently crippled."

"'Saber-thrust?'  They got that close to you?"

He nodded.

"Troop of Semenoff's bandits in a little two-by-four fight out on the
trans-Siberian railroad.  Guess they wanted the trainload of rations we
were guarding.  My captain killed the fellow who stuck me and accounted
for four others who tried to finish me."

"Captains think a great deal of good first sergeants," she suggested.
"And you got a wound-chevron out of it.  I suppose, like every soldier,
you wanted one, provided it didn't cost too much."

"Oh, yes.  And I got mine rather cheap.  The battalion surgeon fixed it
so I didn't have to go to the hospital.  Never missed a day of duty."

She handed him his plate with the steak cut into bits.

"It was nice of you to surrender your cozy seat to me this morning,
Sergeant."  She buttered a piece of bread for him and added, "But very
much nicer the way you did it."

"'Cast thy bread upon the waters,'" he quoted, and grinned brazenly.
"Nevertheless, if I were in civvies, you'd have permitted the waiter to
cut my steak."

"Oh, of course we veterans must stand together, Sergeant."

"I find it pleasanter sitting together.  By the way, may I ask the
identity of the Nipponese person, with your father?"

"How do you know he is my father?" she parried.

"I do not know.  I merely thought he looked quite worthy of the honor."

"While away with the rough, bad soldiers, you did not forget how to
make graceful speeches," she complimented him.  "The object of your
pardonable curiosity is a Mr. Okada, the potato baron of California.
He was formerly prime minister to the potato king of the San Joaquin,
but revolted and became a pretender to the throne.  While the king
lives, however, Okada is merely a baron, although in a few years he
will probably control the potato market absolutely."

He thumped the table lightly with his maimed hand.

"I knew he was just a coolie dressed up."

She reached for an olive.

"Go as far as you like, native son.  He's no friend of mine."

"Well, in that case, I'll spare his life," he countered boldly.  "And
I've always wanted to kill a Japanese potato baron.  Do you not think
it would be patriotic of me to immolate myself and reduce the cost of
spuds?"

"I never eat them.  They're very fattening.  Now, if you really wish to
be a humanitarian, why not search out the Japanese garlic king?"

"I dare not.  His demise would place me in bad odor."

She laughed merrily.  Evidently she was finding him amusing company.
She looked him over appraisingly and queried bluntly,

"Were you educated abroad?"

"I was not.  I'm a product of a one-room schoolhouse perched on a bare
hill down in San Marcos County."

"But you speak like a college man."

"I am.  I'm a graduate of the University of California Agricultural
College, at Davis.  I'm a sharp on pure-bred beef cattle, pure-bred
swine, and irrigation.  I know why hens decline to lay when eggs are
worth eighty cents a dozen, and why young turkeys are so blamed hard to
raise in the fall.  My grandfather and my father were educated at
Trinity College, Dublin, and were sharps on Latin and Greek, but I
never figured the dead languages as much of an aid to a man doomed from
birth to view cows from the hurricane-deck of a horse."

"But you have such a funny little clipped accent."

He opened his great black eyes in feigned astonishment.

"Oh, didn't you know?" he whispered.

"Know what?"

"Unfortunate young woman!" he murmured to his water-glass.  "No wonder
she sits in public with that pudgy son of a chrysanthemum, when she
isn't even able to recognize a greaser at a glance.  Oh, Lord!"

"You're not a greaser," she challenged.

"No?" he bantered.  "You ought to see me squatting under an avocado
tree, singing the 'Spanish Cavalier' to a guitar accompaniment.
Listen: I'll prove it without the accompaniment."   And he hummed
softly:

  "The Spanish cavalier,
  Went out to rope a steer,
  Along with his paper cigar-o,
  '_Car-ramba_!' says he.
  '_Manana_ you will be
  _Mucho bueno carne par mio_!'"

Her brown eyes danced.

"That doesn't prove anything except that you're an incorrigible Celt.
When you stooped down to kiss the stone at Blarney Castle, you lost
your balance and fell in the well.  And you've dripped blarney ever
since."

"Oh, not that bad, really!  I'm a very serious person ordinarily.  That
little forget-me-not of language is a heritage of my childhood.  Mother
taught me to pray in Spanish, and I learned that language first.
Later, my grandfather taught me to swear in English with an Irish
accent, and I've been fearfully balled up ever since.  It's very
inconvenient."

"Be serious, soldier, or I shall not cut your meat for you at dinner."

"Excuse me.  I forgot I was addressing a hot-cake queen.  But please do
not threaten me, because I'm out of the army just twenty-four hours,
and I'm independent and I may resent it.  I can order spoon-victuals,
you know."

"You aren't really Spanish?"

"Not really.  Mostly.  I'd fight a wild bull this minute for a single
red-chilli pepper.  I eat them raw."

"And you're going home to your ranch now?"

"_Si_.  And I'll not take advantage of any stop-over privileges on the
way, either.  Remember the fellow in the song who kept on proclaiming
that he had to go back--that he must go back--that he would go back--to
that dear old Chicago town?  Well, that poor exile had only just
commenced to think that he ought to begin feeling the urge to go home.
And when you consider that the unfortunate man hailed from Chicago,
while I--"  He blew a kiss out the window and hummed:

  "I love you, California.
  You're the greatest state of all--"

"Oh dear!  You native sons are all alike.  Congenital advertisers,
every one."

"Well, isn't it beautiful?  Isn't it wonderful?"  He was serious now.

"One-half of your state is worthless mountain country--"

"He-country--and beautiful!" he interrupted.

"The other half is desert."

"Ever see the Mojave in the late afternoon from the top of the Tejon
Pass?" he challenged.  "The wild, barbaric beauty of it?  And with
water it would be a garden-spot."

"Of course your valleys are wonderful."

"_Gracias, senorita_."

"But the bare brown hills in summer-time--and the ghost-rivers of the
South!  I do not think they are beautiful."

"They grow on one," he assured her earnestly.  "You wait and see.  I
wish you could ride over the hills back of Sespe with me this
afternoon, and see the San Gregorio valley in her new spring gown.  Ah,
how my heart yearns for the San Gregorio!"

To her amazement, she detected a mistiness in his eyes, and her
generous heart warmed to him.

"How profoundly happy you are!" she commented.

"'Happy'?  I should tell a man!  I'm as happy as a cock valley-quail
with a large family and no coyotes in sight.  Wow!  This steak is good."

"Not very, I think.  It's tough."

"I have good teeth."

She permitted him to eat in silence for several minutes, and when he
had disposed of the steak, she asked,

"You live in the San Gregorio valley?"

He nodded.

"We have a ranch there also," she volunteered.  "Father acquired it
recently."

"From whom did he acquire it?"

"I do not know the man's name, but the ranch is one of those old
Mexican grants.  It has a Spanish name.  I'll try to remember it."  She
knitted her delicate brows.  "It's Pal-something or other."

"Is it the Palomares grant?" he suggested.

"I think it is.  I know the former owner is dead, and my father
acquired the ranch by foreclosure of mortgage on the estate."

"Then it's the Palomares grant.  My father wrote in his last letter
that old man Gonzales had died and that a suit to foreclose the
mortgage had been entered against the estate.  The eastern edge of that
grant laps over the lower end of the San Gregorio.  Is your father a
banker?"

"He controls the First National Bank of El Toro."

"That settles the identity of the ranch.  Gonzales was mortgaged to the
First National."  He smiled a trifle foolishly.  "You gave me a bad ten
seconds," he explained.  "I thought you meant my father's ranch at
first."

"Horrible!"  She favored him with a delightful little grimace of
sympathy.  "Just think of coming home and finding yourself homeless!"

"I think such a condition would make me wish that Russian had been
given time to finish what he started.  By the way, I knew all of the
stockholders in the First National Bank, of El Toro.  Your father is a
newcomer.  He must have bought out old Dan Hayes' interest."  She
nodded affirmatively.  "Am I at liberty to be inquisitive--just a
little bit?" he queried.

"That depends, Sergeant.  Ask your question, and if I feel at liberty
to answer it, I shall."

"Is that Japanese, Okada, a member of your party?"

"Yes; he is traveling with us.  He has a land-deal on with my father."

"Ah!"

She glanced across at him with new interest.

"There was resentment in that last observation of yours," she
challenged.

"In common with all other Californians with manhood enough to resent
imposition, I resent all Japanese."

"Is it true, then, that there is a real Japanese problem out here?"

"Why, I thought everybody knew that," he replied, a trifle
reproachfully.  "As the outpost of Occidental civilization, we've been
battling Oriental aggression for forty years."

"I had thought this agitation largely the mouthings of professional
agitators--a part of the labor-leaders' plan to pose as the watch-dogs
of the rights of the California laboring man."

"That is sheer buncombe carefully fostered by a very efficient corps of
Japanese propagandists.  The resentment against the Japanese invasion
of California is not confined to any class, but is a very vital issue
with every white citizen of the state who has reached the age of reason
and regardless of whether he was born in California or Timbuctoo.
Look!"

He pointed to a huge sign-board fronting a bend in the highway that ran
close to the railroad track and parallel with it:

  NO MORE JAPS WANTED HERE

"This is entirely an agricultural section," he explained.  "There are
no labor-unions here.  But," he added bitterly, "you could throw a
stone in the air and be moderately safe on the small end of a bet that
the stone would land on a Jap farmer."

"Do the white farmers think that sign will frighten them away?"

"No; of course not.  That sign is merely a polite intimation to white
men who may contemplate selling or leasing their lands to Japs that the
organized sentiment of this community is against such a course.  The
lower standards of living of the Oriental enable him to pay much higher
prices for land than a white man can."

"But," she persisted, "these aliens have a legal right to own and lease
land in this state, have they not?"

"Unfortunately, through the treachery of white lawyers, they have
devised means to comply with the letter of a law denying them the right
to own land, while evading the spirit of that law.  Corporations with
white dummy directors--purchases by alien Japs in the names of their
infants in arms who happen to have been born in this country--" he
shrugged.

"Then you should amend your laws."

He looked at her with the faintest hint of cool belligerence in his
fine dark eyes.

"Every time we Californians try to enact a law calculated to keep our
state a white man's country, you Easterners, who know nothing of our
problem, and are too infernally lazy to read up on it, permit
yourselves to be stampeded by that hoary shibboleth of strained
diplomatic relations with the Mikado's government.  Pressure is brought
to bear on us from the seat of the national government; the President
sends us a message to proceed cautiously, and our loyalty to the
sisterhood of states is used as a club to beat our brains out.  Once,
when we were all primed to settle this issue decisively, the immortal
Theodore Roosevelt--our two-fisted, non-bluffable President at that
time--made us call off our dogs.  Later, when again we began to squirm
under our burden, the Secretary of State, pacific William J. Bryan,
hurried out to our state capital, held up both pious hands, and cried:
'Oh, no!  Really, you mustn't!  We insist that you consider the other
members of the family.  Withhold this radical legislation until we can
settle this row amicably.'  Well, we were dutiful sons.  We tried out
the gentleman's agreement imposed on us in 1907, but when, in 1913, we
knew it for a failure, we passed our Alien Land Bill, which hampered
but did not prevent, although we knew from experience that the class of
Japs who have a strangle-hold on California are not gentlemen but
coolies, and never respect an agreement they can break if, in the
breaking, they are financially benefited."

"Well," the girl queried, a little subdued by his vehemence, "how has
that law worked out?"

"Fine--for the Japs.  The Japanese population of California has doubled
in five years; the area of fertile lands under their domination has
increased a thousand-fold, until eighty-five per cent. of the
vegetables raised in this state are controlled by Japs.  They are not a
dull people, and they know how to make that control yield rich
dividends--at the expense of the white race.  That man Okada is called
the 'potato baron' because presently he will actually control the
potato crop of central California--and that is where most of the
potatoes of this state are raised.  Which reminds me that I started to
ask you a question about him.  Do you happen to know if he is
contemplating expanding his enterprise to include a section of southern
California?"

"I suppose I ought not discuss my father's business affairs with a
stranger," she replied, "but since he is making no secret of them, I
dare say I do not violate his confidence when I tell you that he has a
deal on with Mr. Okada to colonize the San Gregorio valley in San
Marcos County."

The look of a thousand devils leaped into Farrel's eyes.  The storm of
passion that swept him was truly Latin in its terrible intensity.  He
glared at the girl with a malevolence that terrified her.

"My valley'" he managed to murmur presently.  "My beautiful San
Gregorio!  Japs!  Japs!"

"I hadn't the faintest idea that information would upset you so," the
girl protested.  "Please forgive me."

"I--I come from the San Gregorio," he cried passionately.  "I love
every rock and cactus and rattlesnake in it.  _Valgame Dios_!"  And the
maimed right hand twisted and clutched as, subconsciously, he strove to
clench his fist.  "Ah, who was the coward--who was the traitor that
betrayed us for a handful of silver?"

"Yes; I believe there is a great deal of the Latin about you," she said
demurely.  "If I had a temper as volcanic as yours, I would never,
never go armed."

"I could kill with my naked hands the white man who betrays his
community to a Jap.  _Madre de Dios_, how I hate them!"

"Well, wait until your trusty right hand is healed before you try
garroting anybody," she suggested dryly.  "Suppose you cool off, Mr.
Pepper-pot, and tell me more about this terrible menace?"

"You are interested--really?"

"I could be made to listen without interrupting you, if you could bring
yourself to cease glaring at me with those terrible chile-con-carne
eyes.  I can almost see myself at my own funeral.  Please remember that
I have nothing whatsoever to do with my father's business affairs."

"Your father looks like a human being, and if he realized the economic
crime he is fostering--"

"Easy, soldier!  You're discussing my father, whereas I desire to
discuss the Yellow Peril.  To begin, are you prejudiced against a
citizen of Japan just because he's a Jap?"

"I will be frank.  I do not like the race.  To a white man, there is
nothing lovable about a Jap, nothing that would lead, except in
isolated cases, to a warm friendship between members of our race and
theirs.  And I dare say the individual Jap has as instinctive a dislike
for us as we have for him."

"Well then, how about John Chinaman?"

His face brightened.

"Oh, a Chinaman is different.  He's a regular fellow.  You can have a
great deal of respect and downright admiration for a Chinaman, even of
the coolie class."

"Nevertheless, the Chinese are excluded from California."

He nodded.

"But not because of strong racial prejudice.  The Chinese, like any
other Oriental, are not assimilable; also, like the Jap and the Hindu,
they are smart enough to know a good thing when they see it--and
California looks good to everybody.  John Chinaman would overrun us if
we permitted it, but since he is a mighty decent sort and realizes the
sanity of our contention that he is not assimilable with us, or we with
him, he admits the wisdom and justice of our slogan: 'California for
white men.'  There was no protest from Peking when we passed the
Exclusion Act.  Now, however, when we endeavor to exclude Japanese,
Tokio throws a fit.  But if we can muster enough courage among our
state legislators to pass a law that will absolutely divorce the
Japanese coolie from California land, we can cope with him in other
lines of trade."

She had listened earnestly to his argument, delivered with all the
earnestness of which he was capable.

"Why is he not assimilable?" she asked.

"Would you marry the potato baron?" he demanded bluntly.

"Certainly not!" she answered.

"He has gobs of money.  Is that not a point worthy of consideration?"

"Not with me.  It never could be."

"Perhaps you have gobs of money also."

"If I were a scrubwoman, and starving, I wouldn't consider a proposal
of marriage from that Jap sufficiently long to reject it."

"Then you have answered your own question," he reminded her
triumphantly.  "The purity of our race--aye, the purity of the Japanese
race--forbids intermarriage; hence we are confronted with the
intolerable prospect of sharing our wonderful state with an alien race
that must forever remain, alien--in thought, language, morals,
religion, patriotism, and standards of living.  They will dominate us,
because they are a dominant people; they will shoulder us aside,
control us, dictate to us, and we shall disappear from this beautiful
land as surely and as swiftly as did the Mission Indian.  While the
South has its negro problem--and a sorry problem it is--we Californians
have had an infinitely more dangerous problem thrust upon us.  We've
got to shake them off.  We've got to!"

"I'll speak to my father.  I do not think he understands--that he fully
realizes--"

"Ah!  Thank you so much.  Your father is rich, is he not?"

"I think he possesses more money than he will ever need," she replied
soberly.

"Please try to make him see that the big American thing to do would be
to colonize his land in the San Gregorio for white men and take a
lesser profit.  Really, I do not relish the idea of Japanese neighbors."

"You live there, then?"

He nodded.

"Hope to die there, too.  You leave the train at El Toro, I suppose?"

"My father has telegraphed mother to have the car meet us there.  We
shall motor out to the ranch.  And are you alighting at El Toro also?"

"No.  I plan to pile off at Sespe, away up the line, and take a short
cut via a cattle-trail over the hills.  I'll hike it."

She hesitated slightly.  Then:

"I'm sure father would be very happy to give you a lift out from El
Toro, Sergeant.  We shall have oodles of room."

"Thank you.  You are very kind.  But the fact is," he went on to
explain, "nobody knows I'm coming home, and I have a childish desire to
sneak in the back way and surprise them.  Were I to appear in El Toro,
I'd have to shake hands with everybody in town and relate a history of
my exploits and--"

"I understand perfectly.  You just want to get home, don't you?"  And
she bent upon him a smile of complete understanding--a smile
all-compelling, maternal.  "But did you say you'd hike it in from
Sespe?  Why not hire a horse?"

"I'd like to have a horse, and if I cared to ask far one, I could
borrow one.  But I'll hike it instead.  It will be easy in light
marching-order."

"Speaking of horses," she said abruptly.  "Do you know a horse in the
San Gregorio named Panchito?"

"A very dark chestnut with silver mane and tail, five-gaited, and as
stylish as a lady?"

"The very same."

"I should say I do know that horse!  What about him?"

"My father is going to buy him for me."

This was news, and Farrel's manner indicated as much.

"Where did you see Panchito?" he demanded.

"An Indian named Pablo rode him into El Toro to be shod one day while
we were living at the hotel there.  He's perfectly adorable."

"Pablo?  Hardly.  I know the old rascal."

"Be serious.  Panchito--I was passing the blacksmith's shop, and I
simply had to step in and admire him."

"That tickled old Pablo to death--of course."

"It did.  He put Panchito through all of his tricks for me, and, after
the horse was shod, he permitted me to ride the dear for half an hour.
Pablo was so kind!  He waited until I could run back to the hotel and
change into my riding-habit."

"Did you try to give Pablo some money--say, about five dollars?" he
demanded, smilingly.

"Yes."  Her eyes betrayed wonder.

"He declined it with profuse thanks, didn't he?"

"You're the queerest man I've ever met.  Pablo did refuse it.  How did
you know?"

"I know Pablo.  He wouldn't take money from a lady.  It's against the
code of the Rancho Palomar, and if his boss ever heard that he had
fractured that code, he'd skin him alive."

"Not Pablo's boss.  Pablo told me his Don Mike, as he calls him, was
killed by the bewhiskered devils in a cold country the name of which he
had heard but could not remember.  He meant Siberia."

Farrel sat up suddenly.

"What's that?" he cried sharply.  "He told you Don Mike had been
killed?"

"Yes--poor fellow!  Pablo said Don Mike's father had had a telegram
from the War Department."

Farrel's first impulse was to curse the War Department--in Spanish, so
she would not understand.  His second was to laugh, and his third to
burst into tears.  How his father had suffered!  Then he remembered
that to-night, he, the said Don Mike, was to have the proud privilege
of returning from Valhalla, of bringing the light of joy back to the
faded eyes of old Don Miguel, and in the swift contemplation of the
drama and the comedy impending, he stood staring at her rather
stupidly.  Pablo would doubtless believe he was a ghost returned to
haunt old scenes; the majordomo would make the sign of the cross and
start running, never pausing till he would reach the Mission of the
Mother of Sorrows, there to pour forth his unbelievable tale to Father
Dominic.  Whereupon Father Dominic would spring into his prehistoric
automobile and come up to investigate.  Great jumped-up Jehoshaphat!
What a climax to two years of soldiering!

"Wha--what--why--do you mean to tell me poor old Mike Farrel has lost
the number of his mess?" he blurted.  "Great snakes!  That news breaks
me all up in business."

"You knew him well, then?"

"'Knew him?' Why, I ate with him, slept with turn, rode with him, went
to school with him.  Know him?  I should tell a man!  We even soldiered
together in Siberia; but, strange to say, I hadn't heard of his death."

"Judging by all the nice things I heard about him in El Toro, his death
was a genuine loss to his section of the country.  Everybody appears to
have known him and loved him."

"One has to die before his virtues are apparent to some people," Farrel
murmured philosophically.  "And now that Don Mike Farrel is dead, you
hope to acquire Panchito, eh?"

"I'll be broken-hearted if I cannot."

"He'll cost you a lot of money."

"He's worth a lot of money."

He gazed at her very solemnly.

"I am aware that what I am about to say is but poor return for your
sweet courtesy, but I feel that you might as well begin now to abandon
all hope of ever owning Panchito."

"Why?"

"I--I hate to tell you this, but the fact is--I'm going to acquire him."

She shook, her head and smiled at him--the superior smile of one quite
conscious of her strength.

"He is to be sold at public auction," she informed him.  "And the man
who outbids me for that horse will have to mortgage his ranch and
borrow money on his Liberty Bonds."

"We shall see that which we shall see," he returned, enigmatically.
"Waiter, bring me my check, please."

While the waiter was counting out the change from a twenty-dollar bill,
Farrel resumed his conversation with the girl.

"Do you plan to remain in the San Gregorio very long?"

"All summer, I think."

He rose from his chair and bowed to her with an Old-World courtliness.

"Once more I thank you for your kindness to me, _senorita_," he said.
"It is a debt that I shall always remember--and rejoice because I can
never repay it.  I dare say we shall meet again in the very near
future, and when we do, I am going to arrange matters so that I may
have the honor of being properly introduced."  He pocketed his change.
"Until some day in the San Gregorio, then," he finished, "_adios_!"

Despite his smile, her woman's intuition told her that something more
poignant than the threatened Japanese invasion of the San Gregorio
valley had cast a shadow over his sunny soul.  She concluded it must
have been the news of the death of his childhood chum, the beloved Don
Mike.

"What a wonderful fellow Don Mike must have been!" she mused.  "White
men sing his praises, and Indians and mixed breeds cry them.  No wonder
this ex-soldier plans to outbid me for Panchito.  He attaches a
sentimental value to the horse because of his love for poor Don Mike.
I wonder if I ought to bid against him under the circumstances.  Poor
dear!  He wants his buddy's horse so badly.  He's really very nice--so
old-fashioned and sincere.  And he's dreadfully good-looking."

"Nature was overgenerous with that young lady," Farrel decided, as he
made his way up to the smoking-car.  "As a usual thing, she seldom
dispenses brains with beauty--and this girl has both.  I wonder who she
can be?  Well, she's too late for Panchito.  She may have any other
horse on the ranch, but--"

He glanced down at the angry red scar on the back of his right hand and
remembered.  What a charger was Panchito for a battery commander!




IV

Farrel remained in the smoking-car throughout the rest of his journey,
for he feared the possibility of a renewal of acquaintance with his
quondam companion of the dining-car should he return to the
observation-platform.  He did not wish to meet her as a discharged
soldier, homeward bound--the sort of stray dog every man, woman, and
child feels free to enter into conversation with and question regarding
his battles, wounds, and post-office address.  When he met that girl
again, he wanted to meet her as Don Miguel Jose Farrel, of Palomar.  He
was not so unintelligent as to fail to realize that in his own country
he was a personage, and he had sufficient self-esteem to desire her to
realize it also.  He had a feeling that, should they meet frequently in
the future, they would become very good friends.  Also, he looked
forward with quiet amusement to the explanations that would ensue when
the supposedly dead should return to life.

During their brief conversation, she had given him much food for
thought--so much, in fact, that presently he forgot about her entirely.
His mind was occupied with the problem that confronts practically all
discharged soldiers--that of readjustment, not to the life of pre-war
days, but to one newer, better, more ambitious, and efficient.  Farrel
realized that a continuation of his _dolce-far-niente_ life on the
Rancho Palomar under the careless, generous, and rather shiftless
administration of his father was not for him.  Indeed, the threatened
invasion of the San Gregorio by Japanese rendered imperative an
immediate decision to that effect.  He was the first of an ancient
lineage who had even dreamed of progress; he _had_ progressed, and he
could never, by any possibility, afford to retrograde.

The Farrels had never challenged competition.  They had been content to
make their broad acres pay a sum sufficient to meet operating-expenses
and the interest-charges on the ancient mortgage, meanwhile supporting
themselves in all the ease and comfort of their class by nibbling at
their principal.  Just how far his ancestors had nibbled, the last of
the Farrels was not fully informed, but he was young and optimistic,
and believed that, with proper management and the application of modern
ranching principles, he would succeed, by the time he was fifty, in
saving this principality intact for those who might come after him, for
it was not a part of his life plan to die childless--now that the war
was over and he out of it practically with a whole skin.  This aspect
of his future he considered as the train rolled into the Southland.  He
was twenty-eight years old, and he had never been in love, although,
since his twenty-first birthday, his father and Don Juan Sepulvida, of
the Rancho Carpajo, had planned a merger of their involved estates
through the simple medium of a merger of their families.  Anita
Sepulvida was a beauty that any man might be proud of; her blood was of
the purest and best, but, with a certain curious hard-headedness (the
faint strain of Scotch in him, in all likelihood), Don Mike had
declined to please the oldsters by paying court to her.

"There's sufficient of the _manana_ spirit in our tribe now, even with
the Celtic admixture," he had declared forcibly.  "I believe that like
begets like in the human family as well as in the animal kingdom, and
we know from experience that it never fails there.  An infusion of pep
is what our family needs, and I'll be hanged if I relish the job of
rehabilitating two decayed estates for a posterity that I know could no
more compete with the Anglo-Saxon race than did their ancestors."

Whereat, old Don Miguel, who possessed a large measure of the Celtic
instinct for domination, had informed Don Mike that the latter was too
infernally particular.  By the blood of the devil, his son's statement
indicated a certain priggishness, which he, Don Miguel, could not
deplore too greatly.

"You taught me pride of race," his son reminded him.  "I merely desire
to improve our race by judicious selection when I mate.  And, of
course, I'll have to love the woman I marry.  And I do not love Anita
Sepulvida."

"She loves you," the old don had declared bluntly.

"Then she's playing in hard luck.  Believe me, father, I'm no prig, but
I do realize the necessity for grafting a little gringo hustle to our
family tree.  Consider the supergrandson you will have if you leave me
to follow my own desires in this matter.  In him will be blended the
courtliness and chivalry of Spain, the imagery and romance and
belligerency of the Irish, the thrift and caution of the Scotch, and
the go-get-him-boy, knock-down-and-drag-out spirit of our own Uncle
Sam.  Why, that's a combination you cannot improve upon!"

"I wish I could fall in love with some fine girl, marry her, and give
my father optical assurance, before he passes on, that the Farrel tribe
is not, like the mule, without pride of ancestry or hope of posterity,"
he mused; "but I'll be shot if I'll ever permit myself to fall in love
with the sort of woman I want until I know I have something more
tangible than love and kisses to offer her.  About all I own in this
world is this old uniform and Panchito--and I'm getting home just in
time to prevent my father from selling him at auction for the benefit
of my estate.  And since I'm going to chuck this uniform to-morrow and
give Panchito away the day after--by the gods of War, that girl gave me
a fright when she was trying to remember the name of old man Gonzales's
ranch!  If it had been the Palomar instead of the Palomares!  I might
be able to stand the sight of Japs on the Palomares end of the San
Gregorio, but on the Palomar--"

At four o'clock, when the train whistled for Sespe, he hurried back to
the observation-car to procure his baggage preparatory to alighting
from the train.  The girl sat in the seat opposite his, and she looked
up at him now with friendly eyes.

"Would you care to leave your things in the car and entrust them to
father's man?" she queried.  "We would be glad to take them in the
motor as far as the mission.  My father suggested it," she added.

"Your father's a brick.  I shall be happy to accept, thank you.  Just
tell the chauffeur to leave them off in front of the mission and I'll
pick them up when I come over the trail from Sespe.  I can make far
better time over the hills without this suitcase, light as it is."

"You're exceedingly welcome, Sergeant.  And, by the way, I have decided
not to contest your right to Panchito.  It wouldn't be sporty of me to
outbid you for your dead buddy's horse."

His heart leaped.

"I think you're tremendously sweet," he declared bluntly.  "As matters
stand, we happen to have a half-brother of Panchito up on the
ranch--or, at least, we did have when I enlisted.  He's coming four,
and he ought to be a beauty.  I'll break him for you myself.  However,"
he added, with a deprecatory grin, "I--I realize you're not the sort of
girl who accepts gifts from strangers; so, if you have a nickel on you,
I'll sell you this horse, sight unseen.  If he's gone, I'll give the
nickel back."

"You are quite right," she replied, with an arch smile.  "I could not
possibly accept a gift from a stranger.  Neither could I buy a horse
from a stranger--no; not even at the ridiculous price of five cents."

"Perhaps if I introduced myself--have I your permission to be that
bold?"

"Well," she replied, still with that bright, friendly, understanding
smile, "that might make a difference."

"I do not deserve such consideration.  Consequently, for your gentle
forbearance, you shall be accorded a unique privilege--that of meeting
a dead soldier.  I am Miguel Jose Farrel, better known as 'Don Mike,'
of the Rancho Palomar, and I own Panchito.  To quote the language of
Mark Twain, 'the report of my death has been grossly exaggerated,' as
is the case of several thousand other soldiers in this man's army."  He
chuckled as he saw a look of amazement replace the sweet smile.  "And
you are Miss--" he queried.

She did not answer.  She could only stare at him, and in that look he
thought he noted signs of perturbation.  While he had talked, the train
had slid to a momentary halt for the flag-station, and while he waited
now for her name, the train began creeping out of Sespe.

"All right," he laughed.  "You can tell me your name when we meet
again.  I must run for it.  Good-by."  He hurried through the screen
door to the platform, stepped over the brass railing, and clung there a
moment, looking back into the car at her before dropping lightly to the
ground between the tracks.

"Now what the devil is the meaning of that?" he mused, as he stood
there watching the train.  "There were tears in her eyes."

He crossed the tracks, climbed a fence, and after traversing a small
piece of bottom-land, entered a trail through the chaparral, and
started his upward climb to the crest of the range that hid the San
Gregorio.  Suddenly he paused.

Had the girl's unfamiliarity with Spanish names caused her to confuse
Palomar with Palomares?  And why was Panchito to be sold at auction?
Was it like his father to sacrifice his son's horse to any fellow with
the money to buy him?  No!  No!  Rather would he sell his own mount and
retain Panchito for the sake of the son he mourned as dead.  The
Palomares end of the San Gregorio was too infertile to interest an
experienced agriculturist like Okada; there wasn't sufficient acreage
to make a colonization-scheme worth while.  On the contrary, fifty
thousand acres of the Rancho Palomar lay in the heart of the valley and
immediately contiguous to the flood-waters at the head of the
ghost-river for which the valley was named.

Don Mike, of Palomar, leaned against the bole of a scrub-oak and closed
his eyes in sudden pain.  Presently, he roused himself and went his way
with uncertain step, for, from time to time, tears blinded him.  And
the last of the sunlight had faded from the San Gregorio before he
topped the crest of its western boundary; the melody of Brother
Flavio's angelus had ceased an hour previous, and over the mountains to
the east a full moon stood in a cloudless sky, flooding the silent
valley with its silver light, and pricking out in bold relief the
gray-white walls of the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa, crumbling
souvenir of a day that was done.

He ran down the long hill, and came presently to the mission.  In the
grass beside the white road, he searched for his straw suitcase, his
gas-mask, and the helmet, but failing to find them, he concluded the
girl had neglected to remind her father's chauffeur to throw them off
in front of the mission, as promised.  So he passed along the front of
the ancient pile and let himself in through a wooden door in the high
adobe wall that surrounded the churchyard immediately adjacent to the
mission.  With the assurance of one who treads familiar ground, he
strode rapidly up a weed-grown path to a spot where a tall
black-granite monument proclaimed that here rested the clay of one
superior to his peon and Indian neighbors.  And this was so, for the
shaft marked the grave of the original Michael Joseph Farrel, the
adventurer the sea had cast up on the shore of San Marcos County.

Immediately to the left of this monument, Don Mike saw a grave that had
not been there when he left the Palomar.  At the head of it stood a
tile taken from the ruin of the mission roof, and on this brown tile
some one had printed in rude lettering with white paint:

    Fallecio
  Don Miguel Jose Noriaga Farrel
    Nacio, Junio 3, 1841
  Muerto, Deciembre 29, 1919.

The last scion of that ancient house knelt in the mold of his father's
grave and made the sign of the cross.




V

The tears which Don Mike Farrel had descried in the eyes of his
acquaintance on the train were, as he came to realize when he climbed
the steep cattle-trail from Sespe, the tribute of a gentle heart moved
to quick and uncontrollable sympathy.  Following their conversation in
the dining-car, the girl--her name was Kay Parker--had continued her
luncheon, her mind busy with thoughts of this strange home-bound
ex-soldier who had so signally challenged her attention.  "There's
breeding back of that man," the girl mused.  "He's only a rancher's son
from the San Gregorio; where did he acquire his drawing-room manners?"

She decided, presently, that they were not drawing-room manners.  They
were too easy and graceful and natural to have been acquired.  He must
have been born with them.  There was something old-fashioned about
him--as if part of him dwelt in the past century.  He appeared to be
quite certain of himself, yet there was not even a hint of ego in his
cosmos.  His eyes were wonderful--and passionless, like a boy's.  Yes;
there was a great deal of the little boy about him, for all his years,
his wounds, and his adventures.  Kay thought him charming, yet he did
not appear to be aware of his charm, and this fact increased her
attraction to him.  It pleased her that he had preferred to discuss the
Japanese menace rather than his own exploits, and had been human enough
to fly in a rage when told of her father's plans with the potato baron.
Nevertheless, he had himself under control, for he had smothered his
rage as quickly as he had permitted it to flare up.

"Curious man!" the girl concluded.  "However--he's a man, and when we
meet again, I'm going to investigate thoroughly and see what else he
has in his head."

Upon further reflection, she reminded herself that he hadn't disclosed,
in anything he had said, the fact that his head contained thoughts or
information of more than ordinary value.  He had merely created that
impression.  Even his discussion of the Japanese problem had been
cursory, and, as she mentally back-tracked on their conversation, the
only striking remark of his which she recalled was his whimsical
assurance that he knew why young turkeys are hard to raise in the fall.
She smiled to herself.

"Well, Kay, did you find him pleasant company?"

She looked up and discovered her father slipping into the chair so
lately vacated by the object of her thoughts.

"'Lo, pop!  You mean the ex-soldier?"  He nodded.  "Queerest man I've
ever met.  But he is pleasant company."

"I thought so.  Tell me, daughter: What you were smiling about just
now."

"He said he knew why young turkeys are hard to raise in the fall."

"Why are they?"

"I don't know, dear.  He didn't tell me.  Can you?"

"The problem is quite beyond me, Kay."  He unfolded his napkin.
"Splendid-looking young chap, that!  Struck me he ought to have more in
his head than frivolous talk about the difficulty of rearing young
turkeys."

"I think he has a great deal more in his head than that.  In fact, I do
not understand why he should have mentioned young turkeys at all,
because he's a cattleman.  And he comes from the San Gregorio valley."

"Indeed!  What's his name?"

"He didn't tell me.  But he knows all about the ranch you took over
from the Gonzales estate."

"But I didn't foreclose on that.  It was the Farrel estate."

"He called it something else--the Palomares rancho, I think."

"Gonzales owns the Palomares rancho, but the Palomar rancho belonged to
old Don Miguel Farrel."

"Was he the father of the boy they call 'Don Mike'--he who was killed
in Siberia?"'

"The same."

"Why did you have to foreclose on his ranch, father?"

"Well, the interest had been unpaid for two years, and the old man was
getting pretty feeble; so, after the boy was killed, I realized that
was the end of the Farrel dynasty and that the mortgage would never be
paid.  Consequently, in self-protection, I foreclosed.  Of course,
under the law, Don Miguel had a year's grace in which to redeem the
property, and during that year I couldn't take possession without first
proving that he was committing waste upon it.  However, the old man
died of a broken heart a few months after receiving news of his son's
death, and, in the protection of my interest, I was forced to petition
the court to grant me permission to enter into possession.  It was my
duty to protect the equity of the heirs, if any."

"Are there any heirs?"

"None that we have been able to discover."

The girl thoughtfully traced a pattern on the tablecloth with the tine
of her fork.

"How will it be possible for you to acquire that horse, Panchito, for
me, dearest?" she queried presently.

"I have a deficiency judgment against the Rancho Palomar," he
explained.  "Consequently, upon the expiration of the redemption period
of one year, I shall levy an attachment against the Farrel estate.  All
the property will be sold at public auction by the sheriff to satisfy
my deficiency judgment, and I shall, of course, bid in this horse."

"I have decided I do not want him, father," she informed him half
sadly.  "The ex-soldier is an old boyhood chum of the younger Farrel
who was killed, and he wants the horse."

He glanced at her with an expression of shrewd suspicion.

"As you desire, honey," he replied.

"But I want you to see to it that nobody else outbids him for the
horse," she continued, earnestly.  "If some one should run the price up
beyond the limits of his purse, of course I want you to outbid that
some one, but what I do not desire you to do is to run the price up on
him yourself.  He wants the horse out of sentiment, and it isn't nice
to force a wounded ex-service-man to pay a high price for his
sentiment."

"Oh, I understand now," her father assured her.  "Very well, little
daughter; I have my orders and will obey them."

"Precious old darling!" she whispered, gratefully, and pursed her
adorable lips to indicate to him that he might consider himself kissed.
His stern eyes softened in a glance of father-love supreme.

"Whose little girl are you?" he whispered, and, to that ancient query
of parenthood, she gave the reply of childhood:

"Daddy's."

"Just for that, I'll offer the soldier a tremendous profit on Panchito.
We'll see what his sentiment is worth."

"Bet you a new hat, angel-face, you haven't money enough to buy him,"
Kay challenged.

"Considering the cost of your hats, I'd be giving you rather long odds,
Kay.  You say this young man comes from the San Gregorio valley?"

"So he informed me."

"Well, there isn't a young man in the San Gregorio who doesn't need a
couple of thousand dollars far worse than he needs a horse.  I'll take
your bet, Peaches.  Of course you mentioned to him the fact that you
wanted this horse?"

"Yes.  And he said I couldn't have him--that he was going to acquire
him."

"Perhaps he was merely jesting with you."

"No; he meant it."

"I believe," he said, smiling, "that it is most unusual of young men to
show such selfish disregard of your expressed desires."

"Flatterer!  I like him all the more for it.  He's a man with some
backbone."

"So I noticed.  He wears the ribbon of the Congressional Medal of
Honor.  Evidently he is given to exceeding the speed-limit.  Did he
tell you how he won that pale-blue ribbon with the little white stars
sprinkled on it?"

"He did not.  Such men never discuss those things."

"Well, they raise fighting men in the San Gregorio, at any rate," her
father continued.  "Two Medal-of-Honor men came out of it.  Old Don
Miguel Farrel's boy was awarded one posthumously.  I was in El Toro the
day the commanding general of the Western Department came down from San
Francisco and pinned the medal on old Don Miguel's breast.  The old
fellow rode in on his son's horse, and when the little ceremony was
over, he mounted and rode back to the ranch alone.  Not a tear, not a
quiver.  He looked as regal as the American eagle--and as proud.
Looking at that old don, one could readily imagine the sort of son he
had bred.  The only trouble with the Farrels," he added, critically,
"was that they and work never got acquainted.  If these old
Californians would consent to imbibe a few lessons in industry and
economy from their Japanese neighbors, their wonderful state would be
supporting thirty million people a hundred years from now."

"I wonder how many of that mythical thirty millions would be Japs?" she
queried, innocently.

"That is a problem with which we will not have to concern ourselves,
Kay, because we shall not be here."

"Some day, popsy-wops, that soldier will drop in at our ranch and lock
horns with you on the Japanese question."

"When he does," Parker replied, good-naturedly, "I shall make a
star-spangled monkey out of him.  I'm loaded for these Californians.
I've investigated their arguments, and they will not hold water, I tell
you.  I'll knock out the contentions of your unknown knight like
tenpins in a bowling-alley.  See if I don't."

"He's nobody's fool, dad."

"Quite so.  He knows why young turkeys are hard to raise in the fall?"

She bent upon him a radiant smile of the utmost good humor.

"Score one for the unknown knight," she bantered.  "That is more than
we know.  And turkey was sixty cents a pound last Thanksgiving!
Curious information from our view-point, perhaps, but profitable."

He chuckled over his salad.

"You're hopelessly won to the opposition," he declared.  "Leave your
check for me, and I'll pay it.  And if your unknown knight returns to
the observation-car, ask him about those confounded turkeys."




VI

But the unknown knight had not returned to the observation-car until
the long train was sliding into Sespe, and Kay had no time to satisfy
her thirst for information anent young turkeys.  With unexpected
garrulity, he had introduced himself; with the receipt of this
information, she had been rendered speechless, first with surprise, and
then with distress as her alert mind swiftly encompassed the pitiful
awakening that was coming to this joyous home-comer.  Before she could
master her emotions, he was disappearing over the brass rail at the end
of the observation-car; even as he waved her a debonair farewell, she
caught the look of surprise and puzzlement in his black eyes.
Wherefore, she knew the quick tears had betrayed her.

"Oh, you poor fellow!" she whispered to herself, as she dabbed at her
eyes with a wisp of a lace handkerchief.  "What a tragedy!"

What a tragedy, indeed!

She had never been in the San Gregorio, and to-day was to mark her
first visit to the Rancho Palomar, although her father and mother and
the servants had been occupying the Farrel hacienda for the past two
months.  Of the beauty of that valley, of the charm of that ancient
seat, she had heard much from her parents; if they could be so
enthusiastic about it in two short months, how tremendously attached to
it must be this cheerful Don Mike, who had been born and raised there,
who was familiar with every foot of it, and doubtless cherished every
tradition connected with it.  He had imagination, and in imaginative
people wounds drive deep and are hard to heal; he loved this land of
his, not with the passive loyalty of the average American citizen, but
with the strange, passionate intensity of the native Californian for
his state.  She had met many Californians, and, in this one particular,
they had all been alike.  No matter how far they had wandered from the
Golden West, no matter how long or how pleasant had been their exile,
they yearned, with a great yearning, for that intangible something that
all Californians feel but can never explain--which is found nowhere
save in this land of romance and plenty, of hearty good will, of life
lived without too great effort, and wherein the desire to play gives
birth to that large and kindly tolerance that is the unfailing
sweetener of all human association.

And Don Mike was hurrying home to a grave in the valley, to a home no
longer his, to the shock of finding strangers ensconced in the seat of
his prideful ancestors, to the prospect of seeing the rich acres that
should have been his giving sustenance to an alien race, while he must
turn to a brutal world for his daily bread earned by the sweat of his
brow.

Curiously enough, in that moment, without having given very much
thought to the subject, she decided that she must help him bear it.  In
a vague way, she felt that she must see him and talk with him before he
should come in contact with her father and mother.  She wanted to
explain matters, hoping that he would understand that she, at least,
was one of the interlopers who were not hostile to him.

For she did, indeed, feel like an interloper now.  But, at the same
time, she realized, despite her small knowledge of the law, that, until
the expiration of the redemption period, the equity of Don Mike in the
property was unassailable.  With that unpleasant sense of having
intruded came the realization that to-night the Parker family would
occupy the position of uninvited and unwelcome guests.  It was not a
comfortable thought.

Fortunately, the potato baron and her father were up in the smoker;
hence, by the time the train paused at El Toro, Kay had composed
herself sufficiently to face her father again without betraying to him
any hint of the mental disturbance of the past forty minutes.  She
directed the porter in the disposition of Don Mike's scant impedimenta,
and watched to see that the Parker chauffeur carried it from the
station platform over to the waiting automobile.  As he was lashing
their hand-baggage on the running-board, she said,

"William, how long will it take you to get out to the ranch?"

"Twenty miles, miss, over a narrow dirt road, and some of it winds
among hills.  I ought to do it handily in an hour without taking any
chances."

"Take a few chances," she ordered, in a voice meant for his ear alone.
"I'm in a hurry."

"Forty-five minutes, miss," he answered, in the same confidential tone.

Kay sat in the front seat with William, while her father and Okada
occupied the tonneau.  Within a few minutes, they were clear of the
town and rolling swiftly across a three-mile-wide mesa.  Then they
entered a long, narrow canon, which they traversed for several miles,
climbed a six-per-cent. grade to the crest of a ridge, rolled down into
another canon, climbed another ridge, and from the summit gazed down on
the San Gregorio in all the glory of her new April gown.  Kay gasped
with the shock of such loveliness, and laid a detaining hand on the
chauffeur's arm.  Instantly he stopped the car.

"I always get a kick out of the view from here, miss," he informed her.
"Can you beat it?  You can't!"

The girl sat with parted lips.

"This--this is the California he loves," she thought.

She closed her eyes to keep back the tears, and the car rolled gently
down the grade into the valley.  From the tonneau she could catch
snatches of the conversation between her father and the potato baron;
they were discussing the agricultural possibilities of the valley, and
she realized, with a little twinge of outrage, that its wonderful
pastoral beauty had been quite lost on them.

As they swept past the mission, Kay deliberately refrained from
ordering William to toss Don Mike's baggage off in front of the old
pile, for she knew now whither the latter was bound.  She would save
him that added burden.  Three miles from the mission, the road swung up
a gentle grade between two long rows of ancient and neglected palms.
The dead, withered fronds of a decade still clung to the corrugated
trunks.  In the adjoining oaks vast flocks of crows perched and cawed
raucously.  This avenue of palms presently debouched onto a little
mesa, oak-studded and covered with lush grass, which gave it a pretty,
parklike effect.  In the center of this mesa stood the hacienda of the
Rancho Palomar.

Like all adobe dwellings of its class, it was not now, nor had it ever
been, architecturally beautiful.  It was low, with a plain hip-roof
covered with ancient red tiles, many of which were missing.  When the
house had first been built, it had been treated to a coat of excellent
plaster over the adobe, and this plaster had never been renewed.  With
the attrition of time and the elements, it had worn away in spots,
through which the brown adobe bricks showed, like the bones in a
decaying corpse.  The main building faced down the valley; from each
end out, an ell extended to form a patio in the rear, while a
seven-foot adobe wall, topped with short tile, connected with the ell
and formed a parallelogram.

"The old ruin doesn't look very impressive from the front, Kay," her
father explained, as he helped her out of the car, "but that wall hides
an old-fashioned garden that will delight you.  A porch runs all round
the inside of the house, and every door opens on the patio.  That long
adobe barracks over yonder used to house the help.  In the old days, a
small army of peons was maintained here.  The small adobe house back
there in the trees houses the majordomo--that old rascal, Pablo."

"He is still here, dad?"

"Yes--and as belligerent as old billy-owl.  He pretends to look after
the stock.  I ordered him off the ranch last week; but do you think
he'd go?  Not much.  He went inside his shack, sorted out a rifle, came
outside, sat down, and fondled the weapon all day long.  Ever since
then he has carried it, mounted or afoot.  So I haven't bothered him.
He's a bad old Indian, and when I secure final title to the ranch, I'll
have the sheriff of the county come out and remove him."

"But how does he live, dear?"

"How does any Indian live?  He killed a steer last week, jerked half of
it, and sold the other half for some beans and flour.  It wasn't his
steer and it wasn't mine.  It belonged to the Farrel estate, and, since
there is nobody to lodge a complaint against him, I suppose he'll kill
another steer when his rations run low.  This way, daughter.  Right
through the hole in the wall."

They passed through a big inset gate in the adobe wall, into the patio.
At once the scent of lemon and orange blossoms, mingled with the more
delicate aroma of flowers, assailed them.  Kay stood, entranced, gazing
upon the hodgepodge of color; she had the feeling of having stepped out
of one world into another.

Her father stood watching her.

"Wonderful old place, isn't it, Kay?" he suggested.  "The garden has
been neglected, but I'm going to clean it out."

"Do not touch it," she commanded, almost sharply.  "I want it the way
it is."

"You little tyrant!" he replied good-naturedly.  "You run me ragged and
make me like it."

From a rocker on the porch at the eastern end of the patio Kay's mother
rose and called to them, and the girl darted away to greet her.  Mrs.
Parker folded the girl to a somewhat ample bosom and kissed her
lovingly on her ripe red lips; to her husband she presented a cheek
that showed to advantage the artistry of a member of that tribe of
genii who strive so valiantly to hold in check the ravages of age.  At
fifty, Kay's mother was still a handsome woman; her carriage, her
dress, and a certain repressed vivacity indicated that she had mastered
the art of growing old gracefully.

"Well, kitten," she said, a trifle louder and shriller than one seemed
to expect of her, "are you going to remain with us a little while, or
will next week see you scampering away again?"

"I'll stay all summer, fuss-budget.  I'm going to paint the San
Gregorio while it's on exhibition, and then this old house and the
garden.  Oh, mother dear, I'm in love with it!  It's wonderful!"

The potato baron had followed Parker and his daughter into the patio,
and stood now, showing all of his teeth in an amiable smile.  Parker
suddenly remembered his guest.

"My dear," he addressed his wife, "I have brought a guest with me.
This is Mr. Okada, of whom I wrote you."

Okada bowed low--as low as the rules of Japanese etiquette prescribe,
which is to say that he bent himself almost double.  At the same time,
he lifted his hat.  Then he bowed again twice, and, with a pleasing
smile proffered his hand.  Mrs. Parker took it and shook it with hearty
good will.

"You are very welcome, Mr. Okada," she shrilled.  "Murray," she added,
turning to the butler, who was approaching with Okada's suitcase, "show
the gentleman to the room with the big bed in it.  Dinner will be ready
at six, Mr. Okada.  Please do not bother to dress for dinner.  We're
quite informal here."

"Sank you very much," he replied, with an unpleasant whistling intake
of breath; with another profound bow to the ladies, he turned and
followed Murray to his room.

"Well, John," Mrs. Parker demanded, as the Japanese disappeared, "your
little playmate's quite like a mechanical toy.  For heaven's sake,
where did you pal up with him?"

"That's the potato baron of the San Joaquin valley, Kate," he informed
her.  "I'm trying to interest him in a colonization scheme for his
countrymen.  A thousand Japs in the San Gregorio can raise enough
garden-truck to feed the city of Los Angeles--and they will pay a
whooping price for good land with water on it.  So I brought him along
for a preliminary survey of the deal."

"He's very polite, but I imagine he's not very brilliant company," his
wife averred frankly.  "When you wired me you were bringing a guest, I
did hope you'd bring some jolly young jackanapes to arouse Kay and me."

She sighed and settled back in her comfortable rocking-chair, while
Kay, guided by a maid, proceeded to her room.  A recent job of
calcimining had transformed the room from a dirty grayish, white to a
soft shade of pink; the old-fashioned furniture had been "done over,"
and glowed dully in the fading light.  Kay threw open the small
square-hinged window, gazed through the iron bars sunk in the thick
walls, and she found herself looking down the valley, more beautiful
than ever now in the rapidly fading light.

"I'll have to wait outside for him," she thought.  "It will be dark
when he gets here."

She washed and changed into a dainty little dinner dress, after which
she went on a tour of exploration of the hacienda.  Her first port of
call was the kitchen.

"Nishi," she informed the cook, "a gentleman will arrive shortly after
the family has finished dinner.  Keep his dinner in the oven.  Murray
will serve it to him in his room, I think."

She passed out through the kitchen, and found herself in the rear of
the hacienda.  A hundred yards distant, she saw Pablo Artelan squatting
on his heels beside the portal of his humble residence, his back
against the wall.  She crossed over to him, smiling as she came.

"How do you do, Pablo?" she said.  "Have you forgotten me?  I'm the
girl to whom you were kind enough to give a ride on Panchito one day in
El Toro."

The glowering glance of suspicion and resentment faded slowly from old
Pablo's swarthy countenance.  He scrambled to his feet and swept the
ground with his old straw sombrero,

"I am at the service of the _senorita_," he replied, gravely.

"Thank you, Pablo.  I just wanted to tell you that you need not carry
that rifle any more.  I shall see to it that you are not removed from
the ranch."

He stared at her with stolid interest.

"_Muchas gracias, senorita_," he mumbled.  Then, remembering she did
not understand Spanish, he resumed in English: "I am an old man, mees.
Since my two boss he's die, pretty soon Pablo die, too.  For what use
eet is for live now I don' tell you.  Those ol' man who speak me leave
theese rancho--he is your father, no?"

"Yes, Pablo.  And he isn't such a terrible man, once you get acquainted
with him."

"I don' like," Pablo muttered frankly.  "He have eye like
lookin'-glass.  Mebbeso for you, mees, eet is different, but for Pablo
Artelan--" he shrugged.  "Eef Don Mike is here, nobody can talk to
me like dose ol' man, your father, he speak to me."  And he wagged his
head sorrowfully.

Kay came close to him.

"Listen, Pablo: I have a secret for you.  You, must not tell anybody.
Don Mike is not dead."

He raised his old head with languid interest and nodded comprehension.

"My wife, Carolina, she tell me same thing all time.  She say: '_Pablo
mio_, somebody make beeg mistake.  Don Mike come home pretty queeck,
you see.  Nobody can keel Don Mike.  Nobody have that mean the
deesposition for keel the boy.'  But I don' theenk Don Mike come back
to El Palomar."

"Carolina is right, Pablo.  Somebody did make a big mistake.  He was
wounded in the hand, but not killed.  I saw him to-day, Pablo, on the
train."

"You see Don Mike?  You see heem with the eye?"

"Yes.  And he spoke to me with the tongue.  He will arrive here in an
hour."

Pablo was on his knees before her, groping for her hand.  Finding it,
he carried it to his lips.  Then, leaping to his feet with an alacrity
that belied his years, he yelled:

"Carolina!  Come queeck, _Pronto_!  _Aqui_, Carolina."

"_Si, Pablo mio_."

Carolina appeared in the doorway and was literally deluged with a
stream of Spanish.  She stood there, hands clasped on her tremendous
bosom, staring unbelievingly at the bearer of these tidings of great
joy, the while tears cascaded down her flat, homely face.  With a snap
of his fingers, Pablo dismissed her; then he darted into the house and
emerged with his rifle.  A cockerel, with the carelessness of youth,
had selected for his roost the limb of an adjacent oak and was still
gazing about him instead of secreting his head under his wing, as
cockerels should at sunset.  Pablo neatly shot his head off, seized the
fluttering carcass, and started plucking out the feathers with neatness
and despatch.

"Don Mike, he's like _gallina con arroz espagnol_," he explained.
"What you, call chick-een with rice Spanish," he interpreted.  "Eet
mus' not be that Don Mike come home and Carolina have not cook for heem
the grub he like.  _Carramba_!"

"But he cannot possibly eat a chicken before--I mean, it's too soon.
Don Mike will not eat that chicken before the animal-heat is out of it."

"You don' know Don Mike, mees.  Wen dat boy he's hongry, he don' speak
so many questions."

"But I've told our cook to save dinner for him."'

"Your cook!  _Senorita_, I don' like make fun for you, but I guess you
don' know my wife Carolina, she have been cook for Don Miguel and Don
Mike since long time before he's beeg like little kitten.  Don Mike, he
don' understand those gringo grub."

"Listen, Pablo: There is no time to cook Don Mike a Spanish dinner.  He
must eat gringo grub to-night.  Tell me, Pablo: Which room did Don Mike
sleep in when he was home?"

"The room in front the house--the beeg room with the beeg black bed.
Carolina!"  He threw the half-plucked chicken at the old cook, wiped
his hands on his overalls, and started for the hacienda.  "I go for
make the bed for Don Mike," he explained, and started running.

Kay followed breathlessly, but he reached the patio before her,
scuttled along the porch with surprising speed, and darted into the
room.  Immediately the girl heard his voice raised angrily.

"Hullo!  What you been do in my boss's room?  _Madre de Dios_!  You
theenk I let one Chinaman--no, one Jap--sleep in the bed of Don
Victoriano Noriaga.  No!  _Vamos_!"

There was a slight scuffle, and the potato baron came hurtling through
the door, propelled on the boot of the aged but exceedingly vigorous
Pablo.  Evidently the Jap had been taken by surprise.  He rolled off
the porch into a flower-bed, recovered himself, and flew at Pablo with
the ferocity of a bulldog.  To the credit of his race, be it said that
it does not subscribe to the philosophy of turning the other cheek.

But Pablo was a peon.  From somewhere on his person, he produced a dirk
and slashed vigorously.  Okada evaded the blow, and gave ground.

"_Quidado_!" Pablo roared, and charged; whereupon the potato baron,
evidently impressed with the wisdom of the ancient adage that
discretion is the better part of valor, fled before him.  Pablo
followed, opened the patio gate, and, with his long dirk, motioned the
Jap to disappear through it.  "The hired man, he don' sleep in the bed
of the _gente_," he declared.  "The barn is too good for one Jap.
_Santa Maria_!  For why I don' keel you, I don' know."

"Pablo!"

The majordomo turned.

"Yes, mees lady."

"Mr. Okada is our guest.  I command you to leave him alone.  Mr. Okada,
I apologize to you for Pablo's impetuosity.  He is not a servant of
ours, but a retainer of the former owner.  Pablo, will you please
attend to your own business?"  Kay was angry now, and Pablo realized it.

"Don Mike's beesiness, she is my beesiness, too, senorita," he growled.

"Yes; I zink so," Okada declared.  "I zink I go 'nother room."

"Murray will prepare one for you, Mr. Okada.  I'm so sorry this has
happened.  Indeed I am!"

Pablo hooted.

"You sorry, mees?  Wait until my Don Mike he's come home and find thees
fellow in hees house."

He closed the gate, returned to the room, and made a critical
inspection of the apartment.  Kay could see him wagging his grizzled
head approvingly as she came to the door and looked in.

"Where those fellow _El Mono_, he put my boss's clothes?" Pablo
demanded.

"'_El Mono_?'  Whom do you mean, Pablo?"

"_El Mono_--the monkey.  He wear long tail to the coat; all the time he
look like mebbeso somebody in the house she's goin' die pretty queeck."

"Oh, you mean Murray, the butler."

Pablo was too ludicrous, and Kay sat down on the edge of the porch and
laughed until she wept.  Then, as Pablo still stood truculently in the
doorway, waiting an answer to his query, she called to Murray, who had
rushed to the aid of the potato baron, and asked him if he had found
any clothing in the room, and, if so, what he had done with it.

"I spotted and pressed them all, Miss Kay, and hung them in the
clothes-press of the room next door."

"I go get," growled Pablo, and did so; whereupon the artful Murray took
advantage of his absence to dart over to the royal chamber and remove
the potato baron's effects.

"I don't like that blackamoor, Miss Kay," _El Mono_ confided to the
girl.  "I feel assured he is a desperate vagabond to whom murder and
pillage are mere pastimes.  Please order him out of the garden.  He
pays no attention to me whatsoever."

"Leave him severely alone," Kay advised.  "I will find a way to handle
him."

Pablo returned presently, with two suits of clothing, a soft
white-linen shirt, a black necktie, a pair of low-cut brown shoes, and
a pair of brown socks.  These articles he laid out on the bed.  Then he
made another trip to the other room, and returned bearing an armful of
framed portraits of the entire Noriaga and Farrel dynasty, which he
proceeded to hang in a row on the wall at the foot of the bed.  Lastly,
he removed a rather fancy spread from the bed and substituted therefor
an ancient silk crazy-quilt that had been made by Don Mike's
grandmother.  Things were now as they used to be, and Pablo was
satisfied.

When he came out, Kay had gone in to dinner; so he returned to his own
_casa_ and squatted against the wall, with his glance fixed upon the
point in the palm avenue where it dipped over the edge of the mesa.




VII

At seven o'clock, dinner being over, Kay excused herself to the family
and Mr. Okada, passed out through the patio gate, and sought a bench
which she had noticed under a catalpa tree outside the wall.  From this
seat, she, like Pablo, could observe anybody coming up the palm-lined
avenue.  A young moon was rising over the hills, and by its light Kay
knew she could detect Don Mike while he was yet some distance from the
house.

At seven-thirty, he had not appeared, and she grew impatient and
strolled round to the other side of the hacienda.  Before Pablo's
_casa_, she saw the red end of a cigarette; so she knew that Pablo also
watched.

"I _must_ see him first," she decided.  "Pablo's heart is right toward
Don Mike, but resentful toward us.  I do not want him to pass that
resentment on to his master."

She turned back round the hacienda again, crossed down over the lip of
the mesa at right angles to the avenue, and picked her way through the
oaks.  When she was satisfied that Pablo could not see her, she made
her way back to the avenue, emerging at the point where it connected
with the wagon-road down the valley.  Just off the avenue, a live-oak
had fallen, and Kay sat down on the trunk of it to watch and wait.

Presently she saw him coming, and her heart fluttered in fear at the
meeting.  She, who had for months marked the brisk tread of military
men, sensed now the drag, the slow cadence of his approach; wherefore
she realized that he knew!  In the knowledge that she would not have to
break the news to him, a sense of comfort stole over her.

As he came closer, she saw that he walked with his chin on his breast;
when he reached the gate at the end of the avenue, he did not see it
and bumped into it.  "_Dios mio_!" she heard him mutter.  "_Dios!
Dios!  Dios!_"  The last word ended in tragic crescendo; he leaned on
the gate, and there, in the white silence, the last of the Farrels
stood gazing up the avenue as if he feared to enter.

Kay sat on the oak trunk, staring at him, fascinated by the tragic
tableau.

Suddenly, from the hacienda, a hound gave tongue--a long, bell-like
baying, with a timbre in it that never creeps into a hound's voice
until he has struck a warm scent.  Another hound took up the cry--and
still another.  Don Mike started.

"That's Nip!" Kay heard him murmur, as the first hound sounded.  "Now,
Mollie!  Come now, Nailer!  Where's Hunter?   Hunter's dead!  You've
scented me!"

Across the mesa, the pack came bellowing, scattering the wet leaves
among the oaks as they took the short cut to the returning master.
Into the avenue they swept; the leader leaped for the top of the gate,
poised there an instant, and fell over into Don Mike's arms.  The
others followed, overwhelming him.  They licked his hands; they soiled
him with their reaching paws, the while their cries of welcome
testified to their delight.  Presently, one grew jealous of the other
in the mad scramble for his caressing hand, and Nip bit Mollie, who
retaliated by biting Nailer, who promptly bit Nip, thus completing the
vicious circle.  In an instant, they were battling each other.

"Stop it!" Don Mike commanded.  "Break!"

They "broke" at his command, and, forgetting their animosities, began
running in circles, in a hopeless effort to express their happiness.
Suddenly, as if by common impulse, they appeared to remember a
neglected duty, and fled noisily whence they had come.

"Ah, only my dogs to welcome me!" Kay heard Don Mike murmur.  And then
the stubborn tears came and blinded him, so he did not see her white
figure step out into the avenue and come swiftly toward him.  The first
he knew of her presence was when her hand touched his glistening black
head bent on his arms over the top rail of the gate.

"No, no, Don Mike," he heard a sweet voice protesting; "somebody else
cares, too.  We wouldn't be human if we didn't.  Please--please try not
to feel so badly about it."

He raised his haggard face.

"Ah, yes--you!" he cried.  "You--you've been waiting here--for me?"

"Yes.  I wanted to tell you--to explain before you got to the house.
We didn't know, you see--and the notice was so terribly short; but
we'll go in the morning.  I've saved dinner for you, Don Mike--and your
old room is ready for you.  Oh, you don't know how sorry I am for you,
you poor man!"

He hid his face again.

"Don't--please!" he cried, in a choked voice.  "I can't stand
sympathy--to-night--from you!"

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Come, come; you must buck up, old soldier," she assured him.  "You'll
have to meet Pablo and Carolina very soon."

"I'm so alone and desperate," he muttered, through clenched teeth.
"You can't--realize what this means--to me.  My father was an old
man--he had--accomplished his years--and I weep for him, because I
loved--him.  But oh, my home--this--dear land--"

He choked, and, in that moment, she forgot that this man was a stranger
to her.  She only knew that he had been stricken, that he was helpless,
that he lacked the greatest boon of the desolate--a breast upon which
he might weep.  Gently she lifted the black head and drew it down on
her shoulder; her arm went round his neck and patted his cheek, and his
full heart was emptied.

There was so much of the little boy about him!




VIII

The fierce gust of emotion which swept Don Mike Farrel was of brief
duration.  He was too sane, too courageous to permit his grief to
overwhelm him completely; he had the usual masculine horror of an
exhibition of weakness, and although the girl's sweet sympathy and
genuine womanly tenderness had caught him unawares, he was,
nevertheless, not insensible of the incongruity of a grown man weeping
like a child on the shoulder of a young woman--and a strange young
woman at that.  With a supreme effort of will, he regained control of
himself as swiftly as he had lost it, and began fumbling for a
handkerchief.

"Here," she murmured; "use mine."  She reached up and, with her dainty
wisp of handkerchief, wiped his wet cheeks exactly as if he had been a
child.

He caught the hand that wielded the handkerchief and kissed it
gratefully, reverently.

"God bless your dear, kind heart!" he murmured.  "I had thought nobody
could possibly care--that much.  So few people--have any interest in
the--unhappiness of others."  He essayed a twisted smile.  "I'm not
usually this weak," he continued, apologetically.  "I never knew until
to-night that I could be such a lubberly big baby, but, then, I wasn't
set for this blow.  This afternoon, life executed an about face for
me--and the dogs got me started after I'd promised myself--"  He
choked again on the last word.

She patted his shoulder in comradely fashion.

"Buck up, Don Mike!" she pleaded.  "Tears from such men as you are
signs of strength, not weakness.  And remember--life has a habit of
obeying commanding men.  It may execute another about face for you."

"I've lost everything that made life livable," he protested.

"Ah!  No, no!  You must not say that.  Think of that cheerful warrior
who, in defeat, remarked, 'All is lost save honor.'"  And she touched
the pale-blue star-sprinkled ribbon on his left breast.

He smiled again, the twisted smile.

"That doesn't amount to a row of pins in civil life."  Something of
that sense of bitter disillusionment, of blasted idealism, which is the
immediate aftermath of war, had crept into his voice.  "The only thrill
I ever got out of its possession was in the service.  My colonel was
never content merely with returning my salute.  He always uncovered to
me.  That ribbon will have little weight with your father, I fear, when
I ask him to set aside the foreclosure, grant me a new mortgage, and
give me a fighting chance to retain the thing I love."  And his
outflung arm indicated the silent, moonlit valley.

"Perhaps," she replied, soberly.  "He is a businessman.  Nevertheless,
it might not be a bad idea if you were to defer the crossing of your
bridges until you come to them."  She unlatched the gate and swung it
open for him to pass through.

He hesitated.

"I didn't intend to enter the house to-night," he explained.  "I merely
wanted to see Pablo and have a talk with him.  My sudden appearance on
the scene might, perhaps, prove very embarrassing to your family."

"I dare say.  But that cannot be helped.  Your right of entrance and
occupancy cannot be questioned.  Until the period of redemption
expires, I think nobody will dispute your authority as master here."

"I had forgotten that phase of the situation.  Thank you."  He passed
through the gate and closed it for her.  Then he stepped to the side of
the road, wet his handkerchief in a pool of clean rain-water, and
mopped his eyes.  "I'll have to abandon the luxury of tears," he
declared, grimly.  "They make one's eyes burn.  By the way, I do not
know your name."

"I am Kay Parker."

"'Kay' for what?"

"Kathleen."

He nodded approvingly.

"You neglected to leave my dunnage at the mission; Miss Parker."

"After you told me who you were, I realized you would sleep at the
ranch to-night, so I kept your things in the car.  They are in your old
room now."

"Thank you for an additional act of kindness and thoughtfulness."  He
adjusted his overseas cap, snugged his blouse down over his hips,
flipped from it the wet sand deposited there by the paws of the
hound-pack, and said, "Let's go."

Where the avenue debouched into the ranch-yard, Pablo and Carolina
awaited them.  The old majordomo was wrapped in aboriginal dignity.
His Indian blood bade him greet Don Mike as casually as if the latter
had merely been sojourning in El Toro the past two years, but the faint
strain of Spanish in him dictated a different course as Don Mike
stepped briskly up to him with outstretched hand and greeted him
affectionately in Spanish.  Off came the weather-stained old sombrero,
flung to the ground beside him, as Pablo dropped on his knees, seized
his master's hand, and bowed his head over it.

"Don Miguel," he said, "my life is yours."

"I know it, you blessed old scalawag!" Don Mike replied in English, and
ruffled the grizzled old head before passing on to the expectant
Carolina, who folded him tightly in her arms and wept soundlessly when
he kissed her leathery cheek.  While he was murmuring words of comfort
to her, Pablo got up on his feet and recovered his hat.

"You see," he said to Kay, in a confidential tone, "Don Miguel Jose
Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel loves us.  Never no woman those boy kees
since hees mother die twenty year before.  So Carolina have the great
honor like me.  Yes!"

"Oh, but you haven't seen him kiss his sweetheart," Kay bantered the
old man--and then blushed, in the guilty knowledge that her badinage
had really been inspired by a sudden desire to learn whether Don Mike
had a sweetheart or not.  Pablo promptly and profanely disillusioned
her.

"Those boy, he don' have some sweethearts, mees lady.  He's pretty
parteecular."  He paused a moment and looked her in the face meaningly.
"Those girls in thees country--pah!  Hee's pretty parteecular, those
boy."

His childish arrogance and consuming pride in his master stirred the
girl's sense of humor.

"I think your Don Mike is _too_ particular," she whispered.
"Personally, I wouldn't marry him on a bet."

His slightly bloodshot eyes flickered with rage.  "You never get a
chance," he assured her.  "Those boy is of the _gente_.  An' we don'
call heem 'Don Mike' now.  Before, yes; but now he is 'Don Miguel,'
like hees father.  Same, too, like hees gran'father."

Throughout this colloquy, Carolina had been busy exculpating herself
from possible blame due to her failure to have prepared for the
prodigal the sort of food she knew he preferred.

Farrel had quite a task pacifying her.  At length he succeeded in
gently dismissing both servants, and followed Kay toward the patio.

The girl entered first, and discovered that her family and their guest
were not on the veranda, whereat she turned and gave her hand to Farrel.

"The butler will bring you some dinner to your room.  We breakfast at
eight-thirty.  Good-night."

"Thank you," he replied.  "I shall be deeper in your debt if you will
explain to your father and mother my apparent lack of courtesy in
failing to call upon them this evening."

He held her hand for a moment.  Then he bowed, gracefully and with
studied courtesy, cap in hand, and waited until she had turned to leave
him before he, in turn, betook himself to his room.




IX

It was as he had left it.  He smiled sadly as he noted his civilian
clothes laid out on the bed.  However, he would not wear them to-night.
A little later, while he was hanging them in the clothes-press, a
propitiatory cough sounded at the door.  Turning, he beheld the
strangest sight ever seen on the Rancho Palomar--a butler, bearing a
tray covered with a napkin.

"Good-evening," quoth Don Miguel civilly.  "Set it down on the little
table yonder, please.  May I inquire why you bear the tray on your left
hand and carry a pistol in your right?"

"Your servant, the man Pablo, has threatened my life, sir, if I dared
bear your dinner to you, sir.  He met me a moment ago and demanded that
I surrender the tray to him, sir.  Instead, I returned to the kitchen,
possessed myself of this pistol, and defied him, sir."

"I apologize for Pablo, and will see to it that he does not disturb you
again--er--"

"Murray, sir."

"Thank you, Murray."

The butler was about to advance into the room and set the tray on the
table as directed, when an unexpected _contretemps_ occurred.  A
swarthy hand followed by a chambray-clad arm was thrust in the door,
and the pistol snatched out of Murray's hand before the latter even
knew what was about to transpire.  Pablo Artelan stepped into the room.

"_Vamos_!  Go!" he ordered, curtly, and relieved the astonished butler
of the tray.  Murray glanced at Don Miguel.

"Perhaps you'd better go," Don Miguel suggested, weakly.  "Pablo is a
trifle jealous of the job of waiting on me.  We'll iron everything out
in the morning.  Good-night, Murray."

"_Buenas noches, mono mio_," Pablo grunted.

"I have a slight knowledge of the Spanish tongue, sir," Murray
protested.  "This blackamoor has insulted me, sir.  Just now he said,
in effect, 'Good-night, monkey mine.'  Earlier in the evening, he
attempted to murder Mr. Parker's guest, Mr. Okada."

"It's a pity he didn't succeed," Don Miguel replied, and drew a dollar
from his pocket.  "You are very kind, Murray, but hereafter I shall not
require your attendance.  Pablo, give Murray his pistol."

Pablo returned the weapon.

"She ees one of those leetle lady-pistols, Don Miguel.  She can't kill
somebody if she try," he declared, contemptuously.  Murray pouched the
dollar gratefully and beat a hurried retreat.

From under his denim jumper, Pablo brought forth a pint of claret.

"When the damned proheebeetion she's come, you father hee's sell fifty
cow and buy plenty booze," he explained.  He broke off into Spanish.
"This wine, we stored in the old bakery, and your father entrusted me
with the key.  It is true.  Although it is not lawful to permit one of
my blood to have charge of wines and liquors, nevertheless, your
sainted father reposed great confidence in me.  Since his death, I have
not touched one drop, although I was beset with temptation, seeing that
if we did not drink it, others would.  But Carolina would have none of
it, and, as you know, your father, who is now, beyond doubt, an
archangel, was greatly opposed to any man who drank alone.  How often
have I heard him declare that such fellows were not of the _gente_!
And Carolina always refused to believe that you were dead.  As a
result, the years will be many before that wine is finished."

"My good Pablo, your great faith deserves a great reward.  It is my
wish that, to-night, you and Carolina shall drink one pint each to my
health.  Have you given some of this wine to the Parkers?"

Pablo shook his head vigorously.

"That fellow, _El Mono_, was desirous of serving some to his master,
and demanded of me the key, which I refused.  Later, Senor Parker made
the same demand.  Him I refused also.  This made him angry, and he
ordered me to depart from El Palomar.  Naturally, I told him to go to
the devil.  Don Miguel, this gringo grub appears to be better than I
had imagined."

Farrel had little appetite for food, but, to please Pablo, he drank the
soup and toyed with a piece of toast and a glass of wine while the
majordomo related to him the events which had taken place at El Palomar
since that never-to-be-forgotten day when Tony Moreno had ridden in
with the telegram from Washington.

"Your beloved father--may the smile of Jesus warm him!--said nothing
when he read this accursed message, Don Miguel.  For three days, he
tasted no food; throughout the days he sat beside me on the bench under
the catalpa tree, gazing down into the San Gregorio as if he watched
for you to ride up the road.  He shed no tears--at least, not in the
presence of his servants--but he was possessed of a great trembling.
At the end of the third day, I rode to the mission and informed Father
Dominic.  Ah, Don Miguel, my heart was afflicted tenfold worse than
before to see that holy man weep for you.  When he had wept a space, he
ordered Father Andreas to say a high mass for the repose of your soul,
while he came up to the hacienda to remind your father of the comforts
of religion.  Whereat, for the first time since that vagabond Moreno
came with his evil tidings, your father smiled.  'Good Father Dominic,'
said he, 'I have need of the comfort of your presence and your
friendship, but I would not blot out with thoughts of religion the
memory of the honor that has come upon my house.  God has been good to
me.  To me has been given the privilege of siring a man, and I shall
not affront him with requests for further favors.  To-morrow, in El
Toro, a general will pin on my breast the medal for gallantry that
belongs to my dead son.  As for this trembling, it is but a palsy that
comes to many men of my age.'"

"He had a slight touch of it before I left," Don Miguel reminded Pablo.

"The following day," Pablo continued, "I assisted him to dress, and was
overjoyed to observe that the trembling had abated by half.  By his
direction, I saddled Panchito with the black carved-leather saddle, and
he mounted with my aid and rode to El Toro.  I followed on the black
mare.  At El Toro, in the plaza, in the presence of all the people, a
great general shook your father's hand and pinned upon his breast the
medal that belongs to you.  It was a proud moment for all of us.  Then
we rode back to the San Gregorio.  At the mission, your father
dismounted and went into the chapel to pray for your soul.  For two
hours, I waited before entering to seek him.  I found him kneeling with
his great body spread out over the _prie-dieu_ where the heads of your
house have prayed since the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa was built.
His brain was alive, but one side of him was dead, and he smiled with
his eyes.  We carried him home in Father Dominic's automobile, and, two
weeks later, he died in sanctity.  The _gente_ of San Marcos County
attended his funeral.

"In February came _Senor_ Parker, with great assurance, and endeavored
to take possession.  He showed me a paper, but what do I know of
papers?  I showed him your rifle, and he departed, to return with Don
Nicolas Sandoval, the sheriff, who explained matters to me and warned
me to avoid violence.  I have dwelt here since in sorrow and
perplexity, and because I have ridden the fences and watched over the
stock, there has been no great effort made to disturb me.  They have a
cook--a Japanese, and two Japanese women servants.  Also, this evening,
Senor Parker brought with him as a guest another Japanese, whom he
treats with as much consideration as if the fellow were your sainted
father.  I do not understand such people.  This Japanese visitor was
given this room, but this honor I denied him."

"My father's business affairs are greatly tangled, Pablo.  I shall have
quite a task to place them in order," Don Miguel informed him, sadly.

"If it is permitted an old servant to appear curious, Don Miguel, how
long must we submit to the presence of these strangers?"

"For the present, Pablo, I am the master here; therefore, these people
are my guests.  It has never been the custom with my people to be
discourteous to guests."

"I shall try to remember that," Pablo replied, bitterly.  "Forgive me,
Don Miguel, for forgetting it.  Perhaps I have not played well my part
as the representative of my master during his absence."

"Do not distress yourself further in the matter, Pablo.  What food have
we at the ranch?  Is there sufficient with which to enable Carolina to
serve breakfast?"

"To serve it where, Don Miguel?"

"Where but in my home?"

"Blood of the devil!"  Pablo slapped his thigh and grinned in the
knowledge that the last of the Farrels, having come home, had decided
to waste no time in assuming his natural position as the master of the
Rancho Palomar.  "We have oranges," he began, enumerating each course
of the forthcoming meal on his tobacco-stained fingers.  "Then there is
flour in my possession for biscuits, and, two weeks ago, I robbed a
bee-tree; so we have honey.  Our coffee is not of the best, but it is
coffee.  And we have eggs."

"Any butter, sugar, and cream?"

"Alas, no, Don Miguel!"

"Saddle a horse at once, go down to the mission, and borrow some from
Father Dominic.  If he has none, ride over to the Gonzales rancho and
get it.  Bacon, also, if they have it.  Tell Carolina I will have
breakfast for five at half after eight."

"But this Japanese cook of _Senor_ Parker's, Don Miguel?"

"I am not in a mood to be troubled by trifles tonight, Pablo."

"I understand, Don Miguel.  The matter may safely be entrusted to me."
He picked up the tray.  "Sweet rest to you, sir, and may our Saviour
grant a quick healing to your bruised heart.  Good-night."

"Good-night, Pablo."  Farrel rose and laid his hand on the old
retainer's shoulder.  "I never bothered to tell you this before, Pablo,
but I want you to know that I do appreciate you and Carolina
tremendously.  You've stuck to me and mine, and you'll always have a
home with me."

"Child," Pablo queried, huskily, "must we leave the rancho?"

"I'm afraid we must, Pablo.  I shall know more about our plans after I
have talked with Senor Parker."




X

That night, Miguel Farrel did not sleep in the great bed of his
ancestors.  Instead, he lay beneath his grandmother's silk crazy-quilt
and suffered.  The shock incident to the discovery of the desperate
straits to which he had been reduced had, seemingly, deprived him of the
power to think coherently.  Along toward daylight, however, what with
sheer nervous exhaustion, he fell into a troubled doze from which he was
awakened at seven o'clock by the entrance of Pablo, with a pitcher of hot
water for his shaving.

"Carolina will serve breakfast, Don Miguel," he announced.  "The Japanese
cook tried to throw her out of the kitchen; so I have locked him up in
the room where of old I was wont to place vaqueros who desired to settle
their quarrels without interference."

"How about food, Pablo?"

"Unfortunately, Father Dominic had neither sugar nor cream.  It appears
such things are looked upon at the mission as luxuries, and the padres
have taken the vow of poverty.  He could furnish nothing save half a ham,
which is of Brother Flavio's curing, and very excellent.  I have tasted
it before.  I was forced to ride to the Gonzales rancho for the cream and
sugar this morning, and have but a few moments ago returned."

Having deposited the pitcher of hot water, Pablo retired and, for several
minutes, Miguel Farrel lay abed, gazing at the row of portraits of
Noriagas and Farrels.  His heart was heavy enough still, but the first
benumbing shock of his grief and desperation had passed, and his natural
courage and common sense were rapidly coming to his aid.  He told himself
that, with the dawning of the new day, he would no longer afford the
luxury of self-pity, of vain repining for the past.  He had to be up and
doing, for a man's-sized task now confronted him.  He had approximately
seven months in which to rehabilitate an estate which his forebears had
been three generations in dissipating, and the Gaelic and Celtic blood in
him challenged defeat even in the very moment when, for all he knew to
the contrary, his worldly assets consisted of approximately sixty
dollars, the bonus given him by the government when parting with his
services.

"I'll not give up without a battle," he told his ancestors aloud.
"You've all contributed to my heavy load, but while the pack-straps hold
and I can stand and see, I'll carry it.  I'll fight this man Parker up to
the moment he hands the county recorder the commissioner's deed and the
Rancho Palomar has slipped out of my hands forever.  But I'll fight fair.
That splendid girl--ah, pooh!  Why am I thinking of her?"

Disgusted with himself for having entertained, for a fleeting instant, a
slight sentimental consideration for the daughter of his enemy--for as
such he now regarded this man who planned to colonize the San Gregorio
with Japanese farmers--he got out of bed and under the cold shower-bath
he had installed in the adjoining room years before.  It, together with
the tub-bath formerly used by his father, was the only plumbing in the
hacienda, and Farrel was just a little bit proud of it.  He shaved,
donned clean linen and an old dressing-gown, and from his closet brought
forth a pair of old tan riding-boots, still in an excellent state of
repair.  From his army-kit he produced a boot-brush and a can of tan
polish, and fell to work, finding in the accustomed task some slight
surcease from his troubles.

His boots polished to his satisfaction, he selected from the stock of old
civilian clothing a respectable riding-suit of English whip-cord,
inspected it carefully for spots, and, finding none, donned it.  A clean
starched chambray shirt, set off by a black-silk Windsor tie, completed
his attire, with the exception of a soft, wide, flat-brimmed gray-beaver
hat, and stamped him as that which he had once been but was no longer--a
California rancher of taste and means somewhat beyond the average.

It was twenty-five minutes past eight when he concluded his leisurely
toilet; so he stepped out of his room, passed round two sides of the
porched patio, and entered the dining-room.  The long dining-table, hewed
by hand from fir logs by the first of the Noriagas, had its rough defects
of manufacture mercifully hidden by a snow-white cloth, and he noted with
satisfaction that places had been set for five persons.  He hung his hat
on a wall-peg and waited with his glance on the door.

Promptly at eight-thirty, Carolina, smiling, happy, resplendent in a
clean starched calico dress of variegated colors, stepped outside the
door and rang vigorously a dinner-bell that had called three generations
of Noriagas and an equal number of generations of Farrels to their meals.
As its musical notes echoed through the dewy patio, Murray, the butler,
appeared from the kitchen.  At sight of Farrel, he halted, puzzled, but
recognized in him almost instantly the soldier who had so mysteriously
appeared at the house the night before.  _El Mono_ was red of face and
obviously controlling with difficulty a cosmic cataclysm.

"Sir," he announced, respectfully, "that Indian of yours has announced
that he will shoot me if I attempt to serve breakfast."

Farrel grinned wanly.

"In that event, Murray," he replied, "if I were you, I should not attempt
to serve breakfast.  You might be interested to know that I am now master
here and that, for the present, my own servants will minister to the
appetites of my guests.  Thank you for your desire to serve, but, for the
present, you will not be needed here.  If you will kindly step into the
kitchen, Carolina will later serve breakfast to you and the maids."

"I'm quite certain I've never heard of anything so extraordinary," Murray
murmured.  "Mrs. Parker is not accustomed to being summoned to breakfast
with a bell."

"Indeed?  I'm glad you mentioned that, Murray.  Perhaps you would be good
enough to oblige me by announcing breakfast to Mr. and Mrs. Parker, Miss
Parker, and their guest, Mr. Okada."

"Thank you, sir," Murray murmured, and departed on his errand.

The first to respond to the summons was Kay.  She was resplendent in a
stunning wash-dress and, evidently, was not prepared for the sight of
Farrel standing with his back to the black adobe fireplace.  She paused
abruptly and stared at him frankly.  He bowed.

"Good-morning, Miss Parker.  I trust that, despite the excitement of the
early part of the night, you have enjoyed a very good rest."

"Good-morning, Don Miguel.  Yes; I managed rather well with my sleep, all
things considered."

"You mustn't call me 'Don Miguel,'" he reminded her, with a faint smile.
"I am only Don Miguel to the Indians and _pelados_ and a few of my
father's old Spanish friends who are sticklers for etiquette.  My father
was one of the last dons in San Marcos County, and the title fitted him
because he belonged to the generation of dons.  If you call me, 'Don
Miguel,' I shall feel a little bit alien."

"Well, I agree with you, Mr. Farrel.  You are too young and modern for
such an antiquated title.  I like 'Don Mike' better."

"There is no further need for that distinguishing appellation," he
reminded her, "since my father's death."

She looked at him for several seconds and said:

"I'm glad to see you've gotten a firm grip on yourself so soon.  That
will make it ever so much nicer for everybody concerned.  Mother and
father are fearfully embarrassed."

"I shall endeavor to relieve them of their embarrassment the instant I
meet them."

"Here they come now," Kay warned, and glanced at him appealingly.

Her mother entered first, followed by the potato baron, with Parker
bringing up the rear.  Mrs. Parker's handsome face was suffused with
confusion, and, from the hesitant manner in which she entered, Farrel
realized she was facing an ordeal.

"Mother, this is Mr. Miguel Farrel," Kay announced.

"You are welcome to my poor house, Mrs. Parker," Farrel informed her,
gravely, as he crossed the room and bent over her hand for a moment,
releasing it to grasp the reluctant hand of her husband.  "A double
welcome, sir," he said, addressing Kay's father, who mumbled something in
reply and introduced him to the potato baron, who bowed ceremoniously.

"Won't you please be seated?" Farrel pleaded.  He gently steered Kay's
mother to the seat on his right, and tucked her chair in under her, while
Parker performed a similar service for his daughter.  With the assurance
of one whose right to do was unquestioned, Farrel took his seat at the
head of the table and reached for the little silver call-bell beside his
plate, while Parker took an unaccustomed seat opposite the potato baron.

"Considering the distressing circumstances under which I arrived," Farrel
observed, addressing himself to Mrs. Parker, and then, with a glance,
including the rest of the company, "I find myself rather happy in the
possession of unexpected company.  The situation is delightfully
unique--don't you think so, Mrs. Parker?"

"It isn't the least bit delightful, Mr. Farrel," the lady declared
frankly and forcibly; "but it's dear of you to be so nice about it."

Mr. Parker's momentary embarrassment had passed, and with the feeling
that his silence was a trifle disconcerting, he rallied to meet Miguel
Farrel's attempt at gaiety.

"Well, Mr. Farrel, we find ourselves in a unique position, as you say.
Kay informs me, however, that you are conversant with the circumstances
that have conspired to make us your guests."

"Pray do not mention it.  Under the peculiar conditions existing, I quite
realize that you followed the only logical and sensible course."

Mrs. Parker heaved a small sigh of relief and gazed upon Farrel with new
interest.  He returned her gaze with one faintly quizzical, whereat,
emboldened, she demanded,

"Well, what do you think of us for a jolly little band of usurpers, Mr.
Farrel?"

"Why, I think I'm going to like you all very much if you'll give me half
a chance."

"I'd give you almost anything rather than be kicked out of this house,"
she replied, in her somewhat loud, high-pitched voice.  "I love it, and I
think it's almost sinful on your part to have bobbed up so unexpectedly."

"Mother!" Kay cried reproachfully.

"Tut, tut, Kay, dear!  When an obnoxious heir is reported dead, he should
have the decency to stay dead, although, now that our particular nuisance
is here, alive and well, I suppose we ought to let bygones be bygones and
be nice to him--provided, of course, he continues to be nice to us.  Are
you inclined to declare war, Mr. Farrel?"

"Not until every diplomatic course has been tried and found wanting," he
replied.

Carolina entered, bearing five portions of sliced oranges.

"O Lord, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass
against us," Mrs. Parker cried.  "Where is Murray?"

Farrel glanced down at his oranges and grinned.

"I'm afraid I excused Murray," he confessed.

Mrs. Parker burst into shrill laughter.

"John," she demanded of her husband, "what do you think of this young
man?"

"Pick up the marbles, Mr. Farrel," Parker replied, with poorly assumed
good humor.  "You win."

"I think this is a jolly adventure," Kay struck in, quick to note the
advantage of her outspoken mother's course.  "Here you have been more
than two months, mother, regarding yourself as the mistress of the Rancho
Palomar, retinting rooms, putting in modern plumbing, and cluttering up
the place with a butler and maids, when--presto!--overnight a stranger
walks in and says kindly, 'Welcome to my poor house!'  After which, he
appropriates pa's place at the head of the table, rings in his own cook
and waitress, forces his own food on us, and makes us like it.  Young
man, I greatly fear we're going to grow fond of you."

"You had planned to spend the summer here, had you not, Mrs. Parker?"

"Yes.  John Parker, have you any idea what's going to become of us?"

"We'll go to Santa Barbara and take rooms at a hotel there for the
present," he informed her.

"I loathe hotels," she protested.

"I think I informed you, Mrs. Parker, that you are welcome to my poor
house," Farrel reminded her.  "I shall be happy to have you remain here
until I go away.  After that, of course, you can continue to stay on
without any invitation from me."

Parker spoke up.

"My dear Mr. Farrel, that is charming of you!  Indeed, from all that we
have heard of you, it is exactly the course we might expect you to take.
Nevertheless, we shall not accept of your kindness.  Now that you are
here, I see no reason why I should impose the presence of my family and
myself upon your hospitality, even if the court has given me the right to
enter upon this property.  I am confident you are competent to manage the
ranch until I am eliminated or come into final possession."

"John, don't be a nut," his wife implored him.  "We'll stay here.  Yes,
we shall, John.  Mr. Farrel has asked us in good faith.  You weren't
trying to be polite just to put us at our ease, were you?" she demanded,
turning to Farrel.

"Certainly not, Mrs. Parker.  Of course, I shall do my level best to
acquire the legal right to dispossess you before Mr. Parker acquires a
similar right to dispossess me, but, in the interim, I announce an
armistice.  All those in favor of the motion will signify by saying
'Aye.'"

"Aye!" cried Kay, and "Aye!" shrilled her mother.

"No!" roared her husband.

"Excess of sound has no weight with me, Mr. Parker," their host
announced.  "The 'Ayes' have it, and it is so ordered.  I will now submit
a platform for the approval of the delegates.  Having established myself
as host and won recognition as such, the following rules and regulations
will govern the convention."

"Hear!  Hear!" cried Mrs. Parker, and tapped the table with her spoon.

"The rapid ringing of a bell will be the signal for meals."

"Approved!" cried Kay.

"Second the motion!" shrilled her mother.

"My cook, Carolina, is queen of the kitchen, and Spanish cuisine will
prevail.  When you weary of it, serve notice, and your Japanese cook will
be permitted to vary the monotony."

"Great!" Mrs. Parker almost yelled.  "Right as a fox!"

"Murray shall serve meals, and--"

Pablo appeared in the door leading to the kitchen and spoke to Farrel in
Spanish.

"Pardon, folks.  Pablo has a telegram for me.  Bring it here, Pablo."

The master of Palomar excused himself to his guests long enough to read
the telegram, and then continued the announcement of his platform.

"My old battery commander, to whom I had promised Panchito, wires me
that, for his sins, he has been made a major and ordered to the Army of
Occupation on the Rhine.  Therefore, he cannot use Panchito, and forbids
me to express the horse to him.  Consequently, Miss Parker, Panchito is
_almost_ yours.  Consider him your property while you remain my guest."

"You darling Don Miguel Farrel!"

"Exuberant, my dear," her curious mother remarked, dryly, "but, on the
whole, the point is well taken."  She turned to Farrel.  "How about some
sort of nag for mother?"

"You may ride my father's horse, if that animal is still on the ranch,
Mrs. Parker.  He's a beautiful single-footer."  He addressed Parker.  "We
used to have a big gray gelding that you'd enjoy riding, sir.  I'll look
him up for you after breakfast."

"Thank you, Mr. Farrel," Parker replied, flushing slightly, "I've been
riding him already."

"Fine!  He needed exercising.  I have a brown mare for Mr. Okada, and you
are all invited out to the corral after luncheon to see me bust
Panchito's wild young brother for my own use."

"Oh, splendid!" Kay cried, enthusiastically.

"The day starts more auspiciously than I had hoped," her mother declared.
"I really believe the Rancho Palomar is going to develop into a regular
place with you around, Mr. Farrel."




XI

"I am convinced," said Miguel Farrel, as he followed his guests out of
the dining-room onto the veranda, "that the Parkers' invasion of my
home is something in the nature of a mixed misfortune.  I begin to feel
that my cloud has a silver lining."

"Of all the young men I have ever met, you can say the nicest things,"
Mrs. Parker declared.  "I don't think you mean that last remark the
least bit, but still I'm silly enough to like to hear you say it.  Do
sit down here awhile, Mr. Farrel, and tell us all about yourself and
family."

"At the risk of appearing discourteous, Mrs. Parker, I shall have to
ask you to excuse me this morning.  I have a living to make.  It is now
a quarter past nine, and I should have been on the job at seven."

"But you only got home from the army last night," Kay pleaded.  "You
owe yourself a little rest, do you not?"

"Not a minute.  I must not owe anything I cannot afford.  I have
approximately seven months in which to raise approximately a quarter of
a million dollars.  Since I am without assets, I have no credit;
consequently, I must work for that money.  From to-day I am Little
Mike, the Hustler."

"What's your program, Mr. Farrel?" Parker inquired, with interest.

"I should be grateful for an interview with you, sir, if you can spare
the time.  Later, I shall ride out over the ranch and make an inventory
of the stock.  Tomorrow, I shall go in to El Toro, see my father's
attorney, ascertain if father left a will, and, if so, whom he named as
executor.  If he died intestate, I shall petition for letters of
administration."

"Come, Kay, dear," Mrs. Parker announced; "heavy business-man stuff!  I
can't bear it!  Will you take a walk with us, Mr. Okada?"

"Very much pleased," the potato baron replied, and flashed his fine
teeth in a fatuous grin.

Farrel smiled his thanks as the good lady moved off with her convoy.
Parker indicated a chair and proffered a cigar.

"Now then, Mr. Farrel, I am quite at your service."

Miguel Farrel lighted his cigar and thoughtfully tossed the burnt match
into a bed of pansies.  Evidently, he was formulating his queries.

"What was the exact sum for which the mortgage on this ranch was
foreclosed, Mr. Parker?"

"Two hundred and eighty-three thousand, nine hundred and forty-one
dollars, and eight cents, Mr. Farrel."

"A sizable wad.  Mortgage covered the entire ranch?"

Parker nodded.

"When you secured control of the First National Bank of El Toro, you
found that old mortgage carried in its list of assets.  You also
discovered that it had been renewed several times, each time for a
larger sum, from which you deduced that the prospects for the ultimate
payment of the mortgage were nebulous and distant.  Your hypothesis was
correct.  The Farrels never did to-day a task that could be deferred
until to-morrow.  Well, you went out and looked over the security for
that mortgage.  You found it to be ample--about three to one, as a very
conservative appraisal.  You discovered that all of the stockholders in
the First National were old friends of my father and extremely
reluctant to foreclose on him.  As a newcomer; you preferred not to
antagonize your associates by forcing the issue upon them, so you
waited until the annual election of stockholders, when you elected your
own Board of Directors.  Then this Board of Directors sold you the
mortgage, and you promptly foreclosed it.  The shock of this unexpected
move was a severe one on my father; the erroneous report of my death
killed him, and here you are, where you have every legal right in the
world to be.  We were never entitled to pity, never entitled to the
half-century of courtesy and consideration we received from the bank.
We met the fate that is bound to overtake impractical dreamers and
non-hustlers in this generation.  The Mission Indian disappeared before
the onslaught of the earlier Californians, and the old-time
Californians have had to take a back seat before the onslaught of the
Go-get-'em boys from the Middle West and the East.  Presently they,
too, will disappear before the hordes of Japanese that are invading our
state.  Perhaps that is progress--the survival of the fittest.  _Quien
sabe_?"

He paused and smoked contemplatively.  Parker cast a sidelong glance of
curiosity at him, but said nothing, by his silence giving assent to all
that the younger man had said.

"I suppose you wanted the Rancho Palomar," Miguel Farrel suggested,
presently.  "I dare say your purchase of this mortgage was not the mere
outgrowth of an altruistic desire to relieve the First National Bank of
El Toro of an annoyance and a burden."

"I think I admire your direct way of speaking, even if I hardly relish
it," Parker answered, good-humoredly.  "Yes; I wanted the ranch.  I
realized I could do things with it that nobody else in this county
could do or would even think of doing."

"Perhaps you are right.  For the sake of argument, I will admit that
you are right.  Now then, to business.  This ranch is worth a million
dollars, and at the close of the exemption period your claim against it
will probably amount to approximately three hundred thousand dollars,
principal and interest.  If I can induce somebody to loan me three
hundred thousand dollars wherewith to redeem this property, I can get
the ranch back."

"Naturally."

"Not much use getting it back, however, unless I can raise another
hundred thousand to restock it with pure-bred or good-grade Herefords
and purchase modern equipment to operate it."  Parker nodded
approvingly.  "Otherwise," Farrel continued, "the interest would eat me
alive, and in a few years I'd be back where I started."

"Do you think you can borrow four hundred thousand dollars in San
Marcos County, Mr. Farrel?"

"No, sir.  No private loan of that magnitude can be floated in this
country.  You control the only bank in the county that can even
consider it--and you'll not consider it."

"Hardly."

"Added to which handicap, I have no additional security to offer in the
shape of previous reputation for ability and industry.  I am the last
of a long line of indolent, care-free spendthrifts."

"Yes; that is unfortunately true," Parker assented, gravely.

"Oh, not so unfortunate as it is embarrassing and inconvenient.  We
have always enjoyed life to the fullest, and, for that, only a fool
would have regret.  Would you be willing to file a satisfaction of that
old mortgage and give me a new loan for five years for the amount now
due on the property?  I could induce one of the big packing companies
to stake me to the cattle.  All I would have to provide would be the
range, and satisfy them that I am honest and know my business.  And I
can do that.  Such an arrangement would give me time to negotiate a
sale of part of the ranch and pay up your mortgage."

"I am afraid that my present plans preclude consideration of that
suggestion," the banker replied, kindly, but none the less forcibly.

"I didn't think you would, but I thought I'd ask.  As a general rule,
it pays to try anything once when a fellow is in as desperate case as I
am.  My only hope, then, is that I may be able to sell the Farrel
equity in the ranch prior to the twenty-second day of November."

"That would seem to be your best course, Mr. Farrel."

"When does the redemption period expire?"

Parker squirmed slightly.

"That is a difficult question to answer, Mr. Farrel.  It seems your
father was something of a lawyer--"

"Yes; he graduated in law.  Why, nobody ever knew, for he never had the
slightest intention of practising it.  I believe it must have been
because my grandfather, Michael Joseph I, had an idea that, since his
son was a gentleman, he ought to have a college degree and the right to
follow some genteel profession in case of disaster."

"Your father evidently kept abreast of the law," Parker laughed.
"Before entering suit for foreclosure, I notified him by registered
mail that the mortgage would not be renewed and made formal demand upon
him for payment in full.  When he received the notice from the El Toro
postmaster to call for that registered letter, he must have suspected
its contents, for he immediately deeded the ranch to you and then
called for the registered letter."

Farrel began to chuckle.

"Good old dad!" he cried.  "Put over a dirty Irish trick on you to gain
time!"

"He did.  I do not blame him for it.  I would have done the same thing
myself under the same circumstances."  And Parker had the grace to join
in the laugh.  "When I filed suit for foreclosure," he continued, "he
appeared in court and testified that the property belonged to his son,
who was in the military service, in consequence of which the suit for
foreclosure could not be pressed until after said son's discharge from
the service."

"All praise to the power of the war-time moratoriums," Farrel declared.
"I suppose you re-entered the suit as soon as the report of my death
reached you."

Parker chuckled.

"I did, Mr. Farrel, and secured a judgment.  Then I took possession."

"Aren't you the picture of bad luck?  Just when everything is shaping
up beautifully for you, I appear in the flesh as exhibit A in the
contention that your second judgment will now have to be set aside,
because, at the time it was entered, it conflicted with the provisions
of that blessed moratorium."  Don Miguel smiled mirthlessly.

"There's luck in odd numbers," Parker retorted, dryly.  "The next time
I shall make that judgment stick."

"Well, at any rate, all these false starts help me out wonderfully,"
Don Miguel reminded him.  "As matters stand this morning, the mortgage
hasn't been foreclosed at all; consequently, you are really and truly
my guests and doubly welcome to my poor house."  He rose and stretched
himself, gazing down the while at Parker, who regarded him quizzically.
"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Parker.  I imagine we've had our
first and last business discussion.  When you are ready to enter your
third suit for foreclosure, I'll drop round to your attorney's office,
accept service of the summons, appear in court, and confess judgment."
Fell a silence.  Then, "Do you enjoy the study of people, sir?" Don
Miguel demanded, apropos of nothing.

"Not particularly, Mr. Farrel.  Of course, I try to know the man I'm
doing business with, and I study him accordingly, but that is all."

"I have not made myself explicit," his host replied.  "The racial
impulses which I observed cropping out in my father--first Irish, then
Spanish--and a similar observance of the raised impulses of the peons
of this country, all of whom are Indian, with a faint admixture of
Spanish blood--always interested me.  I agree with Pope that 'the
proper study of mankind is man.'  I find it most interesting."

"For instance?" Parker queried.  He had a feeling that in any
conversation other than business which he might indulge in with this
young man he would speedily find himself, as it were, in deep water
close to the shore.

"I was thinking of my father.  In looking through his effects last
night, I came across indubitable evidence of his Celtic blood.
Following the futile pursuit of an enemy for a quarter of a century, he
died and left the unfinished job to me.  Had he been all Spanish, he
would have wearied of the pursuit a decade ago."

"I think every race has some definite characteristics necessary to the
unity of that race," Parker replied, with interest.  "Hate makes the
Irish cohesive; pride or arrogance prevents the sun from setting on
British territory; a passionate devotion to the soil has solidified the
French republic in all its wars, while a blind submission to an
overlord made Germany invincible in peace and terrible in war."

"I wonder what spiritual binder holds the people of the United States
together, Mr. Parker?" Don Miguel queried naively.

"Love of country, devotion to the ideals of liberty and democracy,"
Parker replied promptly, just as his daughter joined them.

Farrel rose and surrendered to her his chair, then seated himself on
the edge of the porch with his legs dangling over into a flower-bed.
His face was grave, but in his black eyes there lurked the glint of
polite contempt.

"Did you hear the question and the answer, Miss Parker?" he queried.

She nodded brightly.

"Do you agree with your father's premise?" he pursued.

"Yes, I do, Don Mike."

"I do not.  The mucilage in our body politic is the press-agent, the
advertising specialist, and astute propagandist.  I wonder if you know
that, when we declared war against Germany, the reason was not to make
the world safe for democracy, for there are only two real reasons why
wars are fought.  One is greed and the other self-protection.  Thank
God, we have never been greedy or jealous of the prosperity of a
neighbor.  National aggrandizement is not one of our ambitions."

Kay stared at him in frank amazement.

"Then you mean that we entered the late war purely as a protective
measure?"

"That's why I enlisted.  As an American citizen, I was unutterably
weary of having our hand crowded and our elbow joggled.  I saw very
clearly that, unless we interfered, Germany was going to dominate the
world, which would make it very uncomfortable and expensive for us.  I
repeat that for the protection of our comfort and our bank-roll we
declared war, and anybody who tells you otherwise isn't doing his own
thinking, he isn't honest with himself, and he's the sort of citizen
who is letting the country go to the dogs because he refuses to take an
intelligent interest in its affairs."

"What a perfectly amazing speech from an ex-soldier!" Kay protested.

He smiled his sad, prescient smile.

"Soldiers deal with events, not theories.  They learn to call a spade a
spade, Miss Parker.  I repeat: It wasn't a war to make the world safe
for democracy.  That phrase was just a slogan in a business
campaign--the selling of stock in a military enterprise to apathetic
Americans.  We had to fight or be overrun; when we realized that, we
fought.  Are not the present antics of the Supreme Council in Paris
sufficient proof that saving democracy was just another shibboleth?  Is
not a ghastly war to be followed by a ghastly peace?  The press-agents
and orators popularized the war with the unthinking and the hesitant,
which is proof enough to me that we lack national unity and a definite
national policy.  We're a lot of sublimated jackasses, sacrificing our
country to ideals that are worn at elbow and down at heel.  'Other
times, other customs.'  But we go calmly and stupidly onward, hugging
our foolish shibboleths to our hearts, hiding behind them, refusing to
do to-day that which we can put off until to-morrow.  That is truly an
Anglo-Saxon trait.  In matters of secondary importance, we yield a
ready acquiescence which emboldens our enemies to insist upon
acquiescence in matters of primary importance.  And quite frequently
they succeed.  I tell you the Anglo-Saxon peoples are the only ones
under heaven that possess a national conscience, and because they
possess it, they are generous enough to assume that other races are
similarly endowed."

"I believe," Parker stuck in, as Don Miguel ceased from his passionate
denunciation, "that all this is leading quite naturally to a discussion
of Japanese emigration."

"I admit that the sight of Mr. Okada over in the corner of the patio,
examining with interest the only sweet-lime tree in North America,
inspired my outburst," Farrel answered smilingly.

"You speak of our national shibboleths, Don Mike Farrel," Kay reminded
him.  "If you please, what might they be?"

"You will recognize them instantly, Miss Parker.  Let us start with our
Declaration of Independence: 'All men are created equal.'  Ah, if the
framers of that great document had only written, 'All men are created
theoretically equal!'  For all men are not morally, intellectually, or
commercially equal: For instance, Pablo is equal with me before the
law, although I hazard the guess that if he and I should commit a
murder, Pablo would be hanged and I would be sentenced to life
imprisonment; eventually, I might be pardoned or paroled.  Are you
willing to admit that Pablo Artelan is not my equal?" he challenged
suddenly.

"Certainly!" Kay and her father both cried in unison.

"Very well.  Is Mr. Okada my equal?"

"He is Pablo's superior," Parker felt impelled to declare.

"He is not your equal," Kay declared firmly.  "Dad, you're begging the
question."

"We-ll, no," he assented, "Not from the Anglo-Saxon point of view.  He
is, however, from the point of view of his own nationals."

"Two parallel lines continued into infinity will never meet, Mr.
Parker.  I am a believer in Asia for Asiatics, and, in Japan, I am
willing to accord a Jap equality with me.  In my own country, however,
I would deny him citizenship, by any right whatsoever, even by birth, I
would deny him the right to lease or own land for agricultural or other
purposes, although I would accord him office and warehouse space to
carry on legitimate commerce.  The Jap does that for us and no more,
despite his assertions to the contrary.  I would deny the right of
emigration to this country of all Japanese, with certain exceptions
necessary to friendly intercourse between the two countries; I would
deny him the privilege of economic competition and marriage with our
women.  When a member of the great Nordic race fuses with a member of a
pigmented race, both parties to the union violate a natural law.  Pablo
is a splendid example of mongrelization."

"You are forgetting the shibboleths," Kay ventured to remind him.

"No; I am merely explaining their detrimental effect upon our
development.  The Japanese are an exceedingly clever and resourceful
race.  Brilliant psychologists and astute diplomatists, they have taken
advantage of our pet shibboleth, to the effect that all men are equal.
Unfortunately, we propounded this monstrous and half-baked ideal to the
world, and a sense of national vanity discourages us from repudiating
it, although we really ought to.  And as I remarked before, we possess
an alert national conscience in international affairs, while the Jap
possesses none except in certain instances where it is obvious that
honesty is the best policy.  I think I am justified, however, in
stating that, upon the whole, Japan has no national conscience in
international affairs.  Her brutal exploitation of China and her
merciless and bloody conquest of Korea impel that point of view from an
Anglo-Saxon.  When, therefore, the Tokyo government says, in effect, to
us: 'For one hundred and forty-four years you have proclaimed to the
world that all men are equal.  Very well.  Accept us.  We are a
world-power.  We are on a basis of equality with you,' and we lack the
courage to repudiate this pernicious principle, we have tacitly
admitted their equality.  That is, the country in general has, because
it knows nothing of the Japanese race--at least not enough for
moderately practical understanding of the biological and economic
issues involved.  Indeed, for a long time, we Californians dwelt in the
same fool's paradise as the remainder of the states.  Finally, members
of the Japanese race became so numerous and aggressive here that we
couldn't help noticing them.  Then we began to study them, and now,
what we have learned amazes and frightens us, and we want the sister
states to know all that we have learned, in order that they may
cooperate with us.  But, still, the Jap has us _tiron_ in other ways."

"Has us what?" Parker interrupted.

"_Tiron_.  Spanish slang.  I mean he has us where the hair is short;
we're hobbled."

"How?" Kay demanded.

His bright smile was triumphant.

"By shibboleths, of course.  My friends, we're a race of sentimental
idiots, and the Japanese know this and capitalize it.  We have
promulgated other fool shibboleths which we are too proud or too stupid
to repudiate.  'America, the refuge for all the oppressed of the
earth!'  Ever hear that perfectly damnable shibboleth shouted by a
Fourth of July orator?  'America, the hope of the world!'  What kind of
hope?  Hope of freedom, social and political equality, equality of
opportunity?  Nonsense!  Hope of more money, shorter hours, and license
misnamed liberty; and when that hope has been fulfilled, back they go
to the countries that denied them all that we give.  How many of them
feel, when they land at Ellis Island, that the ground whereon they
tread is holy, sanctified by the blood and tears of a handful of great,
brave souls who really had an ideal and died for it.  Mighty few of the
cattle realize what that hope is, even in the second generation."

"I fear," quoth Parker, "that your army experience has embittered you."

"On the contrary, it has broadened and developed me.  It has been a
liberal education, and it has strengthened my love for my country."

"Continue with the shibboleths, Don Mike," Kay pleaded.  Her big, brown
eyes were alert with interest now.

"Well, when Israel Zangwill coined that phrase: 'The Melting-Pot,' the
title to his play caught the popular fancy of a shibboleth-crazy
nation, and provided pap for the fanciful, for the theorists, for the
flabby idealists and doctrinaires.  If I melt lead and iron and copper
and silver and gold in the same pot, I get a bastard metal, do I not?
It is not, as a fused product, worth a tinker's hoot.  Why, even
Zangwill is not an advocate of the melting-pot.  He is a Jew, proud of
it, and extremely solicitous for the welfare of the Jewish race.  He is
a Zionist--a leader of the movement to crowd the Arabs out of Palestine
and repopulate that country with Jews.  He feels that the Jews have an
ancient and indisputable right to Palestine, although, parenthetically
speaking, I do not believe that any smart Jew who ever escaped from
Palestine wants to go back.  I wouldn't swap the Rancho Palomar for the
whole country."

Kay and her father laughed at his earnest yet whimsical tirade.  Don
Miguel continued:

"Then we have that asinine chatter about 'America, the land of fair
play.'  In theory--yes.  In actual practice--not always.  You didn't
accumulate your present assets, Mr. Parker, without taking an
occasional chance on side-tracking equity when you thought you could
beat the case.  But the Jap reminds us of our reputation for fair play,
and smilingly asks us if we are going to prejudice that reputation by
discriminating unjustly against him?"

"It appears," the girl suggested, "that all these ancient national
brags come home, like curses, to roost."

"Indeed they do, Miss Parker!  But to get on with our shibboleths.  We
hear a great deal of twaddle about the law of the survival of the
fittest.  I'm willing to abide by such a natural law, provided the
competition is confined to mine own people--and I'm one of those chaps,
who, to date, has failed to survive.  But I cannot see any common sense
in opening the lists to Orientals.  We Californians know we cannot win
in competition with them."  He paused and glanced at Kay.  "Does all
this harangue bore you, Miss Parker?"

"Not at all.  Are there any more shibboleths?"

"I haven't begun to enumerate them.  Take, for instance, that old
pacifist gag, that Utopian dream that is crystallized in the words:
'The road to universal peace.'  All the long years when we were not
bothered by wars or rumors of wars, other nations were whittling each
other to pieces.  And these agonized neighbors, longing, with a great
longing, for world-peace, looked to the United States as the only
logical country in which a great cure-all for wars might reasonably be
expected to germinate.  So their propagandists came to our shores and
started societies looking toward the establishment of brotherly love,
and thus was born the shibboleth of universal peace, with Uncle Sam
heading the parade like an old bell-mare in a pack train.  What these
peace-patriots want is peace at any price, although they do not
advertise the fact.  We proclaim to the world that we are a Christian
nation.  _Ergo_, we must avoid trouble.  The avoidance of trouble is
the policy of procrastinators, the vacillating, and the weak.  For one
cannot avoid real trouble.  It simply will not be avoided;
consequently, it might as well be met and settled for all time."

"But surely," Parker remarked, "California should subordinate herself
to the wishes of the majority."

"Yes, she should," he admitted doggedly, "and she has in the past.  I
think that was before California herself really knew that Oriental
emigration was not solely a California problem but a national problem
of the utmost importance.  Indeed, it is international.  Of course, in
view of the fact that we Californians are already on the firing-line,
necessarily it follows that we must make some noise and, incidentally,
glean some real first-hand knowledge of this so-called problem.  I
think that when our fellow citizens know what we are fighting, they
will sympathize with us and promptly dedicate the United States to the
unfaltering principle that ours is a white man's country, that the
heritage we have won from the wilderness shall be held inviolate for
Nordic posterity and none other."

"Nevertheless, despite your prejudice against the race, you are bound
to admire the Japanese--their manners, thrift, industry, and
cleanliness."  Parker was employing one of the old stock protests, and
Don Miguel knew it.

"I do not admire their manners, but I do admire their thrift, industry,
and cleanliness.  Their manners are abominable.  Their excessive
courtesy is neither instinctive nor genuine; it is camouflage for a
ruthless, greedy, selfish, calculating nature.  I have met many
Japanese, but never one with nobility or generosity of soul.  They are
disciples of the principles of expediency.  If a mutual agreement works
out to their satisfaction, well and good.  If it does not, they present
a humble and saddened mien.  'So sorry.  I zink you no understand me.
I don't mean zat.'  And their peculiar Oriental psychology leads them
to believe they can get away with that sort of thing with the
straight-thinking Anglo-Saxon.  They have no code of sportsmanship;
they are irritable and quarrelsome, and their contractual relations are
incompatible with those of the Anglo-Saxon.  They are not truthful.
Individually and collectively, they are past masters of evasion and
deceit, and therefore they are the greatest diplomatists in the world,
I verily believe.  They are wonderfully shrewd, and they have sense
enough to keep their heads when other men are losing theirs.  They are
patient; they plan craftily and execute carefully and ruthlessly.
Would you care to graft their idea of industry on the white race, Mr.
Parker?"

"I would," Parker declared, firmly.  "It is getting to be the fashion
nowadays for white men to do as little work as possible, and half do
that."

"I would not care to see my wife or my mother or my sister laboring
twelve to sixteen hours a day as Japanese force their women to labor.
I would not care to contemplate the future mothers of our race drawn
from the ranks of twisted, stunted, broken-down, and prematurely aged
women.  Did you ever see a bent Japanese girl of twenty waddling in
from a day of labor in a field?  To emulate Japanese industry, with its
peonage, its horrible, unsanitary factory conditions, its hopelessness,
would be to thrust woman's hard-won sphere in modern civilization back
to where it stood at the dawn of the Christian era.  Do you know, Miss
Parker, that love never enters into consideration when a Japanese
contemplates marriage?  His sole purpose in acquiring a mate is to
beget children, to scatter the seed of Yamato over the world, for that
is a religious duty.  A Jap never kisses his wife or shows her any
evidences of affection.  She is a chattel, and if anybody should, by
chance, discover him kissing his wife, he would be frightfully
mortified."

"What of their religious views, Don Mike?"

"If Japan can be said to have an official religion, it is Shintoism,
not Buddhism, as so many Occidental people believe.  Shintoism is
ancestor-worship, and ascribes divinity to the emperor.  They believe
he is a direct descendant of the sun-god, Yamato."

"Why, they're a heathen nation!"  Kay's tones were indicative of
amazement.

Farrel smiled his tolerant smile.

"I believe, Miss Parker, that any people who will get down on all fours
to worship the picture of their emperor and, at this period of the
world's progress, ascribe to a mere human being the attributes of
divinity, are certainly deficient in common sense, if not in
civilization.  However, for the purpose of insuring the realization of
the Japanese national aspirations, Shintoism is a need vital to the
race.  Without it, they could never agree among themselves for they are
naturally quarrelsome, suspicious and irritable.  However, by
subordinating everything to the state via this religious channel, there
has been developed a national unity that has never existed with any
other race.  The power of cohesion of this people is marvelous, and
will enable it, in days to come, to accomplish much for the race.  For
that reason alone, our very lack of cohesion renders the aspirations of
Japan comparatively easy of fulfilment unless we wake up and attend to
business."

"How do you know all this, Mr. Farrel?" Parker demanded incredulously.

"I have read translations from editorials in Japanese newspapers both
in Japan and California; I have read translations of the speeches of
eminent Japanese statesmen; I have read translations from Japanese
official or semi-official magazines, and I have read translations from
patriotic Japanese novels.  I know what I am talking about.  The
Japanese race holds firmly to the belief that it is the greatest race
on the face of the globe, that its religion, Shintoism, is the one true
faith, that it behooves it to carry this faith to the benighted of
other lands and, if said benighted do not readily accept Shintoism, to
force its blessings upon them willy-nilly.  They believe that they know
what is good for the world; they believe that the resources of the
world were put here to be exploited by the people of the world,
regardless of color, creed, or geographical limitation.  They feel that
they have as much right in North America as we have, and they purpose
over-running us and making our country Japanese territory.  And it was
your purpose to aid in the consummation of this monstrous ambition," he
charged bluntly.

"At least," Parker defended, "they are a more wholesome people than
southern Europeans.  And they are not Mongolians."

Farrel's eyebrows arched.

"You have been reading Japanese propaganda," he replied.  "Of course
they are Mongolians.  Everybody who has reached the age of reason knows
that.  One does not have to be a biologist to know that they are
Mongolians.  Indeed, the only people who deny it are the Japanese, and
they do not believe it.  As for southern Europeans, have you not
observed that nearly all of them possess brachycephalic skulls,
indicating the influence upon them of Mongolian invasions thousands of
years ago and supplying, perhaps, a very substantial argument that, if
we find the faintly Mongoloid type of emigrant repugnant to us, we can
never expect to assimilate the pure-bred Mongol."

"What do you mean, 'brachycephalic'?" Parker queried, uneasily.

"They belong to the race of round heads.  Didn't you know that
ethnologists grub round in ancient cemeteries and tombs and trace the
evolution and wanderings of tribes of men by the skulls they find
there?"

"I did not."

Kay commenced to giggle at her father's confusion.  The latter had
suddenly, as she realized, made the surprising discovery that in this
calm son of the San Gregorio he had stumbled upon a student, to attempt
to break a conversational lance with whom must end in disaster.  His
daughter's mirth brought him to a realization of the sorry figure he
would present in argument.

"Well, my dear, what are you laughing at?" he demanded, a trifle
austerely.

"I'm laughing at you.  You told me yesterday you were loaded for these
Californians and could flatten their anti-Japanese arguments in a
jiffy."

"Perhaps I am loaded still.  Remember, Kay, Mr. Farrel has done all of
the talking and we have been attentive listeners.  Wait until I have
had my innings."

"By the way, Mr. Parker," Farrel asked, "who loaded you up with
pro-Japanese arguments?"

Parker flushed and was plainly ill at ease.  Farrel turned to Kay.

"I do not know yet where you folks came from, but I'll make a bet that
I can guess--in one guess."

"What will you bet, my erudite friend?" the girl bantered.

"I'll bet you Panchito against a box of fifty of the kind of cigars
your father smokes."

"Taken.  Where do we hail from, Don Mike?"

"From New York city."

"Dad, send Mr. Farrel a box of cigars."

"Now, I'll make you another bet.  I'll stake Panchito against another
box of the same cigars that your father is a member of the Japan
Society, of New York city."

"Send Mr. Farrel another box of cigars, popsy-wops.  Don Mike, how
_did_ you guess it?"

"Oh, all the real plutocrats in New York have been sold memberships in
that instrument of propaganda by the wily sons of Nippon.  The Japan
Society is supposed to be a vehicle for establishing friendlier
commercial and social relations between the United States and Japan.
The society gives wonderful banquets and yammers away about the
Brotherhood of Man and sends out pro-Japanese propaganda.  Really, it's
a wonderful institution, Miss Parker.  The millionaire white men of New
York finance the society, and the Japs run it.  It was some shrewd
Japanese member of the Japan Society who sent you to Okada on this
land-deal, was it not, Mr. Parker?"

"You're too good a guesser for comfort," the latter parried.  "I'm
going to write some letters.  I'm motoring in to El Toro this
afternoon, and I'll want to mail them."

"'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof'," Don Miguel assured him
lightly.  "Whenever you feel the urge for further information about
yourself and your Japanese friends, I am at your service.  I expect to
prove to you in about three lessons that you have unwittingly permitted
yourself to develop into a very poor citizen, even if you did load up
with Liberty Bonds and deliver four-minute speeches during all of the
loan drives."

"Oh, I'm as good as the average American, despite what you say,"
retorted the banker, good-naturedly, as he left them.

The master of Palomar gazed after the retreating figure of his guest.
In his glance there was curiosity, pain, and resignation.  He continued
to stare at the door through which Parker had disappeared, until roused
from his reverie by Kay's voice.

"The average American doesn't impress you greatly, does he, Don Mike?"

"Oh, I'm not one of that supercilious breed of Americans which toadies
to an alleged European culture by finding fault with his own people,"
he hastened to assure her.  "What distresses me is the knowledge that
we are a very moral nation, that we have never subjugated weaker
peoples, that we have never coveted our neighbor's goods, that we can
outthink and outwork and outgame and outinvent every nation under
heaven, and yet haven't brains enough to do our own thinking in
world-affairs.  It is discouraging to contemplate the smug complacency,
whether it be due to ignorance or apathy, which permits aliens to
reside in our midst and set up agencies for our destruction and their
benefit.  If I--  Why, you're in riding-costume, aren't you?"

"You will never be popular with women if you do not mend your ways,"
she informed him, with a little grimace of disapproval.  "Do you not
know that women loathe non-observing men?"

"So do I.  Stodgy devils!  Sooner or later, the fool-killer gets them
all.  Please do not judge me to-day, Miss Parker.  Perhaps, after a
while, I may be more discerning.  By Jupiter, those very becoming
riding-togs will create no end of comment among the natives!"

"You said Panchito was to be mine while I am your guest, Don Mike."

"I meant it."

"I do not relish the easy manner in which you risk parting with him.
The idea of betting that wonder-horse against a box of filthy cigars!"

"Oh, I wasn't risking him," he retorted, dryly.  "However, before you
ride Panchito, I'll put him through his paces.  He hasn't been ridden
for three or four months, I dare say, and when he feels particularly
good, he carries on just a little."

"If he's sober-minded, may I ride him to-day?"

"We shall quarrel if you insist upon treating yourself as company.  My
home and all I possess are here for your happiness.  If your mother and
father do not object--"

"My father doesn't bother himself opposing my wishes, and mother--by
the way, you've made a perfectly tremendous hit with mother.  She told
me I could go riding with you."

He blushed boyishly at this vote of confidence.  Kay noted the blush,
and liked him all the better for it.

"Very well," he answered.  "We'll ride down to the mission first.  I
must pay my respects to my friends there--didn't bother to look in on
them last night, you know.  Then we will ride over to the Sepulvida
ranch for luncheon.  I want you to know Anita Sepulvida.  She's a very
lovely girl and a good pal of mine.  You'll like her."

"Let's go," she suggested, "while mother is still convoying Mr. Okada.
He is still interested in that sweet-lime tree.  By the way," she
continued, as they rose and walked down the porch together, "I have
never heard of a sweet-lime before."

"It's the only one of its kind in this country, Miss Parker, and it is
very old.  Just before it came into bearing for the first time, my
grandmother, while walking along the porch with a pan of sugar in her
hands, stubbed her toe and fell off the porch, spilling her pan of
sugar at the base of the tree.  The result of this accident is
noticeable in the fruit to this very day."

She glanced up at him suspiciously, but not even the shadow of a smile
hovered on his grave features.  He opened the rear gate for her and
they passed out into the compound.

"That open fireplace in the adobe wall under the shed yonder was where
the cowboys used to sit and dry themselves after a rainy day on the
range," he informed her.  "In fact, this compound was reserved for the
help.  Here they held their bailies in the old days."

"What is that little building yonder--that lean-to against the main
adobe wall?" Kay demanded.

"That was the settlement-room.  You must know that the possessors of
dark blood seldom settle a dispute by argument, Miss Parker.  In days
gone by, whenever a couple of peons quarreled (and they quarreled
frequently), the majordomo, or foreman of the ranch, would cause these
men to be stripped naked and placed in this room to settle their row
with nature's weapons.  When honor was satisfied, the victor came to
this grating and announced it.  Not infrequently, peons have emerged
from this room minus an ear or a nose, but, as a general thing, this
method of settlement was to be preferred to knife or pistol."

Farrel tossed an empty box against the door and invited the girl to
climb up on it and peer into the room.  She did so.  Instantly a
ferocious yell resounded from the semi-darkness within.

"Good gracious!  Is that a ghost?" Kay cried, and leaped to the ground.

"No; confound it!" Farrel growled.  "It's your Japanese cook.  Pablo
locked him in there this morning, in order that Carolina might have a
clear field for her culinary art.  Pablo!"

His cry brought an answering hail from Pablo, over at the barn, and
presently the old majordomo entered the compound.  Farrel spoke sternly
to him in Spanish, and, with a shrug of indifference, Pablo unlocked
the door of the settlement-room and the Japanese cook bounded out.  He
was inarticulate with frenzy, and disappeared through the gate of the
compound with an alacrity comparable only to that of a tin-canned dog.

"I knew he had been placed here temporarily," Don Miguel confessed,
"but I did think Pablo would have sense enough to let him out when
breakfast was over.  I'm sorry."

"I'm not.  I think that incident is the funniest I have ever seen," the
girl laughed.  "Poor outraged fellow!"

"Well, if you think it's funny, so do I.  Any sorrow I felt at your
cook's incarceration was due to my apprehension as to your feelings,
not his."

"What a fearful rage he is in, Don Mike!"

"Oh, well, he can help himself to the fruit of our famous lime-tree and
get sweet again.  Pablo, you russet scoundrel, no more rough stuff if
you know what's good for you.  Where is Panchito?"

"I leave those horse loose in the pasture," Pablo replied, a whit
abashed.  "I like for see if those horse he got some brains like before
you go ride heem.  For long time Panchito don' hear hees boss call
heem.  Mebbeso he forget--no?"

"We shall see, Pablo."




XII

They walked out to the barn.  In a little green field in the
oak-studded valley below, a dozen horses were feeding.  Farrel whistled
shrilly.  Instantly, one of the horses raised his head and listened.
Again Farrel whistled, and a neigh answered him as Panchito broke from
the herd and came galloping up the slope.  When his master whistled
again, the gallop developed into a furious burst of speed; whereat
Farrel slipped inside the barn and shut the door, while round and round
the barn Panchito galloped, seeking the lost master.

Suddenly Don Miguel emerged and, with little affectionate nickerings,
the beautiful animal trotted up to him, ran his head over the master's
shoulder, and rubbed his sleek cheek against the man's.  Farrel nuzzled
him and rubbed him lovingly between the ears before producing a lump of
sugar.  Upon command, Panchito squatted on his hind quarters like a dog
and held his head out stiffly.  Upon his nose Farrel balanced the lump
of sugar, backed away, and stood in front of him.  The horse did not
move.  Suddenly Farrel snapped his fingers.  With a gentle toss of his
head, Panchito threw the lump of sugar in the air and made a futile
snap at it as it came down.  Then he rose, picked the lump up
carefully, and, holding it between his lips, advanced and proffered his
master a bite.

"Oh, you eat it yourself!" Farrel cried, and reached for the horse's
unkempt mane.  With the ease of long practice, he swung aboard the
horse and, at the touch of his heels, Panchito bounded away.  Far down
the mesa he raced, Farrel guiding him with his knees; then back and
over the six-foot corral-fence with something of the airy freedom of a
bird.  In the corral, Farrel slid off, ran with the galloping animal
for fifty feet, grasping his mane, and sprang completely over him, ran
fifty feet more and sprang back, as nimbly as a monkey.  Panchito was
galloping easily, steadily, now, at a trained gait, like a circus
horse, so Farrel sat sideways on him and discarded his boots, after
which he stood erect on the smooth, glossy back and rode him, first on
one foot, then on the other.  Next he sat down on the animal again and
clapped his hands.

"Panchito, my boots!" he ordered.  But Panchito only pinned his ears
and shook his head.  "You see," Farrel called to Kay, "he is a
gentleman, and declines to perform a menial service.  But I shall force
him.  Panchito, you rebel, pick up my boots and hand them to me."

For answer, Panchito threw his hind end aloft half a dozen times, and
Kay's silvery laugh echoed through the corral as Farrel, appearing to
lose his seat, slid forward on the horse's withers and clung with arms
and legs round Panchito's neck, emulating terror.  Thereupon, Panchito
stood up on his hind legs, and Farrel, making futile clutchings at the
horse's mane, slid helplessly back; over his mount's glossy rump and
sat down rather solidly in the dust of the corral.

"Bravo!" the girl cried.  "Why, he's a circus horse!"

"I've schooled him a little for trick riding at rodeos, Miss Parker.
We've carried off many a prize, and when I dress in the motley of a
clown and pretend to ride him rough and do that silly slide, most
people enjoy it."

Farrel got up, recovered his boots, and put them on.

"He'll do, the old humorist," he announced, as he joined her.  "He
hasn't forgotten anything, and wasn't he glad to see me again?  You use
an English saddle, I dare say, and ride with a short stirrup?"

Panchito dutifully followed like a dog at heel to the tack-room, where
Farrel saddled him and carefully fitted the bridle with the
snaffle-bit.  Following a commanding slap on the fore leg, the
intelligent animal knelt for Kay to mount him, after which, Farrel
adjusted the stirrup leathers for her.

In the meantime, Pablo was saddling a splendid, big dappled-gray
gelding.

"One of the best roping-horses in California, and very fast for half a
mile.  He's half thoroughbred," Farrel explained.  "He was my father's
mount."  He caressed the gray's head.  "Do you miss him, Bob,
old-timer?" he queried.

Kay observed her companion's saddle.  It was of black, hand-carved
leather, with sterling-silver trimmings and long _tapaderas_--a saddle
to thrill every drop of the Castilian blood that flowed in the veins of
its owner.  The bridle was of finely plaited rawhide, with fancy
sliding knots, a silver Spanish bit, and single reins of silver-link
chain and plaited rawhide.  At the pommel hung coiled a well-worn
rawhide riata.

When the gray was saddled, Farrel did not mount, but came to Kay and
handed her the horsehair leading-rope.

"If you will be good enough to take the horses round in front," he
suggested, "I'll go back to the kennels and loose the hounds.  On our
way over to the Sepulvida rancho, we're liable to put up a panther or a
coyote, and if we can get our quarry out into the open, we'll have a
glorious chase.  I've run coyotes and panthers down with Panchito and
roped them.  A panther isn't to be sneezed at," he continued,
apologetically.  "The state pays a bounty of thirty dollars for a
panther-pelt, and then gives you back the pelt."

Five minutes later, when he came round the north corner of the old
hacienda, his hounds frisking before him, he met Kay riding to meet him
on Panchito, but the gray gelding was not in sight.  The girl was
excited.

"Where is my mount, Miss Parker?" he demanded.

"Just as I rode up in front, a man came out of the patio, and started
that automobile hurriedly.  He had scarcely gotten it turned round when
one of his front tires blew out.  This seemed to infuriate him and
frighten him.  He considered a minute or two, then suddenly ran over to
me, snatched the leading-rope out of my hand, mounted, and fled down
the avenue at top speed."

"'The wicked flee when no man pursueth'," the master of Palomar
replied, quietly, and stepped over to the automobile for an examination
of the license.  "Ah, my father's ancient enemy!" he exclaimed, "Andre
Loustalot has been calling on your father, and has just learned that I
am living.  I think I comprehend his reason for borrowing my horse and
dusting out of here so precipitately."

"There he goes now!" Kay cried, as the gray burst from the shelter of
the palms in the avenue and entered the long open stretch of white road
leading down the San Gregorio.

Don Mike's movements were as casual as if the theft of a horse in broad
daylight was an every-day occurrence.

"Unfortunately for that stupid fellow, he borrowed the wrong horse," he
announced, gravely.  "The sole result of his action will be to delay
our ride until tomorrow.  I'm sorry, but it now becomes necessary for
me to ask you for Panchito."

She slid silently to the ground.  Swiftly but calmly he readjusted the
stirrups; then he faced the girl.

"Want to see some fun?" he demanded.

"Why--yes," she replied, breathlessly.

"You're a good little sport.  Take your father's car and follow me.
Please bring Pablo with you, and tell him I said he was to bring his
rifle.  If Loustalot gets me, he is to follow on Panchito and get
Loustalot.  Thank you, Miss Parker."

He swung lightly into the unaccustomed flat saddle and, disdaining to
follow the road, cut straight across country; Panchito taking the
fences easily, the hounds belling lustily as they strung out behind
him.  Kay did not wait to follow his flight, but calling for William to
get out the car, she ran round to the barn and delivered Farrel's
message to Pablo, who grunted his comprehension and started for his
cabin at a surprising rate of speed for an old man.  Five minutes after
Farrel had left the Rancho Palomar, Kay and Pablo were roaring down the
valley in pursuit.

Half a mile beyond the mission they came upon Don Mike and his father's
enemy.  In the first mile, the latter had ridden the gray out; spent,
gasping, the gallant animal was proceeding at a leg-weary, lumbering
gallop when Miguel Farrel, following on Panchito at half that gallant
animal's speed, came up with Loustalot.  Straight at the big gray he
drove, "hazing" him off the road and stopping him abruptly.  At the
same time, he leaped from Panchito full on top of Loustalot, and bore
the latter crashing to the ground.

The chase was over.  Half-stunned, the enemy of Don Miguel Jose Farrel
II lay flat on his back, blinking up at Don Miguel Farrel III as the
latter's knees pressed the Loustalot breast, the while his fingers
clasped the hairy Loustalot throat in a grip that was a promise of
death if the latter struggled.

As Kay drew up in the car and, white-faced and wondering, gazed at the
unwonted spectacle, Miguel Farrel released his captive and stood erect.

"So sorry to have made a brawl in your presence, Miss Parker, but he
would have ruined our old Bob horse if I hadn't overtaken him."  He
turned to the man on the ground.  "Get up, Loustalot!"  The latter
staggered to his feet.  "Pablo," Farrel continued, "take this man back
to the ranch and lock him up in your private calaboose.  See that he
does not escape, and permit no one to speak with him."

Prom the gray's saddle he took a short piece of rope, such as vaqueros
use to tie the legs of an animal when they have roped and thrown it.

"Mount!" he commanded.  Loustalot climbed wearily aboard the spent
gray, and held his hands behind him with Farrel bound them securely.
Pablo thereupon mounted Panchito, took the gray's leading-rope, and
started back to the ranch.

"How white your face is!" Farrel murmured, deprecatingly, as he came to
the side of the car.  "So sorry our ride has been spoiled."  He glanced
at his wrist-watch.  "Only ten o'clock," he continued.  "I wonder if
you'd be gracious enough to motor me in to El Toro.  Your father plans
to use the car after luncheon, but we will be back by twelve-thirty."

"Certainly.  Delighted!" the girl replied, in rather a small,
frightened voice.

"Thank you."  He considered a moment.  "I think it no less than fair to
warn you, Miss Parker, that my trip has to do with a scheme that may
deprive your father of his opportunity to acquire the Rancho Palomar at
one-third of its value.  I think the scheme may be at least partially
successful, but if I am to succeed at all, I'll have to act promptly."

She held out her hand to him.

"My father plays fair, Don Mike.  I hope you win."

And she unlatched the door of the tonneau and motioned him to enter.




XIII

The return of Pablo Artelan to the hacienda with his employer's
prisoner was a silent and dignified one up to the moment they reached
the entrance to the palm avenue.  Here the prisoner, apparently having
gathered together his scattered wits, turned in the saddle and
addressed his guard.

"Artelan," he said, in Spanish, "if you will permit me to go, I will
give you five thousand dollars."

"If you are worth five thousand dollars to me," the imperturbable Pablo
replied, calmly, "how much more are you worth to Don Miguel Farrel?"

"Ten thousand!  You will be wealthy."

"What need have I for wealth, Loustalot?  Does not Don Miguel provide
all things necessary for a happy existence?"

"I will give you twelve thousand.  Do not be a fool, Artelan.  Come; be
sensible and listen to reason."

"Silence, animal!  Is not the blood of my brother on your head?  One
word--"

"Fifteen thousand, Artelan.  Quick.  There is little time to--"

Pablo rode up beside him and quite deliberately smote the man heavily
across the mouth with the back of his hand.

"There will be no more talk of money," he commanded, tersely.

John Parker had finished writing his letters and was standing, with his
wife and the potato baron, in front of the hacienda when Pablo and his
prisoner rode into the yard.  Thin rivulets of blood were trickling
from the Basque's nose and lips; his face was ashen with rage and
apprehension.

"Why, Loustalot, what has happened?" Parker cried, and stepped out to
intercept the gray gelding, but Pablo, riding behind, struck the gray
on the flank, and the animal bounded forward.  But Parker was not to be
denied.  He, too, leaped, seized the reins, and brought the animal to a
halt.  Pablo glared at him hatefully; then, remembering that this man
was no longer an interloper, but an honored guest of the house of
Farrel, he removed his sombrero and bowed courteously.

"Senor Parker," he explained, "thees man, Loustalot, have made the beeg
meestake to steal thees horse from Don Miguel Farrel.  For long time
since Don Miguel he's beeg like leetle baby, thees Basque he cannot set
the foot on the Rancho Palomar, but to-day, because he theenk Don
Miguel don' leeve, theese fellow have the beeg idea she's all right for
come to theese rancho.  Well, he come."  Here Pablo shrugged.  "I think
mebbeso you tell theese Loustalot Don Miguel have come back.
_Car-ramba_!  He is scared like hell.  Queeck, like rabbeet, he run for
those automobile, but those automobile she have one leak in the wheel.
_Senor_, thees is the judgment of God.  Myself, I theenk the speerit of
Don Miguel's father have put the nail where thees fellow can peeck heem
up.  Well, when hee's nothing for do, hee's got for do sometheeng, eh?
_Mira_!  If Don Miguel catch thees coyote on the Rancho Palomar, hee's
cut off hees tail like that"--and Pablo snapped his tobacco-stained
fingers.  "Queeck!  Hee's got for do something for make the vamose.
The Senorita Parker, she rides Panchito and holds the gray horse for
Don Miguel, who has gone for get the dogs.  Thees animal, Loustalot,
hee's go crazy with the fear, so he grab thees gray horse from the
Senorita Parker and hee's ride away fast like the devil just when Don
Miguel arrive with the hounds.  Then Don Miguel, hee's take Panchito
and go get thees man."

"But where are Don Miguel and Miss Parker now?"

"Mees Parker, she take the automobile; the senorita and Don Miguel go
to El Toro.  Me, I come back with thees Basque for put heem in the
calaboose."

"But, Pablo, you cannot confine this man without a warrant."

Pablo, too polite to argue with a guest, merely bowed and smiled
deprecatingly.

"My boss, hee's tell me put thees fellow in the calaboose.  If trouble
come from thees--well, Don Miguel have the fault, not Pablo Artelan.
If the _senor_ please for let go the gray horse--no?"

"Farrel has gone to El Toro to attach my bank-account and my sheep,"
the Basque explained in a whisper, leaning low over the gray's neck.
"His father had an old judgment against me.  When I thought young
Farrel dead, I dared do business--in my own name--understand?  Now, if
he collects, you've lost the Rancho Palomar--help me, for God's sake,
Parker!"

Parker's hand fell away from the reins.

"I have no sympathy for you, Loustalot," he replied, coldly.  "If you
have stolen this horse, you must pay the penalty.  I shall not help
you.  This is no affair of mine."  And he stepped aside and waved
Loustalot back into Pablo's possession, who thanked him politely and
rode away round the hacienda wall.  Three minutes later, Loustalot, his
hands unbound, was safe under lock and key in the settlement-room, and
Pablo, rifle in lap, sat on a box outside the door and rolled a
brown-paper cigarette.

Throughout the preceding colloquy, Mrs. Parker had said nothing.  When
Pablo and his prisoner had disappeared, she asked her husband:

"What did that man say to you?  He spoke in such a low tone I couldn't
hear him."

Parker, without hesitation, related to her, in the presence of Okada,
the astonishing news which Loustalot had given him.

"Good!" the lady declared, emphatically.  "I hope that delightful Don
Mike collects every penny."

"Very poor business, I zink," Mr. Okada opined, thoughtfully.

"At any rate," Parker observed, "our host isn't letting the grass grow
under his feet.  I wonder if he'll attach Loustalot's automobile.  It's
new, and worth about eight thousand dollars.  Well, we shall see what
we shall see."

"I zink I take little walk.  'Scuse me, please," said Okada, and bowed
to Parker and his wife.  He gave both the impression that he had been
an unwilling witness to an unhappy and distressing incident and wished
to efface himself from the scene.  Mrs. Parker excused him with a brief
and somewhat wintry smile, and the little Oriental started strolling
down the palm-lined avenue.  No sooner had the gate closed behind them,
however, than he hastened back to Loustalot's car, and at the end of
ten minutes of furious labor had succeeded in exchanging the deflated
tire for one of the inflated spare tires at the rear of the car.  This
matter attended to, he strolled over to the ranch blacksmith shop and
searched through it until he found that which he sought--a long, heavy
pair of bolt-clippers such as stockmen use for dehorning young cattle.
Armed with this tool, he slipped quietly round to the rear of Pablo's
"calaboose," and went to work noiselessly on the small iron-grilled
window of the settlement-room.

The bars were an inch in diameter and too thick to be cut with the
bolt-clippers, but Okada did not despair.  With the tool he grasped the
adobe window-ledge and bit deeply into it.  Piece after piece of the
ancient adobe came away, until presently the bases of the iron bars lay
exposed; whereupon Okada seized them, one by one, in his hands and bent
them upward and outward, backward and forward, until he was enabled to
remove them altogether.  Then he stole quietly back to the blacksmith
shop, restored the bolt-clippers, went to the Basque's automobile, and
waited.

Presently, Loustalot appeared warily round the corner.  A glance at his
automobile showed that the flat tire had been shifted; whereupon he
nodded his thanks to the Japanese, who stared impassively while the
Basque climbed into his car, threw out his low gear, let go his brakes,
and coasted silently out of the yard and into the avenue.  The hacienda
screened him from Pablo's view as the latter, all unconscious of what
was happening, dozed before the door of the empty settlement-room.
Once over the lip of the mesa, Loustalot started his car and sped down
the San Gregorio as fast as he dared drive.




XIV

Following his illuminating interview with Pablo and Loustalot, John
Parker returned to a chair on the porch patio, lighted a fresh cigar,
and gave himself up to contemplating the tangle in his hitherto
well-laid plans.  An orderly and methodical man always, it annoyed him
greatly to discover this morning that a diabolical circumstance over
which he had no control and which he had not remotely taken into
consideration should have arisen to embarrass and distress him and,
perchance, plunge him into litigation.  Mrs. Parker, having possessed
herself of some fancy work, took a seat beside him, and, for the space
of several minutes, stitched on, her thoughts, like her husband's,
evidently bent upon the affairs of Miguel Farrel.

"Who is this gory creature Pablo just brought in?" she demanded,
finally.

"His name is Andre Loustalot, Kate, and he is a sheep-man from the San
Carpojo country--a Basque, I believe.  He hasn't a particularly good
reputation in San Marcos County, but he's one of the biggest sheepmen
in the state and a heavy depositor in the bank at El Toro.  He was one
of the reasons that moved me to buy the Farrel mortgage from the bank."

"Explain the reason, John."

"Well, I figured that eventually I would have to foreclose on old Don
Miguel Farrel, and it would require approximately two years after that
before my irrigation system would be completed and the valley lands
ready for colonization.  I was tolerably certain I would never restock
the range with cattle, and I knew Loustalot would buy several thousand
young sheep and run them on the Palomar, provided I leased the
grazing-privilege to him for two years at a reasonable figure.  I was
here, under authority of a court order, to conserve the estate from
waste, and my attorney assured me that, under that order, I had
authority to use my own judgment in the administration of the estate,
following the order of foreclosure.  Now young Farrel shows up alive,
and that will nullify my suit for foreclosure.  It also nullifies my
lease to Loustalot."

"I'm quite certain that fiery Don Mike will never consent to the lease,
John," his wife remarked.

"If he declines to approve the lease, I shall be quite embarrassed I
fear, Kate.  You see, dear, Loustalot bought about fifteen thousand
sheep to pasture on the Palomar, and now he's going to find himself in
the unenviable position of having the sheep but no pasture.  He'll
probably sue me to recover his loss, if any."

"It's too bad you didn't wait ten days before signing that lease, John."

"Yes," he replied, a trifle testily.  "But we all were convinced that
young Farrel had been killed in Siberia."

"But you hadn't completed your title to this ranch, John?"

"You wouldn't murder a man who was going to commit suicide, would you?
The ranch was as good as mine.  If I had waited to make absolutely
certain Farrel was dead, the wait might have cost me fifty thousand
dollars.  I rented the ranch at fifty cents per acre."

"One hundred thousand acres, more or less, for two years, at fifty
cents per acre per annum.  So, instead of making fifty thousand you've
lost that sum," his wife mused aloud.

"I've lost one hundred thousand," he corrected.  "A one-year lease is
not desirable; Loustalot was my sole client, and I've lost him for
good."

"Why despair, John?  I've a notion that if you give Don Mike fifty
thousand dollars to confirm Loustalot in the lease, he will forget his
enmity and agree to the lease.  That would, at least, prevent a
law-suit."

Parker's face brightened.

"I might do that," he assented.  "The title will remain in Farrel's
name for another year, and I have always believed that half a loaf was
better than none at all.  If young Farrel subscribes to the same
sentiments, all may yet go nicely."

"Fifty thousand dollars would be rather a neat sum to save out of the
wreck," she observed, sagely.  "He seems quite a reasonable young man."

"I like him," Parker declared.  "I like him ever so much."

"So do I, John.  He's an old-fashioned gentleman."

"He's a he man--the sort of chap I'd like to see Kay married to some
day."

Mrs. Parker looked searchingly at her husband.

"He told Kay he was half greaser, John.  Would you care to have our
little daughter married to that sort of man?"

"How like a woman!  You always take the personal viewpoint.  I said I'd
like to see Kay married to a he man like Miguel Farrel.  And Farrel is
not half greaser.  A greaser is, I take it, a sort of mongrel--Indian
and Spanish.  Farrel is clean-strain Caucasian, Kate.  He's a white
man--inside and out."

"His financial situation renders him impossible, of course."

"Naturally."

"I wish it were otherwise, Johnny.  Perhaps, if you were a little easy
with him--if you gave him a chance--"

"Kate, I'd always be afraid of his easy-going Latin blood.  If I should
put him on his feet, he would, in all probability, stand still.  He
might even walk a little, but I doubt me if he'd ever do a Marathon."

"John, you're wrong," Mrs. Parker affirmed, with conviction.  "That
young man will go far.  What would you do if Kay should fall in love
with him?"

"I'm sure I do not know, Kate.  What would you do?"

"I do not know, John.  Nevertheless, it is interesting to contemplate
the situation.  If he should win this ranch back from you, he could
have her with my blessing."

"Likewise with mine.  That would put him right up in the go-getter
class, which is the class I want to see Kay marry into.  But he will
not win back this ranch, Kate."

"How do you know he will not?"

"Because I'm going to do everything in my power to keep him from
redeeming it--and I'm neither a mental nor a financial cripple."

"Where did the potato baron go?" Mrs. Parker queried, suddenly changing
the conversation.

"Down into the valley, I imagine, to look over the land."

"His presence here is not agreeable to Mr. Farrel, John.  I think you
might manage to indicate to Mr. Okada that now, Mr. Farrel having
returned so unexpectedly, your land deal must necessarily be delayed
for a year, and consequently, further negotiations at this time are
impossible."

"Yes; I think I had better give him a strong hint to go away.  It
irritates Farrel to have him in the house, although he'd never admit it
to us."

"I wonder, John, if it irritates him to have us in the house?"

"I wanted to leave to-day, but when he invited us to stay, you wouldn't
permit me to consider leaving," he reminded her.

"But, John, his manner was so hearty and earnest we had to accept.
Really, I think, we might have hurt his feelings if we had declined."

"Kay seemed happy to stay."

"That is another reason for accepting his invitation.  I know she'll
enjoy it so here."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," Parker replied, dryly.  "She has
helped herself to the car and driver in order to aid Farrel at my
expense."

His humorous wife smiled covertly.  Parker smoked contemplatively for a
quarter of an hour.  Then,

"Here comes the smiling son of Nippon, John," Mrs. Parker remarked.

The potato baron entered the secluded patio and sat down beside them on
the porch.  With a preliminary whistling intake of breath, he remarked
that it was a beautiful day and then proceeded, without delay, to
discuss the subject closest to his heart--the fertile stretches of the
San Gregorio valley.

Parker squirmed a trifle uneasily.

"As I explained to you this morning, Mr. Okada," he began, "our deal
has become a trifle complicated by reason of the wholly unexpected
return of Mr. Miguel Farrel."

"Very great misfortune," Okada sympathized.  "Very great
disappointment."

Mrs. Parker favored him with a look of violent dislike and departed
abruptly, much to Okada's relief.  Immediately he drew his chair close
to Parker's.

"You zink Mr. Farrel perhaps can raise in one year the money to redeem
property?" he demanded.

"I haven't the slightest information as to his money-raising ability,
other than the information given me by that man Pablo has just locked
up.  If, as Loustalot informed me, Farrel has a judgment against him,
he is extremely liable to raise a hundred thousand or more to-day, what
with funds in bank and about fifteen thousand sheep."

"I zink Farrel not very lucky to-day wiz sheep, Mr. Parker."

"Well, whether he's lucky or not, he has our deal blocked for one year.
I can do nothing now until title to this ranch is actually vested in
me.  I am morally certain Farrel will never redeem the property,
but--well, you realize my predicament, Mr. Okada.  Our deal is
definitely hung up for one year."

"Very great disappointment!" Okada replied sadly.  "Next year, I zink
California legislature make new law so Japanese people have very much
difficulty to buy land.  Attorneys for Japanese Association of
California very much frightened because they know Japanese
treaty-rights not affected by such law.  If my people can buy this
valley before that law comes to make trouble for Japanese people, I
zink very much better for everybody."

"But, my dear Mr. Okada, I cannot make a move until Miguel Farrel fails
to redeem the property at the expiration of the redemption period, one
year hence."

"Perhaps that sheeps-man kill Mr. Farrel," Okada suggested, hopefully.
"I hoping, for sake of Japanese people, that sheeps-man very bad luck
for Mr. Farrel."

"Well, I wouldn't care to have him for an enemy.  However, I dare say
Farrel knows the man well enough and will protect himself accordingly.
By the way, Farrel is violently opposed to Japanese colonization of the
San Gregorio."

"You zink he have prejudice against Japanese people?"

"I know it, Mr. Okada, and, for that reason, and the further reason
that our deal is now definitely hung up for a year, I suggest that you
return to El Toro with me this afternoon.  I am no longer master here,
but I shall be delighted to have you as my guest at the hotel in El
Toro while you are making your investigations of the property.  I wish
to avoid the possibility of embarrassment to you, to Mr. Farrel, and to
my family.  I am sure you understand our position, Mr. Okada."

The potato baron nodded, scowling slightly.




XV

At a point where the road, having left the valley and climbed a grade
to a mesa that gave almost an air-plane view of the San Gregorio,
Miguel Farrel looked back long and earnestly.  For the first time since
entering the car, at Kay Parker's invitation, he spoke.

"It's worth it," he announced, with conviction, "worth a fight to a
finish with whatever weapons come to hand.  If I--  By the holy
poker!  Sheep!  Sheep on the Rancho Palomar!  Thousands of them.  Look!
Over yonder!"

"How beautiful they look against those green and purple and gold
hillsides!" the girl exclaimed.

"Usually a sheep is not beautiful to a cow-man," he reminded her.
"However, if those sheep belong to Loustalot, they constitute the
fairest sight mine eyes have gazed upon to date."

"And who might he be?"

"That shaggy thief I manhandled a few minutes ago.  He's a sheep-man
from the San Carpojo, and for a quarter of a century he has not dared
set foot on the Palomar.  Your father, thinking I was dead and that the
ranch would never be redeemed after foreclosure of the mortgage, leased
the grazing-privilege to Loustalot.  I do not blame him.  I do not
think we have more than five hundred head of cattle on the ranch, and
it would be a shame to waste that fine green feed."  Suddenly the sad
and somber mien induced by his recent grief fled his countenance.  He
turned to her eagerly.  "Miss Parker, if I have any luck worth while
to-day, I think I may win back my ranch."

"I wish you could win it back, Don Mike.  I think we all wish it."

"I hope you all do."  He laughed joyously.  "My dear Miss Parker, this
is the open season on terrible practical jokes.  I'm no judge of sheep
in bulk, but there must be not less than ten thousand over on that
hillside, and if the title to them is vested in Andre Loustalot to-day,
it will be vested in me about a month from now.  I shall attach them;
they will be sold at pub-lie auction by the sheriff to satisfy in part
my father's old judgment against Loustalot, and I shall bid them
in--cheap.  Nobody in San Marcos County will bid against me, for I can
outbid everybody and acquire the sheep without having to put up a cent
of capital.  Oh, my dear, thoughtful, vengeful old dad!  Dying, he
assigned that judgment to me and had it recorded.  I came across it in
his effects last night.

"What are sheep worth, Don Mike?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, but I should say that by next fall,
those sheep should be worth not less than six dollars a head, including
the wool-clip.  They will begin to lamb in February, and by the time
your father dispossesses me a year hence, the increase will amount to
considerable.  That flock of sheep should be worth about one hundred
thousand dollars by the time I have to leave the Palomar, and I _know_
I'm going to collect at least fifty thousand dollars in cash in
addition."

He drew from his vest pocket a check for that sum, signed by Andre
Loustalot and drawn in favor of John Parker, Trustee.

"How did you come by that check?" Kay demanded.  "It belongs to my
father, so, if you do not mind, Mr. Farrel, I shall retain it and
deliver it to my father."  Quite deliberately, she folded the check and
thrust it into her hand-bag.  There was a bright spot of color in each
cheek as she faced him, awaiting his explanation.  He favored her with
a Latin shrug.

"Your father will not accept the check, Miss Parker.  Loustalot came to
the hacienda this morning for the sole purpose of handing him this
check, but your father refused to accept it on the plea that the lease
he had entered into with Loustalot for the grazing-privilege of the
ranch was now null and void."

"How do you know all this?  You were not present."

"No; I was not present.  Miss Parker, but--this check is present; those
sheep are present; Andre Loustalot was present, then absent, and is now
present again.  I deduce the facts in the case.  The information that I
was alive and somewhere around the hacienda gave Loustalot the fright
of his unwashed existence; that's why he appropriated that gray horse
and fled so precipitately when he discovered his automobile had a fiat
tire.  The scoundrel feared to take time to shift wheels."

"Why?"

"He had the promise of a Farrel that a great misfortune would overtake
him if he ever get foot on the Rancho Palomar.  And he knows the tribe
of Farrel."

"But how did you secure possession of that check, Don Mike?"

"Miss Parker, when a hard-boiled, unconvicted murderer and grass-thief
borrows my horse without my permission, and I ride that sort of man
down, upset him, sit on him, and choke him, the instincts of my
ancestors, the custom of the country, common sense, and my late
military training all indicate to me that I should frisk him for deadly
weapons.  I did that.  Well, I found this check when I frisked
Loustalot back yonder.  And--if a poor bankrupt like myself may be
permitted to claim a right, you are not so well entitled to that check
as I am.  At least, I claim it by right of discovery."

"It is worthless until my father endorses it, Don Mike."

"His clear, bold chirography will not add a mite to its value, Miss
Parker.  Checks by Andre Loustalot on the First National Bank of El
Toro aren't going to be honored for some little time.  Why?  I'll tell
you.  Because Little Mike the Hustler is going to attach his
bank-account this bright April morning."

She laughed happily.

"You haven't wasted much time in vain regret, have you?" she teased
him.  "When you start hustling for a living, you're a man what hustles,
aren't you?"

"'Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,'" he quoted.  "Those sheep
weren't visible to us from the floor of the valley; so I take it I was
not visible to Loustalot's shepherds from the top of those hills when I
redeemed my father's promise to their employer.  They'd never suspect
the identity of either of us, I dare say.  Well, Pablo will hold him
_incomunicado_ until I've completed my investigations."

"Why are you incarcerating him in your private bastile, Don Mike?"

"Well, I never thought to profane my private bastile with that fellow,
but I have to keep him somewhere while I'm looking up his assets."

"But he may sue you for false imprisonment, kidnapping, or--or
something."

"Yes; and I imagine he'd get a judgment against me.  But what good
would that do him?  I haven't any assets."

"But you're going to acquire some rather soon, are you not?"

"I'll give all my money to my friend, Father Dominic, to do with as he
sees fit.  He'll see fit to loan it all back to me."

"But can you hide ten thousand sheep?"

"If that fellow tries to levy on my sheep, I'll about murder him,"
Farrel declared.  "But we're crossing our bridges before we come to
them."

"So we are, Don Mike.  Tell me all about this ancient feud with Andre
Loustalot."

"Certainly.  Twenty-five-odd years ago, this county was pestered by a
gang of petty cow-thieves.  They'd run lots of from ten to twenty fat
steers off the range at a time, slaughter them in El Toro, and bury the
hides to conceal the identity of the animals--the brands, you
understand.  The meat they would peddle to butchers in towns along the
railroad line.  The ringleader owned a slaughter-house in El Toro, and,
for a long time, nobody suspected him--the cattle were driven in at
night.  Well, my father grew weary of this form of old-fashioned
profiteering, and it seemed to him that the sheriff of San Marcos
County was too great a simpleton to do anything about it.  So my father
stood for the office as an independent candidate and was elected on a
platform which read, 'No steers' taken off this ranch without
permission in writing from the owner.'  Within six months, dad had half
a dozen of our prominent citizens in San Quentin Penitentiary; then he
resigned the office to his chief deputy, Don Nicolas Sandoval, who has
held it ever since.

"Now, during that political campaign, which was a warm and bitter one,
Andre Loustalot permitted himself the privilege of libeling my father.
He declared in a public address to a gathering of voters in the San
Carpojo valley that my father was a crook, the real leader of the
rustlers, and merely seeking the office of sheriff in order to protect
the cow-thieves.  When the campaign ended, my father swore to a warrant
charging Loustalot with criminal libel and sued him for one hundred
thousand dollars damages.  A San Marcos County jury awarded my father a
judgment in the sum prayed for.  Loustalot appealed the case to the
Supreme Court, but inasmuch as there wasn't the slightest doubt of his
guilt, the higher court affirmed the decision of the Superior Court.

"Loustalot was a poor man in those days.  He was foreman of a sheep
outfit, with an interest in the increase of the flock, and inasmuch as
these Basques seldom reduce their deals to writing, the sheriff could
never satisfy himself that Loustalot had any assets in the shape of
sheep.  At any rate, the Basque and his employer and all of his Basque
friends denied that Loustalot had any assets.

"For twenty-five years, my father has, whenever the statute of
limitations threatened to kill this judgment, revived it by having
Loustalot up on an order of court to be questioned regarding his
ability to meet the judgment; every once in a while my father would sue
out a new writ of execution, which would be returned unsatisfied by the
sheriff.  Six months ago, my father had the judgment revived by due
legal process, and, for some reason best known to himself, assigned it
to me and had the assignment recorded.  Of course, when I was reported
killed in Siberia, Loustalot's attorneys naturally informed him that my
judgment had died with me unless I had left a will in favor of my
father.  But when my father died intestate and there were no known
heirs, Loustalot doubtless felt that at last the curse had been lifted
and probably began doing business in his own name.  He's a thrifty
fellow and, I dare say, he made a great deal of money on sheep during
the war.  I hope he has.  That old judgment has been accumulating
interest at seven per cent.  for more than a quarter of a century, and
in this state I believe the interest is compounded."

"But why did Loustalot hate your father so?" the girl queried.

"We had good fences on our ranch, but somehow those fences always
needed repairing whenever Andre Loustalot's flock wandered over from
the San Carpojo.  In this state, one cannot recover for trespass unless
one keeps one's fences in repair--and Loustalot used to trespass on our
range quite frequently and then blame his cussedness on our fences.  Of
course, he broke our fences to let his sheep in to water at our
waterholes, which was very annoying to us, because sheep befoul a range
and destroy it; they eat down to the very grass-roots, and cattle will
not drink at a water-hole patronized by sheep.  Well, our patience was
exhausted at last; so my father told Pablo to put out saltpeter at all
of our water-holes.  Saltpeter is not harmful to cattle but it is death
to sheep, and the only way we could keep Loustalot off our range
without resorting to firearms was to make his visits unprofitable.
They were.  That made Loustalot hate us, and one day, over in the Agua
Caliente basin, when Pablo and his riders found Loustalot and his sheep
there, they rushed about five hundred of his sheep over a rocky bench
and dropped them a sheer two hundred feet into a canon.  That started
some shooting, and Pablo's brother and my first cousin, Juan Galvez,
were killed.  Loustalot, wounded, escaped on the pack-mule belonging to
his sheep outfit, and after that he and my father didn't speak."

Kay turned in her seat and looked at Farrel curiously.

"If you were not so desperately situated financially," she wanted to
know, "would you continue to pursue this man?"

He smiled grimly.

"Certainly.  My father's honor, the blood of my kinsman, and the blood
of a faithful servant call for justice, however long delayed.  Also,
the honor of my state demands it now.  I am prepared to make any
sacrifice, even of my life, and grasp eagerly at all legal means--to
prevent your father putting through tins monstrous deal with Okada."

She was troubled of soul.

"Of course," she pleaded presently, "you'll play the game with dad as
fairly as he plays it with you."

"I shall play the game with him as fairly as he plays it with this land
to which he owes allegiance," he corrected her sternly.




XVI

It was eleven o'clock when the car rolled down the main street of El
Toro.  From the sidewalk, sundry citizens, of diverse shades of color and
conditions of servitude, observing Minuet Farrel, halted abruptly and
stared as if seeing a ghost.  Don Mike wanted to shout to them glad words
of greeting, of affectionate badinage, after the fashion of that
easy-going and democratic community, but he feared to make the girl at
his side conspicuous; so he contented himself by uncovering gravely to
the women and waving debonairly to the men.  This constituting ocular
evidence that he was not a ghost or a man who bore a striking physical
resemblance to one they mourned as dead, the men so saluted returned his
greeting.

The few who had recognized him as he entered the town, quickly, by their
cries of greeting, roused the loungers and idle conversationalists along
the sidewalks further down the street.  There was a rush to shop doors, a
craning of necks, excited inquiries in Spanish and English; more shouts
of greeting.  A gaunt, hawk-faced elderly man, with Castilian features,
rode up on a bay horse, showed a sheriff's badge to William, the
chauffeur, and informed him he was arrested for speeding.  Then he
pressed his horse close enough to extend a hand to Farrel.

"Miguel, my boy," he said in English, out of deference to the girl in the
car, "this is a very great--a very unexpected joy.  We have grieved for
you, my friend."

His faint clipped accent, the tears in his eyes, told Kay that this man
was one of Don Miguel's own people.  Farrel clasped the proffered hand
and replied to him in Spanish; then, remembering his manners, he
presented the horseman as Don Nicolas Sandoval, sheriff of the county.
Don Nicolas bent low over his horse's neck, his wide gray hat clasped to
his gallant heart.

"You will forgive the emotion of a foolish old man, Miss Parker," he
said, "but we of San Marcos County love this boy."

Other friends now came running; in a few minutes perhaps a hundred men,
boys, and women had surrounded the car, struggling to get closer, vying
with each other to greet the hero of the San Gregorio.  They babbled
compliments and jocularities at him; they cheered him lustily; with
homely bucolic wit they jeered his army record because they were so proud
of it, and finally they began a concerted cry of; "Speech!  Speech!
Speech!"

Don Mike stood up in the tonneau and removed his hat.  Instantly silence
settled over the crowd, and Kay thought that she had never seen a more
perfect tribute of respect paid anyone.  He spoke to them briefly, with a
depth of sentiment only possible in a descendant of two of the most
sentimental races on earth; but he was not maudlin.  When he had
concluded his remarks, he repeated them in Spanish for the benefit of
those who had never learned English very well or at all.

And now, although Kay did not understand a word of what he said, she
realized that in his mother tongue he was infinitely more tender, more
touching, more dramatic than he could possibly be in English, for his
audience wagged approving' heads now and paid him the tribute of many a
furtive tear.

Don Nicolas Sandoval rode his horse through the crowd presently and
opened a path for the car.

"I'm afraid this has been a trifle embarrassing for you, Miss Parker,"
Farrel remarked, as they proceeded down the street.  "I shall not
recognize any more of them.  I've greeted them all in general, and some
day next week I'll come to town and greet them in detail.  They were all
glad I came back, though, weren't they?" he added, with a boy's
eagerness.  "Lord, but I was glad to see them!"

"I can hardly believe you are the same man I saw manhandling your enemy
an hour ago," she declared.

"Oh," he replied, with a careless shrug, "fighting and loving are the
only two worth-while things in life.  Park in front of the court-house,
William, please."

He excused himself to Kay and ran lightly up the steps.  Fifteen minutes
later, he returned.

"I have a writ of execution," he declared.  "Now to find the sheriff and
have him serve it."

They located Don Nicolas Sandoval at the post-office, one leg cocked over
the pommel of his saddle, and the El Toro _Sentinel_ spread on his knee.

"Father's old business with the Basque, Don Nicolas," Farrel informed
him.  "He has money deposited in his own name in the First National Bank
of El Toro."

"I have grown old hunting that fellow's assets, Miguel, my boy," quoth
Don Nicolas.  "If I can levy on a healthy bank-account, I shall feel that
my life has not been lived in vain."

He folded his newspaper, uncoiled his leg from the pommel, and started up
the street at the dignified fast walk he had taught his mount.  Farrel
returned to the car and, with Kay, arrived before the portals of the bank
a few minutes in advance of the sheriff, just in time to see Andre
Loustalot leap from his automobile, dash up the broad stone steps, and
fairly hurl himself into the bank.

"I don't know whether I ought to permit him to withdraw his money and
have Don Nicolas attach it on his person or not.  Perhaps that would be
dangerous," Miguel remarked.  He stepped calmly out of the car, assisted
Kay to alight, and, with equal deliberation, entered the bank with the
girl.

"Now for some fun," he whispered.  "Behold the meanest man in
America--myself!"

Loustalot was at the customers' desk writing a check to cash for his
entire balance in bank.  Farrel permitted him to complete the drawing of
the check, watched the Basque almost trot toward the paying-teller's
window, and as swiftly trotted after him.

"All--everything!" Loustalot panted, and reached over the shoulders of
two customers in line ahead of him.  But Don Miguel Farrel's arm was
stretched forth also; his long brown fingers closed over the check and
snatched it from the Basque's hand as he murmured soothingly:

"You will have to await your turn, Loustalot.  For your bad manners, I
shall destroy this check."  And he tore the signature off and crumpled
the little slip of paper into a ball, which he flipped into Loustalot's
brutal face.

The Basque stood staring at him, inarticulate with fury; Don Mike faced
his enemy with a bantering, prescient little smile.  Then, with a great
sigh that was in reality a sob, Loustalot abandoned his primal impulse to
hurl himself upon Farrel and attempt to throttle; instead, he ran back to
the customers' desk and started scribbling another check.  Thereupon, the
impish Farrel removed the ink, and when Loustalot moved to another
ink-well, Farrel's hand closed over that.  Helpless and desperate,
Loustalot suddenly began to weep; uttering peculiar mewing cries, he
clutched at Farrel with the fury of a gorilla.  Don Mike merely dodged
round the desk, and continued to dodge until out of the tail of his eye,
he saw the sheriff enter the bank and stop at the cashier's desk.
Loustalot, blinded with tears of rage, failed to see Don Nicolas; he had
vision only for Don Mike, whom he was still pursuing round the customers'
desk.

The instant Don Nicolas served his writ of attachment, the cashier left
his desk, walked round in back of the various tellers' cages, and handed
the writ to the paying teller; whereupon Farrel, pretending to be
frightened, ran out of the bank.  Instantly, Loustalot wrote his check
and rushed again to the paying-tellers window.

"Too late, Mr. Loustalot.  Your account has been attached," that
functionary informed him.

Meanwhile, Don Nicolas had joined his friend on the sidewalk.

"Here is his automobile, Don Nicolas," Farrel said.  "I think we had
better take it away from him."

Don Nicolas climbed calmly into the driver's seat, filled out a blank
notice of attachment under that certain duly authorized writ which his
old friend's son had handed him, and waited until Loustalot came
dejectedly down the bank steps to the side of the car; whereupon Don
Nicolas served him with the fatal document, stepped on the starter, and
departed for the county garage, where the car would be stored until sold
at auction.

"Who let you out of my calaboose, Loustalot?" Don Mike queried amiably.

"That high-toned Jap friend of Parker's," the Basque replied, with
malicious enjoyment.

"I'm glad it wasn't Mr. Parker.  Well, you stayed there long enough to
serve my purpose.  By the way, your sheep are trespassing again."

"They aren't my sheep."

"Well, if you'll read that document, you'll see that all the sheep on the
Rancho Palomar at this date are attached, whether they belong to you or
not.  Now, a word of warning to you, Loustalot: Do not come on the Rancho
Palomar for any purpose whatsoever.  Understand ?"

Loustalot's glance met his unflinchingly for fully ten seconds, and, in
that glance, Kay thought she detected something tigerish.

"Home, William," she ordered the driver, and they departed from El Toro,
leaving Andre Loustalot standing on the sidewalk staring balefully after
them.

They were half-way home before Don Mike came out of the reverie into
which that glance of Loustalot's had, apparently, plunged him.

"Some day very soon," he said, "I shall have to kill that man or be
killed.  And I'm sorry my guest, Mr. Okada, felt it incumbent upon
himself to interfere.  If, between them, they have hurt Pablo, I shall
certainly reduce the extremely erroneous Japanese census records in
California by one."




XVII

John Parker and his wife, with the unsuspecting Okada, were lingering
over a late luncheon when Kay and Don Mike entered the dining-room.

"Well, you bold Spanish cavalier, what do you mean by running away with
my little girl?" Mrs. Parker demanded.

Before Farrel could reply, Kay answered for him.

"We've had quite a wild and woolly Western adventure, mother dear.
Have you seen Pablo since we left together?"

"I have," the lady replied.  "He had Monsieur Loustalot in charge, and
related to us the details of the adventure up to the moment you and Mr.
Farrel left him with the prisoner while you two continued on to El
Toro.  What happened in El Toro?"

"Don Mike succeeded in attaching Loustalot's bank-account," Kay
informed the company.  "The loot will probably amount to something over
fifty thousand dollars."

"I should say that isn't a half-bad stipend to draw for your first
half-day pursuit of the nimble cart-wheel of commerce," Parker
suggested.

Mrs. Parker pursed her lips comically.

"The boy is clever, John.  I knew it the moment I met him this morning.
Felicitations, Don Miguel.  John intends to strip you down to your
birthday suit--fairly, of course--so keep up the good work, and
everything may still turn out right for you.  I'll cheer for you, at
any rate."

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Parker."  Don Miguel slipped into his seat at the
head of the table.  "I have also attached Loustalot's new automobile,"

"You Shylock!  What else?" Mrs. Parker demanded eagerly.

"About ten thousand sheep, more or less.  I attached these on
suspicion, although the burden of proving that Loustalot owns them will
be upon me.  However," he concluded, with a bright glance at Parker, "I
believe that can readily be accomplished--with your aid."

"I shall be the poorest witness in the world, Mr. Farrel."

"Well, I shall see to it, Mr. Parker, that you are given an opportunity
to tell the judge of the Superior Court in El Toro why Loustalot called
on you this morning, why a great band of sheep is trespassing on the
Rancho Palomar, why Loustalot drew a check in your favor for fifty
thousand dollars, why you declined to take it, what you said to
Loustalot this morning to cause him to steal one of my horses in his
anxiety to get off the ranch, why your attorneys drew up a certain
lease of the grazing-privilege to Loustalot, and why the deal fell
through."

Parker flushed.

"Can you produce that fifty-thousand-dollar check?  I happen to know it
has not been cashed."

"No, I cannot, Mr. Parker."

Kay opened her purse and tossed the check across to her father.

"It was drawn in your favor, dad," she informed him; "so I concluded it
was your property, and when Mr. Farrel came by it--ah, illegally--and
showed it to me, I retained it."

"Good girl!  Mr. Farrel, have you any objection to my returning this
check?"

"Not the slightest.  It has served its purpose.  However, you will have
to wait until you meet Loustalot somewhere outside the boundaries of
the Rancho Palomar, sir.  I had comforted myself with the thought that
he was safe under lock and key here, but, to my vast surprise, I met
him in the bank at El Toro making futile efforts to withdraw his cash
before I could attach the account.  The confounded ingrate informs me
that Mr. Okada turned him loose."

There was no mistaking the disapproval in the glance which Parker
turned upon Okada.

"Is this true, Mr. Okada?"

"It is not true," Okada replied promptly.  "I know nozzing about.
Nozzing."

"Well, Pablo thinks it is true, Mr. Okada."  Don Miguel's voice was
unruffled, his manner almost benignant.  "The old man is outside, and
absolutely broken-hearted.  His honor appears to be quite gone.  I
imagine," Don Mike continued, with a fleeting and whimsical glance at
the potato baron, "that he has evolved some primitive plan for making
his honor whole again.  Direct methods always did appeal to Pablo."

"Mr. Farrel," John Parker began, "I regret this incident more than I
can say.  I give you my word of honor I had nothing to do with it
directly or indirectly--"

"John, for goodness' sake, old dear, give Mr. Farrel credit for some
common sense.  He knows very well you wouldn't break bread with him and
then betray him.  Don't you, Mr. Farrel?" Mrs. Parker pleaded.

"Of course, Mr. Parker's assurance is wholly unnecessary, Mrs. Parker."

"Mr. Okada is leaving this afternoon," Parker hastened to assure him.

"Mr. Okada shows commendable prudence."  Don Mike's tones were
exceedingly dry.

Okada rose and bowed his squinch-owl bow.

"I very sorry," he sputtered.  "I zink that man Pablo one big liar.
'Scuse, please; I go."

"If he hadn't called Pablo a liar," Don Mike murmured plaintively, "I
should have permitted him to march out with the honors of war.  As the
matter stands now, however, I invite all of you to listen attentively.
In a few minutes you're going to hear something that will remind you of
the distant whine of a sawmill.  After all, Pablo is a poor old fellow
who lives a singularly humdrum existence."

"Ah, yes; let the poor fellow have his simple little pleasures," Mrs.
Parker pleaded.  "'All work and no play'--you know, Don Miguel."

"My dear," Parker answered testily, "there are occasions when your
sense of humor is positively oppressive."

"Very well, John; I'll be serious."  His wife turned to Farrel.  "Mr.
Farrel," she continued, "while you were away, I had a very bright idea.
You are much too few in the family for such a large house, and it
occurred to me that you might care to lease the Palomar hacienda to us
for a year.  I'm so weary of hotels and equally weary of a town house,
with its social obligations and the insolence of servants--particularly
cooks.  John needs a year here, and we would so like to remain if it
could be arranged.  Your cook, Carolina, is not the sort that leaves
one's employ in the middle of a dinner-party."

"Would five hundred dollars a month for the house and the use of
Carolina and three saddle-horses interest you, Mr. Farrel?  From our
conversation of this morning, I judge you have abandoned hope of
redeeming the property, and during the year of the redemption period,
six thousand dollars might--ah--er--"

"Well, it would be better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,"
Don Miguel replied genially.  "I need the money; so I accept--but with
certain reservations.  I like Carolina's cooking, too; I have a couple
of hundred head of cattle to look after, and I'd like to reserve one
room, my place at this table, and my position as master of Palomar.  Of
course, I'm not so optimistic as to think you folks would accept of my
hospitality for a year, so I suggest that you become what our British
cousins call 'paying guests,' albeit I had never expected to fall low
enough to make such a dastardly proposition.  Really, it abases me.
It's never been done before in this house."

"I declare you're the most comfortable young man to have around that I
have ever known.  Isn't he, Kay?" Mrs. Parker declared.

"I think you're very kind," the girl assured him.  "And I think it will
be very delightful to be paying guests to such a host, Don Mike Farrel."

"Then it's settled," Parker announced, much relieved.

"And let us here highly resolve that we shall always be good friends
and dwell together in peace," Kay suggested.

"I made that resolve when you met me at the gate last night, Miss
Parker.  Hark!  Methinks I hear a young riot.  Well, we cannot possibly
have any interest in it, and, besides, we're talking business now.  Mr.
Parker, there isn't the slightest hope of my earning sufficient money
to pay the mortgage you hold against this ranch of mine, so I have
resolved to gamble for it whenever and wherever I can.  You have agreed
to pay me six thousand dollars, in return for which I guarantee to feed
you and your family and servants well, and house you comfortably and
furnish three saddle-horses, with saddles and bridles, for a period of
one year.  Understand?"

"Understood."

Don Miguel Farrel took two dice out of his pocket and cuddled them in
his palm.

"I'll roll you the bones, one flop, twelve thousand dollars or nothing,
sir," he challenged.

"But if I win--"

"You want to know if I am in a position to support you all for one year
if I lose?  I am.  There are cattle enough on the ranch to guarantee
that."

"Well, while these little adventures are interesting, Mr. Farrel, the
fact is I've always made it a rule not to gamble."

"Listen to the hypocrite!" his wife almost shouted.  "Gambled every day
of his life for twenty-five years on the New York Stock Exchange, and
now he has the effrontery to make a statement like that!  John Parker,
roll them bones!"

"Not to-day," he protested.  "This isn't my lucky day."

"Well, it's mine," the good soul retorted.  "Miguel--you'll pardon my
calling you by your first name: Miguel, but since I was bound to do so
sooner or later, we'll start now--Miguel, I'm in charge of the domestic
affairs of the Parker family, and I've never known a time when this
poor tired old business man didn't honor my debts.  Roll 'em, Mike, and
test your luck."

"Mother!" Kay murmured reproachfully.

"Nonsense, dear!  Miguel is the most natural gentleman, the first
_regular_ young man I've met in years.  I'm for him, and I want him to
know it.  Are you for me, Miguel?"

"All the way!" Don Mike cried happily,

"There!" the curious woman declared triumphantly.  "I knew we were
going to be good friends.  What do I see before me?  As I live, a pair
of box cars."

"Mother, where _did_ you learn such slang?" her daughter pleaded.

"From the men your non-gambling father used to bring home to play poker
and shoot craps," she almost shouted.  "Well, let us see if I can roll
two sixes and tie the score.  I can!  What's more, I do!  Miguel, are
these dice college-bred?  Ah!  Old Lady Parker rolls a wretched little
pair of bull's-eyes!"

Don Miguel took the dice and rolled--a pair of deuces.

"I'm going to make big money operating a boarding-house," he informed
the lady.

"'Landlord, fill the flowing bowl until it doth flow over,'" she sang
gaily.  "John, you owe Miguel twelve thousand dollars, payable at the
rate of one thousand dollars a month for twelve months.  Have your
lawyer in El Toro draw the lease this afternoon."

Parker glanced at her with a broad hint of belligerence in his keen
gray eyes.

"My dear," he rasped, "I wish you would take me seriously once in a
while.  For twenty-five years I've tried to keep step with you, and
I've failed.  One of these bright days I'm going to strike."

"I recall three occasions when you went on strike, John, and refused to
accept my orders," the mischievous woman retorted sweetly.  "At the
conclusion of the strike, you couldn't go back to work.  Miguel, three
separate times that man has declined to cease money-making long enough
to play, although I begged him with tears in my eyes.  And I'm not the
crying kind, either.  And every time he disobeyed, he blew up.  Miguel,
he came home to me as hysterical as a high-school girl, wept on my
shoulder, said he'd kill himself if he couldn't get more sleep, and
then surrendered and permitted me to take him away for six months.
Strange to relate, his business got along very nicely without him.  Am
I not right, Kay?"

"You are, mother dear.  Dad reminds me of a horse at a livery-stable
fire.  You rescue him from the flames, but the instant you let go his
halter-shank, he dashes into the burning barn."  She winked ever so
slightly at Farrel.  "Thanks to you, Don Mike," she assured him,
"father's claws are clipped for one year; thanks to you, again, we now
have a nice, quiet place to incarcerate him."

Farrel could see that John Parker, while outwardly appearing to enjoy
this combined attack against him, was secretly furious.  And Don Mike
knew why.  His pride as a business man was being cruelly lacerated; he
had foolishly crawled out on the end of a limb, and now there was a
probability, although a remote one, that Miguel Farrel would saw off
the limb before he could crawl back.

"Perhaps, Mr. Farrel," he replied, with a heroic attempt at jocularity,
"you will understand now that it was not altogether a cold hard heart
that prompted me to decline your request for a renewal of the mortgage
this morning.  I couldn't afford to.  I had agreed to gamble one
million dollars that you were thoroughly and effectually dead--I
couldn't see one chance in a million where this ranch would get away
from me."

"Well, do not permit yourself to become down-hearted, Mr. Parker," Don
Mike assured him whimsically.  "I cannot see one chance in a million
where you are going to lose it."

"Thank you for the heartening effect of those words, Mr. Farrel."

"I think I understand the reason underlying all this speed, Mr. Parker.
You and Okada feared that next year the people of this state will so
amend their faulty anti-alien land law of 1913 that it will be
impossible for any Oriental to own or lease California land then.  So
you proceeded with your improvements during the redemption period,
confident that the ranch would never be redeemed, in order that you
might be free to deal with Okada before the new law went into effect.
Okada would not deal with you until he was assured the water could be
gotten on the land."

"Pa's thrown out at first base!" Mrs. Parker shrilled.  "Poor old pa!"

Don Mike's somber black eyes flashed with mirth.  "I understand now why
you leased the hacienda and why that twelve-thousand-dollar board bill
hurt," he murmured.  He turned to Kay and her mother.  "Why the poor
unfortunate man is forced to remain at the Rancho Palomar in order to
protect his bet."  His thick black brows lifted piously.  "Don't cheer,
boys," he cried tragically; "the poor devil is going fast now!  Is
there anybody present who remembers a prayer or who can sing a hymn?"

Kay's adorable face twitched as she suppressed a chuckle at her
father's expense, but now that Parker was being assailed by all three,
his loyal wife decided to protect him.

"Well, Johnny's a shrewd gambler after all," she declared.  "If you do
not redeem the ranch, he will get odds of two and a half to one on his
million-dollar bet and clean up in a year.  With water on the lands of
the San Gregorio, Okada's people will pay five hundred dollars an acre
cash for the fifty thousand acres."

"I grant you that, Mrs. Parker, but in the meantime he will have
increased tremendously the value of all of my land in the San Gregorio
valley, and what is to prevent me, nine months from now, from floating
a new loan rather handily, by reason of that increased valuation,
paying off Mr. Parker's mortgage and garnering for myself that two and
a half million dollars' profit you speak of?"

"I fear you will have to excuse us from relishing the prospect of that
joke, Don Mike," Kay murmured.

"Work on that irrigation project will cease on Saturday evening, Mr.
Farrel," Parker assured his host.

Nevertheless, Farrel observed that his manner belied his words;
obviously he was ill at ease.  For a moment, the glances of the two men
met; swift though that visual contact was, each read in the other's
glance an unfaltering decision.  There would be no surrender.

The gay mood into which Mrs. Parker's humorous sallies had thrown
Farrel relaxed; there came back to him the memory of some graves in the
valley, and his dark, strong face was somber again.  Of a sudden,
despite his victory of the morning, he felt old for all his
twenty-eight years--old and sad and embittered, lonely, futile and
helpless.

The girl, watching him closely, saw the light die out in his face, saw
the shadows come, as when a thunder-cloud passes between the sun and a
smiling valley.  His chin dropped a little on his breast, and for
perhaps ten seconds he was silent; by the far-away gleam in his eyes,
Kay knew he was seeing visions, and that they were not happy ones.

Instinctively her hand crept round the corner of the table and touched
his arm lightly.  Her action was the result of impulse; almost as soon
as she had touched him, she withdrew her hand in confusion.

But her mother had noticed the movement, and a swift glance toward her
husband drew from him the briefest of nods, the most imperceptible of
shrugs.

"Come, Johnny dear," she urged, and her voice had lost its accustomed
shrillness now; "let us go forth and see what has happened to the
Little Old Man of the Spuds."

He followed her outside obediently, and arm in arm they walked around
the patio toward the rear gate.

"Hello!" he murmured suddenly, and, with a firm hand under her chin, he
tilted her handsome face upward.  There were tears in her eyes.  "What
now?" he demanded tenderly.  "How come, old girl?"

"Nothing, John, I'm just an old fool--laughing when I'm not weeping and
weeping when I ought to be laughing."




XVIII

Don Mike's assumption that Pablo would seek balm for his injured
feelings at the expense of the potato baron was one born of a very
intimate knowledge of the mental processes of Pablo and those of his
breed.  And Pablo, on that fateful day, did not disappoint his master's
expectations.  Old he was, and stiff and creaky of joint, but what he
lacked in physical prowess he possessed in guile.  Forbidden to follow
his natural inclination, which was to stab the potato baron frequently
and fatally with a businesslike dirk which was never absent from his
person except when he slept, Pablo had recourse to another artifice of
his peculiar calling--to wit, the rawhide riata.

As Okada emerged from the dining-room into the patio, Pablo entered
from the rear gate, riata in hand; as the Japanese crossed the garden
to his room in the opposite wing of the hacienda, Pablo made a deft
little cast and dropped his loop neatly over the potato baron's body,
pinioning the latter's arms securely to his sides.  Keeping a stiff
strain on the riata, Pablo drew his victim swiftly toward the porch,
round an upright of which he had taken a hitch; in a surprisingly brief
period, despite the Jap's frantic efforts to release himself, Pablo had
his man lashed firmly to the porch column, whereupon he proceeded to
flog his prisoner with a heavy quirt which, throughout the operation,
had dangled from his left wrist.  With each blow, old Pablo tossed a
pleasantry at his victim, who took the dreadful scourging without an
outcry, never ceasing a dogged effort to twist loose from his bonds
until his straining and flinching loosed the ancient rusty nails at top
and bottom of the upright, and, with a crash, the Oriental fell
headlong backward on the porch, as a tree falls.  Thereupon, Pablo
kicked him half a dozen times for good measure, and proceeded to roll
him over and over along the porch toward his room.  Eventually this
procedure unwound him from the riata; Pablo then removed the loop, and
Okada staggered into his room and fell, half fainting, on his bed.

His honor now quite clean, Pablo departed from the patio.  He had been
less than five minutes on his mission of vengeance, and when John
Parker and his wife came out of the dining-room, the sight of the
imperturbable old majordomo unconcernedly coiling his "twine" roused in
them no apprehension as to the punishment that had overtaken Okada.

Having finished their luncheon--a singularly pleasant
_tete-a-tete_--Don Mike and Kay joined Mr. and Mrs. Parker.  At once
Farrel's glance marked the absence of the porch column.

"I declare," he announced, with mock seriousness, "a portion of my
veranda has given way.  I wonder if a man could have been tied do it.
I heard a crash, and at the time it occurred to me that it was a heavy
crash--heavier than the weight of that old porch column would produce.
Mr. Parker, may I suggest that you investigate the physical condition
of our Japanese friend?  He is doubtless in his room."

Parker flashed his host a quick glance, almost of resentment, and went
to Okada's room.  When he returned, he said soberly:

"Pablo has beaten the little fellow into a pitiable condition.  He tied
him to that porch column and flogged him with a quirt.  While I cannot
defend Okada's action in releasing Loustalot, nevertheless, Mr.
Farrel--" Don Mike's black eyes burned like live coals.
"Nevertheless--I--well--" Parker hesitated.

Don Mike's lips were drawn a trifle in the ghost of a smile that was
not good to see.

"I think, sir," he said softly, distinctly, and with chill suavity,
"that Mr. Okada might be grateful for the services of the excellent
Murray, if the potato baron is, as I shrewdly suspect he will be,
leaving within five minutes."

"Good Heavens, man, I believe it will be an hour before he can walk!"

Farrel glanced critically at his wrist-watch and seemed to ponder this.

"I fear five minutes is all I can permit, sir," he replied.  "If he
should be unable to walk from his room, Murray, who is the soul of
thoughtfulness, will doubtless assist him to the waiting automobile."

Five minutes later, the potato baron and the potato baron's suitcase
were lifted into the tonneau of the car by Murray and William.  From
over by the blacksmith shop, Don Mike saw Parker bid his Japanese
confrere adieu, and as the car dipped below the mesa, Parker came over
and joined them.

"Thought you were going in to El Toro this afternoon," the young man
suggested.

"I had planned to, but changed my mind after beholding that Nipponese
ruin.  To have driven to El Toro with him would have broken my heart."

"Never mind, pa," Mrs. Parker consoled him; "you'll have your day in
court, will you not?"

"I think he's going to have several of them," Don Mike predicted
maliciously, and immediately withdrew the sting from his words by
placing his hand in friendly fashion on Parker's shoulder and shaking
him playfully.  "In the interim, however," he continued, "now that our
unwelcome guests have departed and peace has been reestablished on El
Palomar (for I hear Pablo whistling 'La Paloma' in the distance), what
reason, if any, exists why we shouldn't start right now to get some fun
out of life?  I've had a wonderful forenoon at your expense, so I want
you and the ladies to have a wonderful afternoon at mine."  He glanced
alertly from one to the other, questioningly.

"I wonder if the horses have recovered from their furious chase of this
morning," Kay ventured.

"Of course.  That was merely an exercise gallop.  How would you all
like to come for a ride with me over to the Agua Caliente basin?"

"Why the Agua Caliente basin?" Parker queried casually.  "That's quite
a distance from here, is it not?"

"About seven miles--fourteen over and back.  Suppose William follows
with the car after his return from El Toro.  You can then ride back
with him, and I'll bring the horses home.  I realize fourteen miles is
too great a distance for inexperienced riders."

"Isn't that going to considerable trouble?" Parker suggested suavely.
"Suppose we ride down the valley.  I prefer flat land to rolling
country when I ride."

"No game down that way," Farrel explained patiently.  "We'll take the
hounds and put something up a tree over Caliente Basin way before we
get back.  Besides, I have a great curiosity to inspect the dam you're
building and the artesian wells you're drilling over in that country."

"Confound you, Farrel!  You realized the possibilities of that basin,
then?"

"Years ago.  The basin comes to a bottle-neck between two high hills;
all you have to do is dam that narrow gorge, and when the Rio San
Gregorio is up and brimming in freshet time, you'll have a lake
a hundred feet deep, a mile wide, and five miles long before you
know it.  Did you ever consider the possibility of leading a ditch
from the lake thus formed along the shoulder of El Palomar, that
forty-five-hundred-foot peak for which the ranch is named, and giving
it a sixty-five-per-cent.  nine-hundred-foot drop to a snug little
power-station at the base of the mountain.  You could develop thirty or
forty thousand horse-power very easily and sell it easier; after your
water had passed through the penstock and delivered its power, you
could run it off through a lateral to the main ditch down the San
Gregorio and sell it to your Japanese farmers for irrigation."

"By Jupiter, I believe you would have done something with this ranch if
you had had the backing, Farrel!"

"Never speculated very hard on securing the backing," Don Mike
admitted, with a frank grin.  "We always lived each day as if it were
the last, you know.  But over in Siberia, far removed from all my
easy-going associations, both inherited and acquired, I commenced
dreaming of possibilities in the Agua Caliente basin."

"Well then, since you insist, let's go over there and have your
curiosity satiated," Parker agreed, with the best grace possible.

[Illustration: Here amidst the golden romance of the old mission, the
girl suddenly understood Don Mike.]

While the Parkers returned to the hacienda to change into their
riding-clothes, Miguel Farrel strolled over to the corral where Pablo
Artelan, wearing upon his leathery countenance the closest imitation of
a smile that had ever lighted that dark expanse, joined him and, with
Farrel, leaned over the corral fence and gazed at the horses within.
For a long time, neither spoke; then, while his glance still appraised
the horses, Don Mike stiffened a thumb and drove it with considerable
force into Pablo's ancient ribs.  Carolina, engaged in hanging out the
Parker wash in the yard of her _casa_, observed Don Mike bestow this
infrequent accolade of approbation and affection, and her heart swelled
with pride.  Ah, yes; it was good to have the child back on the rancho
again.

Carolina and Pablo had never heard that the ravens fed Elijah; they had
never heard of Elijah.  Nevertheless, if they had, they would not have
envied him the friendship of those divinely directed birds, for the
Farrels had always fed Pablo and Carolina and their numerous brood, now
raised and scattered over the countryside.  At sight of that prod in
the ribs, Carolina dismissed forever a worry that had troubled her
vaguely during the period between old Don Miguel's death and the return
of young Don Miguel--the fear that a lifetime of ease and plenty had
ended.  Presently, she lifted a falsetto voice in a Spanish love-song
two centuries old.

  I await the morrow, Nina mia,
    I await the morrow, all through the night,
  For the entrancing music and dancing
    With thee, my song-bird, my heart's delight.
  Come dance, my Nina, in thy mantilla,
    Think of our love and do not say no;
  Hasten then my treasure, grant me this pleasure,
    Dance then tomorrow the bolero!

Over at the corral, Pablo rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and permitted
a thin film of smoke to trickle through his nostrils.  He, too, was
content.

"Carolina," he remarked presently, in English, "is happy to beat hell."

"I haven't any right to be, but, for some unknown reason, I'm feeling
gay myself," his master replied.

He started toward the harness-room to get the saddle for Panchito, and
Pablo lingered a moment at the fence, gazing after him curiously.
Could it be possible that Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel
had, while sojourning in the cold land of the bewhiskered men, lost a
modicum of that particularity with women which had formerly
distinguished him in the eyes of his humble retainers?

"Damn my soul eef I don't know sometheeng!"  Pablo muttered, and
followed for a saddle for the gray gelding.




XIX

When the Parkers emerged from the hacienda, they found Don Mike and Pablo
holding the horses and waiting for them.  Kay wore a beautifully tailored
riding-habit of dark unfinished material, shot with a faint admixture of
gray; her boots were of shining black undressed leather, and she wore a
pair of little silver-mounted spurs, the sight of which caused Pablo to
exchange sage winks with his master.  Her white-pique stock was fastened
by an exquisite little cameo stick-pin; from under the brim of a
black-beaver sailor-hat, set well down on her head, her wistful brown
eyes looked up at Don Mike, and caught the quick glance of approval with
which he appraised her, before turning to her mother.

"The black mare for you, Mrs. Parker," he suggested.  "She's a regular
old sweetheart and single-foots beautifully.  I think you'll find that
stock-saddle a far more comfortable seat than the saddle Miss Kay is
using."

"I know I'm not as light and graceful as I used to be, Mike," the amiable
soul assured him, "but it irks me to have men notice it.  You _might_
have given me an opportunity to decline Kay's saddle.  There is such a
thing as being too thoughtful, you know."

"Mother!" Kay cried reproachfully.

Don Mike blushed, even while he smiled his pleasure at the lady's
badinage.  She observed this.

"You're a nice boy, Michael," she murmured, for his ear alone.  "Why, you
old-fashioned young rascal!"--as Don Mike stooped and held out his hand.
She placed her left foot in it and was lifted lightly into the saddle.
When he had adjusted the stirrups to fit her, he turned to aid Kay, only
to discover that the gallant Panchito had already performed the honors
for that young lady by squatting until she could reach the stirrup
without difficulty.

Parker rode the gray horse, and Farrel had appropriated a pinto cow pony
that Pablo used when line-riding.

With the hounds questing ahead of them, the four jogged up the San
Gregorio, Don Mike leading the way, with Kay riding beside him.  From
time to time she stole a sidelong glance at him, riding with his chin on
his breast, apparently oblivious of her presence.  She knew that he was
not in a mood to be entertaining to-day, to be a carefree squire of
dames; his mind was busy grappling with problems that threatened not only
him but everything in life that he held to be worth while.

"Do we go through that gate?" the girl queried, pointing to a five-rail
gate in a wire fence that straggled across the valleys and up the
hillside.

He nodded.

"Of course you do not have to go through it," he teased her.  "Panchito
can go over it.  Pie for him.  About five feet and a half."

"Enough for all practical purposes," she replied, and touched her
ridiculous little spurs to the animal's flank, took a firm grip on the
reins with both hands, and sat down firmly in the saddle.  "All right,
boy!" she cried, and, at the invitation, Panchito pricked up his ears and
broke into an easy canter, gradually increasing his speed and taking the
gate apparently without effort.  Don Mike watched to see the girl rise
abruptly in her seat as the horse came down on the other side of the
gate.  But no!  She was still sitting down in the saddle, her little
hands resting lightly on the horse's neck; and while Farrel watched her
in downright admiration and her mother sat, white and speechless on the
black mare, Kay galloped ahead a hundred yards, turned, and came back
over the gate again.

"Oh, isn't he a darling?" she cried.  "He pulls his feet up under him
like a dog, when he takes off.  I want to take him over a seven-foot
hurdle.  He can do it with yours truly up.  Let's build a seven-foot
hurdle to-morrow and try him out."

"Fine!  We'll build it," Don Mike declared enthusiastically, and Parker,
watching his wife's frightened face, threw back his head and laughed.

"You are encouraging my daughter to kill herself," the older woman
charged Farrel.  "Kay, you tomboy, do not jump that gate again!  Suppose
that horse should stumble and throw you."

"Nonsense, mother.  That's mere old hop-Scotch for Panchito.  One doesn't
get a jumping-jack to ride every day, and all I've ever done has been to
pussyfoot through Central Park."

"Do you mean to tell me you've never taken a hurdle before?"  Don Mike
was scandalized.  She nodded.

"She'll do," Parker assured him proudly.

Farrel confirmed this verdict with a nod and opened the gate. They rode
through.  Kay waited for him to close the gate.  He saw that she had
been, captivated by Panchito, and as their glances met, his smile was a
reflection of hers--a smile thoroughly and childishly happy.

"If you'd only sell him to me, Don Mike," she pleaded.  "I'll give you a
ruinous price for him."

"He is not for sale, Miss Kay."

"But you were going to give him away to your late battery commander!"

He held up his right hand with the red scar on the back of it, but made
no further reply.

"Why will you not sell him to me?" she pleaded.  "I want him so."

"I love him," he answered at that, "and I could only part with him--for
love.  Some day, I may give him to somebody worth while, but for the
present I think I shall be selfish and continue to own him.  He's a big,
powerful animal, and if he can carry weight in a long race, he's fast
enough to make me some money."

"Let me ride him in the try-out," she pleaded.  "I weigh just a hundred
and twenty."

"Very well.  To-morrow I'll hitch up a work-team, and disk the heart out
of our old race-track--  Oh, yes; we have such a thing"--in reply to her
lifted brows.  "My grandfather Mike induced my great-grandfather Noriaga
to build it way back in the 'Forties.  The Indians and _vaqueros_ used to
run scrub races in those days--in fact, it was their main pastime."

"Where is this old race-track?"

"Down in the valley.  A fringe of oaks hides it.  It's grass-grown and it
hasn't been used in twenty-five years, except when the Indians in this
part of the country foregather in the valley occasionally and pull off
some scrub races."

"How soon can we put it in commission?" she demanded eagerly,

"I'll disk it to-morrow.  The ground is soft now, after this recent rain.
Then I'll harrow it well and run a culti-packer over it--well, by the end
of the week it ought to be a fairly fast track."

"Goody!  We'll go in to El Toro to-morrow and I'll wire to San Francisco
for a stop-watch.  May I sprint Panchito a little across that meadow?"

"Wait a moment, Miss Kay.  We shall have something to sprint after in a
few minutes, I think."  As the hounds gave tongue in a path of willows
they had been investigating far to the right, Don Mike pulled up his
horse and listened.  "Hot trail," he informed her.  "They'll all be
babbling in a moment."

He was right.

"If it's a coyote, he'll sneak up the wash of the river," he informed the
girl, "but if it's a cat, he'll cut through that open space to tree in
the oaks beyond--Ha!  There goes a mountain-lion.  After him!"

His alert pony went from a halt to a gallop, following a long, lithe
tawny animal that loped easily into view, coming from the distant willow
thicket.  In an instant, Kay was beside him.

"Head him off," he commanded curtly.  "This ruin of Pablo's is done in a
quarter-mile dash, but Panchito can outrun that cat without trying.
Don't be afraid of him.  They're cowardly brutes.  Get between him and
the oaks and turn him back to me.  Ride him down!  He'll dodge out of
your way."

She saw that he was uncoiling his riata as he spoke, and divined his
purpose, as, with a cluck and a boot to Panchito, she thundered after the
big cat, her heart thumping with mingled fear and excitement.  Evidently
this was an old game to Panchito, however, for he pinned his ears a
little and headed straight for the quarry.  Seemingly he knew what was
expected of him, and had a personal interest in the affair, for as he
came up to the animal, he attempted to run the panther down.  The animal
merely snarled and gave ground, while gradually Panchito "hazed" him
until the frightened creature was headed at right angles to the course he
had originally pursued.  And now Don Mike, urging the pinto to top speed,
came racing up and cut him off.

"Catch him; catch him!" Kay screamed excitedly.  "Don't let him get
away!"  She drove Panchito almost on top of the panther, and forced the
beast to stop suddenly and dodge toward the approaching Farrel.  As
Panchito dashed by, Kay had a glimpse of Don Mike riding in, his looped
riata swinging in wide, slow concentric circles--casually, even.  As she
brought Panchito round on his nimble heels, she saw Don Mike rise in his
stirrups and throw.

Even as the loop left his hand, he appeared to have no doubt of the
outcome, for Kay saw him make a quick turn of his rope round the pommel
of his saddle, whirl at a right angle, and, with a whoop of pure,
unadulterated joy, go by her at top speed, dragging the panther behind
him.  The loop had settled over the animal's body and been drawn taut
around his loins.

Suddenly the pinto came to an abrupt pause, sliding on his haunches to
avoid a tiny arroyo, too wide for him to leap.  The strain on the riata
was thus momentarily slackened, permitting the big cat to scramble to all
fours and turn to investigate this trap into which he had fallen.
Instantly he charged, spitting and open-mouthed, and, for some unknown
reason, Farrel led the screaming fury straight toward Kay and Panchito.
The cat realized this, also, for suddenly he decided that Panchito
offered the best opportunity to vent his rage, and changed his course
accordingly.  Quick as he did so, Farrel whirled his pinto in the
opposite direction, with the result that the panther left the ground with
a jerk and was dragged through the air for six feet before striking
heavily upon his back.  He was too dazed to struggle while Farrel dragged
him through the grass and halted under a lone sycamore.  While the badly
shaken cat was struggling to his feet and swaying drunkenly, Farrel
passed the end of his riata over a limb, took a new hitch on his pommel,
and ran out, drawing the screaming, clawing animal off the ground until
he swung, head down, the ripping chisels on his front paws tearing the
grass up in great tufts.

The pinto, a trained roping horse, stood, blown and panting, his feet
braced, keeping the rope taut while Farrel dismounted and casually
strolled back to the tree.  He broke off a small twig and waited, while
the hounds, belling lustily, came nosing across the meadow.  Kay rode up,
as the dogs, catching sight of the helpless cat, quickened their speed to
close in; she heard Farrel shout to them and saw him lay about him with
the twig, beating the eager animals back from their still dangerous prey.

Mr. and Mrs. Parker had, in the meantime, galloped up and stood by,
interested spectators, while Don Mike searched round until he found a
hard, thick, dry, broken limb from the sycamore.

"This certainly is my day for making money," he announced gaily.  "Here's
where I put thirty dollars toward that three-hundred-thousand-dollar
mortgage."  He stepped up to the lion and stunned it with a blow over the
head, after which he removed the riata from the creature's loins, slipped
the noose round the cat's neck, and hoisted the unconscious brute clear
of the ground.

"Now then," he announced cheerfully, "we'll just leave this fellow to
contemplate the result of a life of shame.  He shall hang by the neck
until he is dead--dead--dead!  We'll pick him up on our way back, and
to-night I'll skin him.  Fall in, my squad!  On our way."

"Do you do that sort of thing very often, Mr. Farrel?" Parker queried.

"Life is a bit dull out here, sir.  Any time the dogs put up a panther in
the open, we try to rope him and have a little fun.  This is the first
one I have roped alone, however.  I always did want to rope a panther all
by myself.  Ordinarily, I would not have told Miss Kay to head that cat
in toward me, but, then, she didn't flunk the gate back yonder, and I had
a great curiosity to see if she'd flunk the cat.  She didn't and"--he
turned toward her with beaming, prideful eyes--"if I were out of debt, I
wouldn't trade my friendship with a girl as game as you, Kay, for the
entire San Gregorio valley.  You're a trump."

"You're rather a Nervy Nat yourself, aren't you?" her droll mother struck
in.  "As a Christian martyr, you would have had the Colosseum to
yourself; every tiger and lion in Rome would have taken to the tall
timber when you came on."

As he rode ahead, chuckling, to join her daughter, Farrel knew that at
all events he had earned the approval of the influential member of the
Parker family.  Mrs. Parker, on her part, was far more excited than her
colloquial humor indicated.

"John," she whispered, "did you notice it?"

"Notice what?"

"I don't know why I continue to live with you--you're so dull!  In his
excitement, he just called her 'Kay.'  Last night, when they met, she was
'Miss Parker.'  At noon to-day, she was 'Miss Kay' and now she's plain
'Kay.'"  A cloud crossed his brow, but he made no answer, so, woman-like,
she pressed for one.  "Suppose our daughter should fall in love with this
young man?"

"That would be more embarrassing than ever, from a business point of
view," he admitted, "and the Lord knows this fellow has me worried enough
already.  He's no mean antagonist."

"That's what the panther probably thought, John."

"His decoration, and that stunt--dazzling to the average girl," he
muttered.

"In addition to his good looks, exquisite manners, and, I am quite
certain, very high sense of honor and lofty ideals," she supplemented.

"In that event, it is more than probable that a consideration of his
desperate financial strait will preclude his indicating any lively
interest in Kay."  Parker glanced anxiously at his wife, as if seeking in
her face confirmation of a disturbing suspicion.  "At least, that would
be in consonance with the high sense of honor and lofty ideals with which
you credit him.  However, we must remember that he has a dash of Latin
blood, and my experience has been that not infrequently the Latinos high
sense of honor and lofty idealism are confined to lip-service only.  I
wonder if he'd be above using Kay as a gun to point at my head."

"I'm quite certain that he would, John.  Even if he should become
interested in her for her own sake, he would, of course, realize that the
genuineness of his feeling would be open to suspicion by--well, most
people, who comprehend his position--and I doubt very much if, under
these circumstances, he will permit himself to become interested in her."

"He may not be able to help himself.  Kay gets them all winging."

"Even so, he will not so far forget his ancestral pride as to admit it,
or even give the slightest intimation of it."

"He is a prideful sort of chap.  I noticed that.  Still, he's not a prig."

"He has pride of race, John.  Pride of ancestry, pride of tradition,
pride of an ancient, undisputed leadership in his own community.  He has
been raised to know that he is not vulgar or stupid or plebeian; his
character has been very carefully cultivated and developed."

He edged his horse close to hers.

"Look here, my dear," he queried; "what brought the tears to your eyes at
luncheon to-day?"

"There was a moment, John, when the shadow of a near-break came over his
face.  Kay and I both saw it.  He looked wistful and lonely and beaten,
and dropped his head like a tired horse, and her heart, her very soul,
went out to him.  I saw her hand go out to him, too; she touched his arm
for an instant and then, realizing, she withdrew it.  And then I knew!"

"Knew what?"

"That our little daughter, who has been used to queening it over every
man of her acquaintance, is going to batter her heart out against the
pride of Palomar."

"You mean--"

"She loves him.  She doesn't know it yet, but I do.  Oh, John, I'm old
and wise.  I know!  If Miguel Farrel were of a piece with the young men
she has always met, I wouldn't worry.  But he's so absolutely
different--so natural, so free from that atrocious habit of never being
able to disassociate self from the little, graceful courtesies young men
show women.  He's wholesome, free from ego, from that intolerable air of
proprietorship, of masculine superiority and cocksureness that seems so
inseparable from the young men in her set."

"I agree with you, my dear.  Many a time I have itched to grasp the
jaw-bone of an ass and spoil a couple of dozen of those young pups with
their story-book notions of life."

"Now, that Don Mike," she continued critically, "is thoughtful of and
very deferential to those to whom deference is due, which characteristic,
coupled with the fact that he is, in a certain sense, a most pathetic
figure at this time, is bound to make a profound impression on any girl
of ready sympathy.  And pity is akin to love."

"I see," Parker nodded sagely.  "Then you think he'll go down to defeat
with his mouth shut?"

"I'm certain of it, John."

"On the other hand, if he should succeed in sending me down to defeat,
thereby regaining his lost place in the sun, he might--er--"

"Let us be practical, John.  Let us call a spade a spade.   If he regains
the Rancho Palomar, his thoughts will inevitably turn to the subject of a
mistress for that old hacienda.  He has pride of race, I tell you, and he
would be less than human if he could contemplate himself as the last of
that race.

"John, he did not capture that panther alive a few moments ago merely to
be spectacular.  His underlying reason was the thirty-dollar bounty on
the pelt and the salvation of his cattle.  And he did not capture that
Basque this morning and extort justice, long-delayed, with any thought
that by so doing he was saving his principality for a stranger.  He will
not fight you to a finish for that."

"What a philosopher you're getting to be, my dear!" he parried
ironically.  And, after a pause, "Well, I see very clearly that if your
predictions come to pass, I shall be as popular in certain circles as the
proverbial wet dog."

Her roguish eyes appraised him.

"Yes, John; you're totally surrounded now.  I suppose, when you realize
the enormity of the odds against you, you'll do the decent thing
and--"

"Renew his mortgage?  Not in a million years!"  Parker's voice carried a
strident note of finality, of purpose inflexible, and he thumped the
pommel of his saddle thrice in emphasis.  He was a man who, although
normally kind and amiable, nevertheless reserved these qualities for use
under conditions not connected with the serious business of profiting by
another's loss.  Quite early in life he had learned to say "No."  He
preferred to say it kindly and amiably, but none the less forcibly; some
men had known him to say it in a manner singularly reminiscent of the
low, admonitory growl of a fierce old dog.

"But, John dear, why are we accumulating all this wealth?  Is not Kay our
sole heir?  Is not--"

"Do not threaten me with Kay," he interrupted irritably.  "I play my game
according to the time-honored rules of that game.  I do not ask for
quarter, and I shall not give it.  I'm going to do all in my power to
acquire the Rancho Palomar under that mortgage I hold--and I hope that
young man gives me a bully fight.  That will make the operation all the
more interesting.

"My dear, the continuous giving of one more chance to the Farrels has
proved their undoing.  They first mortgaged part of the ranch in 1870;
when the mortgage fell due, they executed a new note plus the accrued
interest and mortgaged more of the ranch.  Frequently they paid the
interest and twice they paid half the principal, bidding for one more
chance and getting it.  And all these years they have lived like feudal
barons on their principal, living for to-day, reckless of to-morrow.
Theirs has been the history of practically all of the old California
families.  I am convinced it would be no kindness to Don Miguel to give
him another chance now; his Spanish blood would lull him to ease and
forgetfulness; he would tell himself he would pay the mortgage _manana_.
By giving him another chance, I would merely remove his incentive to
hustle and make good."

"But it seems so cruel, John, to take such a practical view of the
situation.  He cannot understand your point of view and he will regard
you as another Shylock."

"Doubtless," he replied; "nevertheless, if we are ever forced to regard
him as a prospective son-in-law, it will be comforting to know that even
if he lost, he made me extend myself.  He is a man and a gentleman, and I
like him.  He won me in the first minute of our acquaintance.  That is
why I decided to stand pat and see what he would do."  Parker leaned over
and laid his hand on that of his wife.  "I will not play the bully's
part, Kate," he promised her.  "If he is worth a chance he will get it,
but I am not a human Christmas tree.  He will have to earn it."  After a
silence of several seconds he added, "Please God he will whip me yet.
His head is bloody but unbowed.  It would be terrible to spoil him."




XX

Miguel Farrel pulled up his pinto on the brow of a hill which, along
the Atlantic seaboard, would have received credit for being a mountain,
and gazed down into the Agua Caliente basin.  Half a mile to his right,
the slope dipped into a little saddle and then climbed abruptly to the
shoulder of El Palomar, the highest peak in San Marcos County.  The
saddle was less than a hundred yards wide, and through the middle of it
a deep arroyo had been eroded by the Rio San Gregorio tumbling down
from the hills during the rainy season.  This was the only outlet to
the Agua Caliente basin, and Don Mike saw at a glance that Parker's
engineers had discovered this, for squarely in the outlet a dozen
two-horse teams were working, scraping out the foundation for the huge
concrete dam for which Parker had contracted.  Up the side of El
Palomar peak, something that resembled a great black snake had been
stretched, and Farrel nodded approvingly as he observed it.

"Good idea, that, to lay a half-mile of twelve-inch steel pipe up to
that limestone deposit," he remarked to Parker, who had reined his
horse beside Don Mike's.  "Only way to run your crushed rock down to
the concrete mixer at the dam-site.  You'll save a heap of money on
delivering the rock, at any rate.  Who's your contractor, Mr. Parker?"

"A man named Conway."

"Old Bill Conway, of Santa Barbara?"

"The same, I believe," Parker replied, without interest.

"Great old chap, Bill!  One of my father's best friends, although he
was twenty years younger than dad.  He must feel at home on the Rancho
Palomar."

Mrs. Parker could not refrain from asking why.

"Well, ever since Bill Conway was big enough to throw a leg over a
horse and hold a gun to his shoulder, he's been shooting deer and quail
and coursing coyotes on this ranch.  Whenever he felt the down-hill
drag, he invited himself up to visit us.  Hello!  Why, I believe the
old horse-thief is down there now; at least that's his automobile.  I'd
know that ruin anywhere.  He bought it in 1906, and swears he's going
to wear it out if it takes a lifetime.  Let's go down and see what
they're up to there.  Come on, folks!"  And, without waiting to see
whether or not he was followed, he urged the pinto over the crest and
rode down the hillside at top speed, whooping like a wild Indian to
attract the attention of Bill Conway.  In a shower of weeds and gravel
the pinto slid on his hind quarters down over the cut-bank where the
grading operations had bitten into the hillside, and landed with a
grunt among the teams and scrapers.

"Bill Conway!  Front and center!" yelled the master of Palomar.

"Here!  What's the row?" a man shouted, and, from a temporary shack
office a hundred yards away, a man stepped out.

"What do you mean by cutting into my dam-site without my permission?"
Farrel yelled and drove straight at the contractor.  "Hey, there, old
settler!  Mike Farrel, alive and kicking!"  He left the saddle while
the pinto was still at a gallop, landed on his feet in front of Bill
Conway and took that astounded old disciple of dump-wagon and scraper
in a bearlike embrace.

"Miguel!  You young scoundrel!" Conway yelled, and forthwith he beat
Farrel between the shoulder-blades with a horny old fist and cursed him
lovingly.

"Cut out the profanity, Mr. Conway," Don Mike warned him.  "Some ladies
are about due on the job."

"When'd you light in the Palomar, boy?  Gimme your hand.  What
the--say, ain't it a pity the old man couldn't have lasted until you
got back?  Ain't it, now, son?"

"A very great pity, Mr. Conway.  I got home last night."

"Boy, I'm glad to see you.  Say, you ran into surprises, didn't you?"
he added, lowering his voice confidentially.

"Rather.  But, then, so did the other fellow.  In fact, sir, a very
pleasant time was had by all.  By the way, I hope you're not deluding
yourself with the belief that I'm going to pay you for building this
dam."

"By Judas priest," the alert old contractor roared, "you certainly do
file a bill of complications!  I'll have to see Parker about this right
away--why, here he is now."

The Parkers had followed more decorously than had Farrel; nevertheless,
they had arrived in more or less of a hurry.  John Parker rode directly
to Conway and Farrel.

"Well, Mr. Conway," he shouted pleasantly, "the lost sheep is found
again."

"Whereat there is more rejoicing in San Marcos County than there will
be over the return of some other sheep--and a few goats--I know of.
How do you do, Mr. Parker?"  Conway extended his hand, and, as Kay and
her mother rode up, Farrel begged their permission to present him to
them.  Followed the usual commonplaces of introduction, which Farrel
presently interrupted.

"Well, you confounded old ditch-digger!  How about you?"

"Still making little rocks out of big ones, son.  Say, Mr. Parker, how
do we stack up on this contract, now that Little Boy Blue is back on
the Palomar, blowing his horn?"

Parker strove gallantly to work up a cheerful grin.

"Oh, he's put a handful of emery dust in my bearings, confound him, Mr.
Conway!  It begins to look as if I had leaped before looking."

"Very reprehensible habit, Mr. Parker.  Well--I'm getting so old and
worthless nowadays that I make it a point to look before I leap.  Mike,
my son, do you happen to be underwriting this contract?"

Don Mike looked serious.  He pursed his lips, arched his brows, drew
some bills and small coins from his pocket, and carefully counted them.

"The liquid assets of the present owner of that dirt you're making so
free with, Mr. Conway, total exactly sixty-seven dollars and nine
cents.  And I never thought the day would come when a pair of old-time
Californians like us would stoop to counting copper pennies.  Before I
joined the army, I used to give them away to the cholo children, and
when there were no youngsters handy to give the pennies to, I used to
throw them away."

"Yes," Bill Conway murmured sadly.  "And I remember the roar that went
up from the old-timers five years ago when the Palace Hotel in San
Francisco reduced the price of three fingers of straight whisky from
twenty-five cents to fifteen.  Boy, they're crowding us out."

"Who's been doing most of the crowding in San Marcos County while I've
been away, Mr. Conway?" Farrel queried innocently.

"Japs, my son.  Say, they're comin' in here by the ship-load."

"You don't tell me!  Why, two years ago there wasn't a Jap in San
Marcos County with the exception of a couple of shoemakers and a
window-washing outfit in El Toro."

"Well, those hombres aren't mending shoes or washing windows any more,
Miguel.  They saved their money and now they're farming--garden-truck
mostly.  There must be a thousand Japanese in the county now--all
farmers or farm-laborers.  They're leasing and buying every acre of
fertile land they can get hold of."

"Have they acquired much acreage?"

"Saw a piece in the El Toro Sentinel last week to the effect that nine
thousand and twenty acres have been alienated to the Japs up to the
first of the year.  Nearly all the white men have left La Questa valley
since the Japs discovered they could raise wonderful winter celery
there."

"But where do these Japanese farmers come from, Mr. Conway?" Parker
inquired.  "They do not come from Japan because, under the gentlemen's
agreement, Japan restricts emigration of her coolie classes."

"Well, now," Bill Conway began judicially.  "I'll give Japan the
benefit of any doubts I have as to the sincerity with which she
enforces this gentlemen's agreement.  The fact remains, however, that
she does not restrict emigration to Mexico, and, unfortunately, we have
an international boundary a couple of thousand miles long and
stretching through a sparsely settled, brushy country.  To guard our
southern boundary in such an efficient manner that no Jap could
possibly secure illegal entry to the United States via the line, we
would have to have sentries scattered at hundred-yard intervals and
closer than that on dark nights.  The entire standing army of the
United States would be required for the job.  In addition to the
handicap of this unprotected boundary, we have a fifteen-hundred-mile
coast-line absolutely unguarded.  Japanese fishermen bring their
nationals up from the Mexican coast in their trawlers and set them
ashore on the southern California coast.  At certain times of the year,
any landlubber can land through the surf at low tide; in fact,
ownerless skiffs are picked up on the south-coast beaches right
regularly."

"Well, you can't blame the poor devils for wanting to come to this
wonderful country, Mr. Conway.  It holds for them opportunities far
greater than in their own land."

"True, Mr. Parker.  But their gain is our loss, and, as a matter of
common sense, I fail to see why we should accord equal opportunity to
an unwelcome visitor who enters our country secretly and illegally.  I
grant you it would prove too expensive and annoying to make a firm
effort to stop this illegal immigration by preventive measures along
our international boundary and coast-line, but if we destroy the Jap's
opportunity for profit at our expense, we will eliminate the main
incentive for his secret and illegal entry, which entry is always very
expensive.  I believe seven hundred and fifty dollars is the
market-price for smuggling Japs and Chinamen into the United States of
America."

"But we should take steps to discover these immigrants after they
succeed in making entry--"

"Rats!" the bluff old contractor interrupted.  "How are we going to do
that under present conditions?  The cry of the country is for economy
in governmental affairs, so Congress prunes the already woefully
inadequate appropriation for the Department of Labor and keeps our
force of immigration inspectors down to the absolute minimum.  These
inspectors are always on the job; the few we have are splendid, loyal
servants of the government, and they prove it by catching Japs,
Chinamen, and Hindus every day in the week.  But for every illegal
entrant they apprehend, ten escape and are never rounded up.  Confound
them; they all look alike, anyhow!  How are you going to distinguish
one Jap from another?

"Furthermore, Mr. Parker, you must bear this fact in mind: The country
at large is not interested in the problem of Oriental immigration.  It
hasn't thought about it; it doesn't know anything about it except what
the Japs have told it, and a Jap is the greatest natural-born liar and
purveyor of half-truths and sugar-coated misinformation this world has
known."

"Easy, old timer!" Don Mike soothed, laying his hand on Conway's
shoulder.  "Don't let your angry passions rise."

Conway grinned.

"I always fly into a rage when I get talking about Japs," he explained
deprecatingly to the ladies.  "And it's such a helpless, hopeless rage.
There's no outlet for it.  You see," he began all over again, "the
dratted Jap propagandist is so smart--he's so cunning that he has
capitalized the fact that California was the first state to protest
against the Japanese invasion.  He has made the entire country believe
that this is a dirty little local squabble of no consequence to our
country at large.  He keeps the attention of forty-seven states on
California while he quietly proceeds to colonize Oregon, Washington,
and parts of Utah.  Lately he has passed blithely over the hot,
lava-strewn, and fairly non-irrigated state of Arizona to the more
fertile agricultural lands of Texas.  And yet a couple of hundred prize
boobs in Congress talk sagely about an amicable settlement of the Jap
problem in California!  When they want information, they consult the
Japanese ambassador!"

"But why," Kay ventured to ask, "do the Japanese not acquire
agricultural lands in the Middle West?  There are no restrictions in
those states in the matter of outright purchases of land, and surely
the soil is fertile enough to suit the most exacting Jap."

"Ah, young lady," Bill Conway boomed.  "I'm glad you asked me that
question.  The Jap is a product of the temperate zone; he does not take
kindly to extremes of heat and cold.  Unlike the white man he cannot
stand such extremes and function with efficiency.  That's why the
extreme northern part of Japan, which is very cold in winter, is so
sparsely populated, although excellent agricultural land.  Why freeze
to death up there when, by merely following the Japan Current as it
laves the west coast of North America from British Columbia down, one
can, in a pinch, dispense with an overcoat in January?"

"Enough of this anti-Japanese propaganda of yours, Senor Conway," Don
Mike interrupted.  "Our friends here haven't listened to anything else
since I got home last night.  Mr. Parker, being quite ignorant of the
real issue, has, of course, fallen under the popular delusion; and I've
been trying my best to lead him to the mourner's bench, to convince him
that when he acquires the Rancho Palomar--which, by the way, will not
be for at least a year, now that I've turned up to nullify his judgment
of foreclosure--that it will be a far more patriotic action on his
part, even if less profitable, to colonize the San Gregorio with white
men instead of Japs.  In fact, Mr. Parker, I wouldn't be surprised if
you should succeed in putting through a very profitable deal with the
state of California to colonize the valley with ex-soldiers."

Old Bill Conway turned upon John Parker a smoldering gaze.

"So I'm building a dam to irrigate a lot of Jap truck-gardens, am I?"
he rumbled.

The sly, ingenious manner in which Miguel Farrel had so innocently
contrived to strew his already rough path with greater obstacles,
infuriated Parker, and for an instant he lost control of himself.

"What do you care what it's for, Conway, provided you make your profit
out of the contract?" he demanded brusquely.

"Ladies," the contractor replied, turning to Mrs. Parker and Kay, "I
trust you will pardon me for discussing business in your presence just
for a minute.  Miguel, am I to understand that this ranch is still
Farrel property?"

"You bet!  And for a year to come."

"Then I gather that Mr. Parker has contracted with me to build a dam on
your land and without your approval.  Am I right?"

"You are, Mr. Conway.  I am not even contemplating giving my approval
to the removal of another scraper of dirt from that excavation."

Conway faced Parker.

"Am I to continue operations?" he demanded.  "I have a
cost-plus-fifteen-per-cent. contract with you, Mr. Parker, and if you
are not going to be in position to go through with it, I want to know
it now."

"In the absence of Mr. Farrel's permission, I have no alternative save
to ask you to suspend operations, Mr. Conway," Parker answered
bitterly.  "I expect, of course, to settle with you for the abrupt
cancellation of the contract, but I believe we are both reasonable men
and that no difficulty will arise in that direction."

"I'm naturally disappointed, Mr. Parker.  I have a good crew and I like
to keep the men busy--particularly when good men are as hard to
procure as they are nowadays.  However, I realize your predicament, and
I never was a great hand to hit a man when he was down."

"Thank you, Mr. Conway.  If you will drop in at the ranch-house
to-morrow for dinner, we can put you up for the night, I dare say."  He
glanced at Farrel, who nodded.  "We can then take up the matter of
compensation for the cancelled contract."

"In the meantime, then, I might as well call the job off and stop the
expense," Conway suggested.  "We'll load up the equipment and pull out
in the morning."

"Why be so precipitate, Mr. Conway?" Don Mike objected, almost
fiercely.  "You always were the most easy-going, tender-hearted old
scout imaginable, and that's why you've never been able to afford a new
automobile.  Now, I have a proposition to submit to you, Mr. Conway,
and inasmuch as it conflicts radically with Mr. Parker's interests, I
feel that common courtesy to him indicates that I should voice that
proposition in his presence.  With the greatest good will in life
toward each other, nevertheless we are implacable opponents.  Mr.
Parker has graciously spread, face up on the table for my inspection,
an extremely hard hand to beat; so now it's quite in order for me to
spring my little joker and try to take the odd trick.  Mr. Conway, I
want you to do something for me.  Not for my sake or the sake of my
dead father, who was a good friend of yours, but for the sake of this
state where we were both born and which we love because it is
symbolical of the United States.  I want you to stand pat and refuse to
cancel this contract.  Insist on going through with it and make Mr.
Parker pay for it.  He can afford it, and he is good for it.  He will
not repudiate a promise to pay while he has money in bank or securities
to hypothecate.  He is absolutely responsible financially.  He owns a
controlling interest in the First National Bank of El Toro, and he has
a three-hundred-thousand-dollar equity in this ranch in the shape of a
first mortgage ripe for foreclosure--you can levy on those assets if he
declines to go through with the contract.  Force him to go through;
force him, old friend of my father and mine and enemy of all Japanese!
For God's sake, stand by me!  I'm desperate, Mr. Conway--"

"Call me 'Bill,' son," Conway interrupted gently.

"You know what the Farrels have been up against always, Bill," Don Mike
pleaded.  "That easy-going Spanish blood!  But, Bill, I'm a throw-back.
By God, I am!  Give me this chance--this God-given chance--and the
fifty-per-cent, Celtic strain in me and the twenty-five-per-cent.
Gaelic that came with my Galvez blood will save the San Gregorio to
white men!  Give me the water, Bill; give me the water that will make
my valley bloom in the August heat, and then, with the tremendous
increase in the value of the land, I'll find somebody, some place, who
will trust me for three hundred thousand paltry dollars to give this
man and save my ranch.  This is a white-man's country, and John Parker
is striving, for a handful of silver, to betray us and make it a yellow
paradise."

His voice broke under the stress of his emotion; he gulped and the
tears welled to his eyes.

"Oh, Bill, for God's sake don't fail me!" he begged.  "You're a
Californian!  You've seen the first Japs come!  Only fifteen years ago,
they were such a rare sight the little boys used to chase them and
throw rocks at them just to see them run in terror.  But the little
boys do not throw rocks at them now, and they no longer run.  They have
the courage of numbers and the prompt and forceful backing of a
powerful fraternity across the Pacific.  You've seen them spread
gradually over the land--why, Bill, just think of the San Gregorio five
years hence--the San Gregorio where you and I have hunted quail since I
was ten years old.  You gave me my first shot-gun--"

"Sonny," said old Bill Conway gently, passing his arm across Farrel's
shoulders, "I wish to goodness you'd shut up!  I haven't got three
hundred thousand dollars, nor a tenth of it.  If I had it I'd give it
to you now and save argument.  But I'll tell you what I have got, son,
and that's a sense of humor.  It's kept me poor all my life, but if you
think it will make you rich you're welcome to it."  He looked up, and
his glance met Kay's.  "This chap's a limited edition," he informed her
gravely.  "After the Lord printed one volume, he destroyed the plates.
Mr. Parker, sir--"  He stepped up to John Parker and smote the latter
lightly on the breast--"Tag; you're it!" he announced pleasantly.
"I'll cancel this contract when you hand me a certified check; for
twenty-four billion, nine-hundred and eighty-two million, four hundred
and seventeen thousand, six hundred and one dollars, nine cents, and
two mills."

"Conway," Parker answered him quietly, "I like your sense of humor,
even if it does hurt.  However, you force me to fight the devil with
fire.  Still, for the sake of the amenities, we should always make
formal declaration of war before beginning hostilities."

"And that's a trick you didn't learn in Japan," the old contractor
reminded him.

"So I hereby declare war.  I'm a past master at holding hard to
whatever I do not wish the other fellow to take away from me, so build
your dam and be damned to you.  Of course, if you complete your
contract eventually, you will force me to pay you for it, but in the
interim you will have had to use clam-shells and woodpecker heads for
money.  I know I can stave off settlement of your judgment for a year;
after that, should I acquire title to the Rancho Palomar, I will settle
with you promptly."

"And if you shouldn't acquire title, I shall look to my young friend,
Don Miguel Farrel, for reimbursement.  While at present the future may
look as black to Mike as the Earl of Hell's riding-boots, his credit is
good with me.  Is this new law you've promulgated retroactive?"

"What do you mean?"

"You'll settle with me for all work performed up to the moment of this
break in diplomatic relations, won't you?"

"That's quite fair, Conway.  I'll do that."  Despite the chagrin of
having to wage for the nonce a losing battle, Parker laughed heartily
and with genuine sincerity.  Don Mike joined with him and the charged
atmosphere cleared instantly.

"Bill Conway, you're twenty-four carat all through." Farrel laid a hand
affectionately on his father's old friend.  "Be sure to come down to
the hacienda tomorrow night and get your check.  We dine at six-thirty."

"As is?" Conway demanded, surveying his rusty old business suit and
hard, soiled hands.

"'As is,' Bill."

"Fine!  Well, we've come to a complete understanding without falling
out over it, haven't we?" he demanded of Kay and her mother.  "With
malice toward none and justice toward all--or words to that effect.
Eh?"

"Oh, get back into your office, Conway, and cast up the account against
me.  Figure a full day for the men and the mules, although our break
came at half-past three.  I'm a contrary man, but I'm not small.  Come
on, Mr. Farrel, let's go home," Parker suggested.

"Little birds in their nest should agree," old Conway warned, as, with
a sweep of his battered old hat to the ladies, he turned to re-enter
his office.  With a nod of farewell, John Parker and his wife started
riding down the draw, while Farrel turned to unloosen his saddle-girth
and adjust the heavy stock-saddle on the pinto's back.  While he was
thus engaged, Kay rode up to the door of Conway's rough little office,
bent down from Panchito, and peered in.

"Bill Conway!" she called softly.

Bill Conway came to the door.

"What's the big idea, Miss Parker?"

The girl glanced around and saw that Don Mike was busy with the latigo,
so she leaned down, drew her arm around the astounded Conway's neck,
and implanted on his ruddy, bristly cheek a kiss as soft--so Bill
Conway afterward described it--as goose-hair.

"You build that dam," she whispered, blushing furiously, "and see to it
that it's a good dam and will hold water for years.  I'm the reserve in
this battle--understand?  When you need money, see me, but, oh, please
do not tell Don Mike about it.  I'd die of shame."

She whirled Panchito and galloped down the draw, with Miguel Farrel
loping along behind her, while, from the door of his shack of an
office, old Bill Conway looked after them and thoughtfully rubbed a
certain spot on his cheek.  Long after the young folks had disappeared
round the base of El Palomar, he continued to gaze.  Eventually he was
brought out of his reverie when a cur dog belonging to one of the
teamsters on the grading gang thrust a cold muzzle into his hand.

"Purp," murmured Mr. Conway, softly, "this isn't a half-bad old world,
even if a fellow does grow old, and finds himself hairless and
childless and half broke and shackled to the worst automobile in the
world, bar none.  And do you know why it isn't such a rotten world as
some folks claim?  No?  Well, I'll tell you, purp.  It's because it
keeps a-movin'.  And do you know what keeps it a-movin'?  Purp, it's
love!"




XXI

At the base of El Palomar, Farrel and his party were met by the Parker
chauffeur with the car.  Pablo had guided him out and was lounging
importantly in the seat beside William.

"Don Nicolas Sandoval came to the hacienda an hour ago, Don Miguel," he
reported.  "He brought with him three others; all have gone forth to
take possession of Loustalot's sheep."

Farrel nodded and dismounted to assist Mrs. Parker as the latter came
down from her horse, somewhat stiffly.  When he turned to perform a
similar office for her daughter, however, the girl smilingly shook her
head.

"I shipped for the cruise, Don Mike," she assured him.  "May I ride
home with you?  Remember, you've got to pick up your rope and that
panther's pelt."  Her adorable face flushed faintly as her gaze sought
her mother's.  "I have never seen a panther undressed," she protested.

"Well," her amiable mother replied, with her customary hearty manner,
"far be it from me to deprive you of that interesting sight.  Take good
care of her, Miguel.  I hold you responsible for her."

"You are very kind to trust me so."

Both Parker and his wife noted that his words were not mere polite
patter.  Farrel's gravely courteous bearing, his respectful bow to Mrs.
Parker and the solemnity with which he spoke impressed them with the
conviction that this curious human study in light and shadow regarded
their approval as an honor, not a privilege.

"I shall take very good care of Miss Kay," he supplemented.  "We shall
be home for dinner."

He mounted the gray gelding, leaving Pablo to follow with the black
mare and the pinto, while he and Kay cantered down the wide white wash
of the Rio San Gregorio.

From their semi-concealment among the young willow growth, scrub cattle
gazed at them or fled, with tails aloft, for more distant thickets;
cottontail rabbits and an occasional jack-rabbit, venturing forth as
the shadows grew long in the valley, flashed through the low sage and
weeds; from the purpling hillsides cock quails called cheerily to their
families to come right home.  The air was still and cool, heavy with
the perfume of sage, blackberry briars, _yerba santa_, an occasional
bay tree and the pungent odor of moist earth and decaying vegetation.
There had fallen upon the land that atmosphere of serenity, of peace,
that is the peculiar property of California's foothill valleys in the
late afternoon; the world seemed very distant and not at all desirable,
and to Kay there came a sudden, keen realization of how this man beside
her must love this darkling valley with the hills above presenting
their flower-clad breasts to the long spears of light from the dying
day. . . .

Don Mike had caught the spirit of the little choristers of his hidden
valley, she heard him singing softly in rather a pleasing baritone
voice:

  Pienso en ti, Teresita mia,
  Cuando la luna alumbra la tierra
  He sentido el fuego de tus ojos,
  He sentido las penas del amor.

"What does it mean?" she demanded, imperiously.

"Oh, it's a very ordinary little sentiment, Miss Kay.  The Spanish
cavalier, having settled himself under his lady's window, thrums a
preliminary chord or two, just to let her and the family know he's not
working on the sly; then he says in effect: 'I think of thee, my little
Tessie, when the moonlight is shining on the world; your bright eyes
have me going for fair, kid, and due to a queer pain in my interior, I
know I'm in love.'"

"You outrageous Celt!"

He chuckled.  "A Spaniard takes his love very seriously.  He's got to
be sad and despairing about it, even when he knows very well the girl
is saying to herself: 'For heaven's sake, when will this windy bird get
down to brass tacks and pop the question?'  He droops like a stale
eschscholtzia, only, unlike that flower he hasn't sense enough to shut
up for the night!"

Her beaming face turned toward him was ample reward for his casual
display of Celtic wit, his knowledge of botany.  And suddenly she saw
his first real smile--a flash of beautiful white teeth and a wrinkling
of the skin around the merry eyes.  It came and went like a flicker of
lightning; the somber man was an insouciant lad again.

A quarter of a mile across the valley they found the torn and mutilated
carcass of a heifer, with a day-old calf grieving beside her.

"This is the work of our defunct friend, the panther," Farrel
explained.  "He had made his kill on this little heifer and eaten
heartily.  It occurred to me while we were chasing him that he was
logey.  Well--when Mike's away the cats will play."

He reached down, grasped the calf by the forelegs and drew the forlorn
little animal up before him on the saddle.  As it stretched out quietly
across his thighs, following a half-hearted struggle to escape, Kay saw
Don Mike give the orphan his left index finger to suck.

"Not much sustenance in it, is there, old timer?" he addressed the
calf.  "Coyotes would have had you tonight if I hadn't passed by."

"What a tiny calf," Kay observed, riding close to pat the sleek head.

"He's scrubby and interbred; his mother bore him before she had her own
growth and a hundred generations of him got the same poor start in
life.  You've seen people like this little runt.  He really isn't worth
carrying home, but--"

It occurred to her that his silence was eloquent of the inherent
generosity of the man, even as his poetic outburst of a few minutes
before had been eloquent of the minstrel in him.  She rode in silence,
regarding him critically from time to time, and when they came to the
tree where the panther hung he gave her the calf to hold while he
deftly skinned the dead marauder, tied the pelt behind his saddle,
relieved her of the calf and jogged away toward home.

"Well," he demanded, presently, "you do not think any the less of me
for what I did to your father this afternoon, do you?"

"Of course not.  Nobody likes a mollycoddle," she retorted.

"A battle of finances between your father and me will not be a very
desperate one.  A gnat attacking a tiger.  I shall scarcely interest
him.  I am predestined to defeat."

"But with Mr. Conway's aid--"

"Bill's aid will not amount to very much.  He was always a splendid
engineer and an honest builder, but a poor business man.  He might be
able to maintain work on the dam for awhile, but in the end lack of
adequate finances would defeat us.  And I have no right to ask Bill to
sacrifice the profit on this job which your father is willing to pay
him, in return for a cancellation of the contract; I have no right to
ask or expect Bill Conway to risk a penniless old age for me.  You see,
I attacked him at his weakest point--his heart.  It was selfish of me."

She could not combat this argument, so she said nothing and for a
quarter of a mile her companion rode with his chin on his breast, in
silence.  What a man of moods he was, she reflected.

"You despair of being able to pay my father the mortgage and regain
your ranch?" she asked, at length.

He nodded.

"But you'll fight to win--and fight to the finish, will you not?" she
persisted.

He glanced at her sharply.  "That is my natural inclination, Miss
Kay--when I permit sentiment to rule me.  But when I apply the
principles of sound horse sense--when I view the approach of the
conflict as a military man would view it, I am forced to the conviction
that in this case discretion is the better part of valor.  Battles are
never won by valorous fools who get themselves killed in a spectacular
manner."

"I see.  You plan to attempt the sale of your equity in the ranch
before my father can finally foreclose on you."

"No, that would be the least profitable course to pursue.  A
hundred-thousand-acre ranch is not sold in a hurry unless offered at a
tremendous sacrifice.  Even then it is of slow sale.  For the following
reasons: Within a few years, what with the rapid growth of population
in this state and the attrition of alien farmers on our agricultural
lands, this wonderful valley land of the Rancho Palomar will cease to
be assessed as grazing land.  It is agricultural land and as a matter
of equity it ought to pay taxes to the state on that basis.  And it
will.  I do not know--I have never heard of--a cattleman with a million
dollars cash on hand, and if I could find such a cattleman who was
looking for a hundred thousand acre ranch he would not want half of it
to be agricultural land and be forced to bankrupt himself paying taxes
on it as such."

"I think I understand.  The ranch must be sold to some person or
company who will purchase it with the idea of selling half of the ranch
as grazing land and the valley of the San Gregorio as agricultural
land."

"Quite so.  I would have to interest a sub-division expert whose
specialty is the sale of small farms, on time payments.  Well, no
business man ever contemplates the purchase, at a top price, of
property that is to be sold on mortgage foreclosure; and I think he
would be an optimist, indeed, who would bid against your father."

"Of course," he continued, patiently, "when the ranch is sold at
auction to satisfy the mortgage your father will bid it in at the
amount of the mortgage, It is improbable that he will have to pay more."

"Am I to understand then, Don Mike, that for approximately three
hundred thousand dollars he will be enabled, under this atrocious code
of business morals, to acquire a property worth at least a million
dollars?"

"Such is the law--a law as old as the world itself."

"Why, then, the whole thing is absurdly simple, Don Mike.  All you have
to do is to get a friend to bid against my father and run the price up
on him to something like a half-way decent sum.  In that way you should
manage to save a portion of your equity."

He bent upon her a benign and almost paternal glance.  "You're
tremendously sweet to put that flea in my ear, Kay.  It's a wonderful
prescription, but it lacks one small ingredient--the wealthy,
courageous and self-sacrificing friend who will consent to run the
sandy on your astute parent, as a favor to me."

She gave him a tender, prescient little smile--the smile of one who
sees beyond a veil objects not visible to the eyes of other mortals.

"Well, even if he is my dear father he ought to be nice about it and
see to it that you receive a fair price for your equity."  She clenched
her little fist.  "Why, Don Mike, that's just like killing the wounded."

"My dear girl, I do not blame your father at all.  What claim have I on
his sympathy or his purse?  I'm a stranger to him.  One has to be a
sport in such matters and take the blow with a smile."

"I don't care.  It's all wrong," she replied with spirit.  "And I'm
going to tell my father so."

"Oh, I've thought up a plan for escaping with a profit," he assured
her, lightly.  "It will leave you folks in undisputed possession of the
house and the ranch, leave Bill Conway free to proceed with his
valuable contract and leave me free to mount Panchito and fare forth to
other and more virgin fields--I trust.  All of this within a period of
forty-eight hours."

Was it fancy, or had her face really blanched a little?

"Why--why, Don Mike!  How extraordinary!"

"On the contrary, quite ordinary.  It's absurdly simple.  I need some
getaway money.  I ought to have it--and I'm going to get it by the
oldest known method--extortion through intimidation.  Your father is a
smart man and he will see the force of my argument."

"He's a very stubborn man and doesn't bluff worth a cent," she warned
him and added: "Particularly when he doesn't like one or when he is
angry.  And whatever you do, do not threaten him.  If you threaten him,
instantly he will be consumed with curiosity to see you make good."

"I shall not threaten him.  I shall merely talk business to him.
That's a language he understands."

"How much money do you expect to realize?"

"About half a million dollars."

"In return for what?"

"A quit claim deed to the Rancho Palomar.  He can have a title in fee
simple to the ranch by noon tomorrow and thus be spared the necessity
for a new suit to foreclose that accursed mortgage and the concomitant
wait of one year before taking possession.  He will then be free to
continue his well-drilling and dam-building in Caliente Basin; he can
immediately resume his negotiations with Okada for the purchase of the
entire valley and will be enabled, in all probability, to close the
deal at a splendid profit.  Then he can proceed to erect his
hydro-electric plant and sell it for another million dollars' profit to
one of the parent power companies throughout the state; when that has
been disposed of he can lease or sell the range land to Andre Loustalot
and finally he can retire with the prospect of unceasing dividends from
the profits of his irrigation company.  Within two years he will have a
profit of at least two million dollars, net, but this will not be
possible until he has first disposed of me at a total disposing price
of five hundred thousand dollars."

"Please explain that."

"As I think I have remarked in your presence once before, there is
extreme probability that the State of California will have passed
additional anti-Jap legislation, designed to tighten the present law
and eliminate the legal loop-holes whereby alien Japanese continue to
acquire land despite the existing law.  If I stand pat no Jap can set
foot in the San Gregorio valley for at least one year from date and by
that time this legislation may be in force, in which event the Jap deal
will be killed forever.  Also, there is always the off chance that I
may manage, mysteriously, to redeem the property in the interim.  It
would be worth a quarter of a million dollars to your father this
minute if he could insure himself against redemption of the mortgage;
and it would be worth an additional quarter of a million dollars to him
if he were free to do business with Okada to-morrow morning.  Okada is
a sure-fire prospect.  He will pay cash for the entire valley if I
permit the deal to go through now.  If, however, through my
stubbornness, your father loses out with Okada, it will be a year hence
before he can even recommence work on his irrigation system and another
year before he will have it completed.  Many things may occur during
those two years--the principal danger to be apprehended being the
sudden collapse of inflated war-time values, with resultant money
panics, forced liquidation and the destruction of public confidence in
land investments.  The worry and exasperation I can hand your respected
parent must be as seriously considered as the impending tremendous loss
of profit."

"I believe you are a very shrewd young man, Don Mike," the girl
answered, sadly.  "I think your plan will be much more likely to
produce half a million dollars of what you call 'getaway money' than my
suggestion that a friend run up the price on father at the sale.  But
how do you know Okada will pay cash?"

"I do not know.  But if your father's attorneys are Californians they
will warn him to play safe when dealing with a Jap."

"But is it not possible that Okada may not have sufficient money to
operate on the excessive scale you outline?"

"Not a chance.  He is not buying for himself; he is the representative
of the Japanese Association of California."

"Well, Don Miguel Farrel," the girl declared, as he ceased speaking, "I
have only known you twenty-four hours, but in that time I have heard
you do a deal of talking on the Japanese question in California.  And
now you have proved a terrible disappointment to me."

"In what way?" he demanded, and pulled his horse up abruptly.  He was
vaguely distressed at her blunt statement, apprehensive as to the
reason for her flushed face and flashing eye, the slightly strident
note in her voice.

"I have regarded you as a true blue American--a super-patriot.  And now
you calmly plan to betray your state to the enemy for the paltry sum of
half a million dollars!"

He stared at her, a variety of emotions in his glance.  "Well," he
replied, presently, "I suppose I shall deserve that, if I succeed with
my plan.  However, as a traitor, I'm not even a runner-up with your
father.  He's going to get a couple of million dollars as the price of
his shame!  And he doesn't even need the money.  On the other hand, I
am a desperate, mighty unhappy ex-soldier experiencing all of the
delights of a bankrupt, with the exception of an introduction to the
referee in bankruptcy.  I'm whipped.  Who cares what becomes of me?
Not a soul on earth except Pablo and Carolina and they, poor creatures,
are dependent upon me.  Why should I sacrifice my last chance for
happiness in a vain effort to stem a yellow tide that cannot be
stemmed?  Why do you taunt me with my aversion to sacrifice for my
country--I who have sacrificed two years of my life and some of my
blood and much of my happiness?"

Suddenly she put her little gauntleted hand up to her face and
commenced to weep.  "Oh, Don Mike, please forgive me!  I'm sorry.
I--I--have no right to demand such a sacrifice, but oh, I
thought--perhaps--you were different from all the others--that you'd be
a true--knight and die--sword in--hand--oh, dear, I'm such a--little
ninny--"

He bit his lower lip but could not quite conceal a smile.

"You mean you didn't think I was a quitter!"  His voice was grim and
crisp.  "Well, in the dirty battle for bread and butter there are no
decorations for gallantry in action; in that conflict I do not have to
live up to the one that Congress gave me.  And why shouldn't I quit?  I
come from a long line of combination fighter-quitters.  We were never
afraid of hardship or physical pain, danger or death, but--we couldn't
face conditions; we balked and quit in the face of circumstance; we
retired always before the economic onslaught of the Anglo-Saxon."

"Ah, but you're Anglo-Saxon," she sobbed.  "You belong to the race that
doesn't quit--that somehow muddles through."

"If I but possessed blue eyes and flaxen hair--if I but possessed the
guerdon of a noble lady's love--I might not have disappointed you, Kay.
I might still have been a true knight and died sword in hand.
Unfortunately, however, I possess sufficient Latin blood to make me a
little bit lazy--to counsel quitting while the quitting is good."

"I'm terribly disappointed," she protested.  "Terribly."

"So am I.  I'm ashamed of myself, but--a contrite heart is not hockable
at the only pawnshop in El Toro.  Buck up, Miss Parker!"

"You have called me Kay three times this afternoon, Miguel--"

He rode close to her, reached over and gently drew one little hand from
her crimson face.  "You're a dear girl, Kay," he murmured, huskily.
"Please cease weeping.  You haven't insulted me or even remotely hurt
my little feelings.  God bless your sweet soul!  If you'll only stop
crying, I'll give you Panchito.  He's yours from this minute.  Saddle
and bridle, too.  Take him.  Do what you please with him, but for
heaven's sake don't let your good mother think we've been
quarreling--and on the very second day of our acquaintance."

She dashed the tears away and beamed up at him.  "You give Panchito to
me!  You don't mean it!"

"I do.  I told you I might give him away to somebody worth while."

"You haven't known me long enough to give me valuable presents,
Miguel," she demurred.  "You're a dear to want to give him to me and
I'm positively mad to own him, but Mother and Dad might think--well,
that is, they might not understand.  Of course we understand perfectly,
but--well--you understand, don't you, Miguel?"

"I understand that I cannot afford to have your father suspect that I
am unmindful of--certain conditions," he answered her, and flushed with
embarrassment.  "If you do not want Panchito as a gift I shall not
insist--"

"I think it would be a good idea for you to permit Dad to buy him for
me.  He's worth every cent of five thousand dollars--"

"I'll never sell him.  I told you this afternoon I love him.  I never
sell a horse or a dog that I love or that loves me.  I shall have to
take him back, Kay--for the present."

"I think that would be the better way, Miguel." She bent upon him an
inscrutable smile but in the depths of her brown eyes he thought he
detected laughter.

"You'll buck up now?" he pleaded.

"I'm already bucked up."

As they rode up to the great barn, Kay dismounted.  "Leave the old
trifle at the door, Kay," Farrel told her.  "Pablo will get him home.
Excuse me, please, while I take this calf over to Carolina.  She'll
make a man out of him.  She's a wonder at inducing little mavericks
like this fellow to drink milk from a bucket."

He jogged away, while Panchito, satisfied that he had performed
throughout the day like a perfect gentleman, bent his head and rubbed
his forehead against Kay's cheek, seeking some evidence of growing
popularity with the girl.  To his profound satisfaction she scratched
him under the jawbone and murmured audibly:

"Never mind, old dear.  Some day you'll be my Panchito.  He loves you
and didn't he say he could only give you away for love?"




CHAPTER XXII

Dinner that night was singularly free from conversation.  Nobody
present felt inclined to be chatty.  John Parker was wondering what
Miguel Farrel's next move would be, and was formulating means to
checkmate it; Kay, knowing what Don Mike's next move would be and
knowing further that she was about to checkmate it, was silent through
a sense of guilt; Mrs. Parker's eight miles in the saddle that
afternoon had fatigued her to the point of dissipating her buoyant
spirits, and Farrel had fallen into a mood of deep abstraction.

"Are we to listen to naught but the champing of food?" Mrs. Parker
inquired presently.

"Hello!" her husband declared.  "So you've come up for air, eh, Katie?"

"Oh, I'm feeling far from chatty, John.  But the silence is oppressive.
Miguel, are you plotting against the whites?"

He looked up with a smiling nod.  "I'm making big medicine, Mrs.
Parker.  So big, in fact," he continued, as he folded his napkin and
thrust it carefully into the ring, "that I am going to ask your
permission to withdraw.  I have been very remiss in my social duties.
I have been home twenty-four hours and I have passed the Mission de la
Madre Dolorosa three times, yet I have not been inside to pay my
respects to my old friends there.  I shall be in disgrace if I fail to
call this evening for Father Dominic's blessing.  They'll be wondering
why I neglect them."

"How do you know they know you're home?" Parker demanded, suspiciously.
He was wondering if Don Miguel's excuse to leave the table might have
some connection with Bill Conway and the impending imbroglio.

"Brother Flavio told me so to-night.  As we rode down the valley he was
ringing the Angelus; and after the Angelus he played on the chimes,
'I'm Nearer Home To-day.'  May I be excused, Mrs. Parker?"

"By all means, Michael."

"Thank you."  He included them all in a courteous nod of farewell.
They heard the patio gate close behind him.

"I wish I dared follow him," Parker observed.  "I wonder if he really
is going down to the Mission.  I think I'll make certain."

He left the room, went out to the patio gate, opened it slightly and
peered out.  His host's tall form, indistinct in the moonlight, was
disappearing toward the palm-lined avenue, so Parker, satisfied that
Don Mike had embarked upon the three-mile walk to the Mission, returned
to the dining-room.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Kay queried.

"I think he's headed for the Mission, after all, Kay."

"I never doubted it."

"Why?"

"Because he wouldn't tell a trifling lie to deceive when there was no
necessity for deceiving.  His plans are fully matured and he will not
act until morning.  In that three-mile walk to the Mission he will
perfect the details of his plan of attack."

"Then he is planning?--but you said his plans are fully matured.  How
do you know, Kay?"

"He told me all about them as we were riding in this evening."  Both
Parker and his wife raised interrogatory eyebrows.  "Indeed!" Mrs.
Parker murmured.  "So he's honoring you with his confidences already?"

The girl ignored her mother's bantering tones.  "No, he didn't tell me
in confidence.  In fact, his contemplated procedure is so normal and
free from guile that he feels there is no necessity for secrecy.  I
suppose he feels that it would be foolish to conceal the trap after the
mouse has been caught in it."

"Well, little daughter, I haven't been caught--yet.  And I'm not a
mouse, but considerable of an old fox.  What's he up to?"

"He's going to sell you his equity in the ranch."

Her father stared hard at her, a puzzled little smile beginning to
break over his handsome face.

"That sounds interesting," he replied, dryly.  "What am I going to pay
for it?"

"Half a million dollars."

"Nonsense."

"Perhaps.  But you'll have to admit that his reasoning is not so
preposterous as you think."  And she went on to explain to Parker every
angle of the situation as Don Mike viewed it.

Both Parker and his wife listened attentively.  "Well, John," the good
soul demanded, when her daughter had finished speaking: "What's wrong
with that prescription?"

"By George, that young man has a head on his shoulders.  His reasoning
is absolutely flawless.  However, I am not going to pay him any
half-million dollars.  I might, in a pinch, consider paying him half
that, but--"

"Would a quit-claim deed be worth half a million to you, Dad?"

"As a matter of cold business, it would.  Are you quite certain he was
serious?"

"Oh, quite serious."

"He's a disappointment, Kay.  I had hoped he would prove to be a
worth-while opponent, for certainly he is a most likable young man.
However--"  He smothered a yawn with his hand, selected a cigar
from his case, carefully cut off the end and lighted it.  "Poor devil,"
he murmured, presently, and rose, remarking that he might as well take
a turn or two around the farmyard as a first aid to digestion.

Once outside, he walked to the edge of the mesa and gazed down the
moon-lit San Gregorio.  Half a mile away he saw a moving black spot on
the white ribbon of road.  "Confound you," he murmured, "you're going
to get some of my tail feathers, but not quite the handful you
anticipate.  You cannot stand the acid test, Don Mike, and I'm glad to
know that."




CHAPTER XXIII

As Farrel approached the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa, a man in the
rusty brown habit of a Franciscan friar rose from a bench just outside
the entrance to the Mission garden.

"My son," he said, in calm, paternal accents and speaking in Spanish,
"I knew you would come to see your old friends when you had laid aside
the burdens of the day.  I have waited here to be first to greet you;
for you I am guilty of the sin of selfishness."

"Padre Dominic!" Don Mike grasped the out-stretched hand and wrung it
heartily.  "Old friend!  Old Saint!  Not since my confirmation have I
asked for your blessing," and with the words he bent his head while the
old friar, making the sign of the cross, asked the blessing of God upon
the last of the Farrels.

Don Mike drew his old friend down to the seat the latter had just
vacated.  "We will talk here for awhile, Father," he suggested.  "I
expect the arrival of a friend in an automobile and I would not be in
the garden when he passes.  Later I will visit with the others.  Good
Father Dominic, does God still bless you with excellent health?"

"He does, Miguel, but the devil afflicts me with rheumatism."

"You haven't changed a bit, father Dominic."

"Mummies do not change, my son.  I have accomplished ninety-two years
of my life; long ago I used up all possibilities for change, even for
the worse.  It is good to have you home, Miguel.  Pablo brought us the
news early this morning.  We wondered why you did not look in upon us
as you passed last night."

"I looked in at my father's grave.  I was in no mood for meeting those
who had loved him."

For perhaps half an hour they conversed; then the peace of the valley
was broken by the rattling and labored puffing of an asthmatic
automobile.

Father Dominic rose and peered around the corner.  "Yonder comes one
who practises the great virtue of economy," he announced, "for he is
running without lights.  Doubtless he deems the moonlight sufficient."

Farrel stepped out into the road and held up his arm as a signal for
the motorist to halt.  Old Bill Conway swung his prehistoric automobile
off the road and pulled up before the Mission, his carbon-heated motor
continuing to fire spasmodically even after he had turned off the
ignition.

"Hello, Miguel," he called, cheerily.  "What are you doing here, son?"

"Calling on my spiritual adviser and waiting for you, Bill."

"Howdy, Father Dominic."  Conway leaped out and gave his hand to the
old friar.  "Miguel, how did you know I was coming?"

"This is the only road out of Agua Caliente basin--and I know you!
You'd give your head for a football to anybody you love, but the man
who takes anything away from you will have to get up early in the
morning."

"Go to the head of the class, boy.  You're right.  I figured Parker
would be getting up rather early tomorrow morning and dusting into El
Toro to clear for action, so I thought I'd come in to-night.  I'm going
to rout out an attorney the minute I get to town, have him draw up a
complaint in my suit for damages against Parker for violation of
contract, file the complaint the instant the county clerk's office
opens in the morning and then attach his account in the El Toro bank."

"You might attach his stock in that institution while you're at it,
Bill.  However, I wouldn't stoop so low as to attach his two
automobiles.  The Parkers are guests of mine and I wouldn't
inconvenience the ladies for anything,"

"By the Holy Poker!  Have they got two automobiles?"  There was a hint
of apprehension in old Conway's voice.

"Si, _senor_.  A touring car and a limousine."

"Oh, lord!  I'm mighty glad you told me, Miguel.  I only stole the
spark plugs from that eight cylinder touring car.  Lucky thing the
hounds know me.  They like to et me up at first."

Farrel sat down on the filthy running board of Bill Conway's car and
laughed softly.  "Oh, Bill, you're immense!  So that's why you're
running without lights!  You concluded that even if he did get up early
in the morning you couldn't afford to permit him to reach El Toro
before the court-house opened for business."

"A wise man counteth his chickens before they are hatched, Miguel.
Where does Parker keep the limousine?"

"Bill, I cannot tell you that.  These people are my guests."

"Oh, very well.  Now that I know it's there I'll find it.  What did you
want to see me about, boy?"

"I've been thinking of our conversation of this afternoon, Bill, and as
a result I'm panicky.  I haven't any right to drag you into trouble or
ask you to share my woes.  I've thought it over and I think I shall
play safe.  Parker will get the ranch in the long run, but if I give
him a quit-claim deed now I think he will give me at least a quarter of
a million dollars.  It'll be worth that to him to be free to proceed
with his plans."

"Yes, I can understand that, Miguel, and probably, from a business
standpoint, your decision does credit to your common sense.  But how
about this Jap colony?"

"Bill, can two lone, poverty-stricken Californians hope to alter the
immigration laws of the entire United States?  Can we hope to keep the
present Japanese population of California confined to existing areas?"

"No, I suppose not."

"I had a wild hope this afternoon--guess I was a bit theatrical--but it
was a hope based on selfishness.  I'm only twenty-eight years old,
Bill, but you are nearly sixty.  I'm too young to sacrifice my old
friends, so I've waited here to tell you that you are released from
your promise to support me.  Settle with Parker and pull out in peace."

Conway pondered.  "Wel-l-l-l," he concluded, finally, "perhaps you're
right, son.  Nevertheless, I'm going to enter suit and attach.  Foolish
to hunt big game with an empty gun, Miguel.  Parker spoke of an
amicable settlement, but as Napoleon remarked, 'God is on the side of
the strongest battalions,' and an amicable settlement is much more
amicably obtained, when a forced settlement is inevitable."  And the
cunning old rascal winked solemnly.

Farrel stood up.  "Well, that's all I wanted to see you about, Bill.
That, and to say 'thank you' until you are better paid."

"Well, I'm on my way, Miguel."  The old contractor shook hands with
Father Dominic and Farrel, cranked his car, turned it and headed back
up the San Gregorio, while Father Dominic guided Don Mike into the
Mission refectory, where Father Andreas and the lay brothers sat around
the dinner table, discussing a black scale which had lately appeared on
their olive trees.

At the entrance to the palm avenue, Bill Conway stopped his car and
proceeded afoot to the Farrel hacienda, which he approached cautiously
from the rear, through the oaks.  A slight breeze was blowing down the
valley, so Conway manoeuvred until a short quick bark from one of
Farrel's hounds informed him that his scent had been borne to the
kennel and recognized as that of a friend.  Confident now that he would
not be discovered by the inmates of the hacienda, Bill Conway proceeded
boldly to the barn.  Just inside the main building which, in more
prosperous times on El Palomar, had been used for storing hay, the
touring car stood.  Conway fumbled along the instrument board and
discovered the switch key still in the lock, so he turned on the
headlights and discovered the limousine thirty feet away in the rear of
the barn.  Ten minutes later, with the spark plugs from both cars
carefully secreted under a pile of split stove wood in the yard, he
departed as silently as he had come.

About nine o'clock Don Mike left the Mission and walked home.  On the
hills to the north he caught the glare of a camp-fire against the
silvery sky; wherefore he knew that Don Nicolas Sandoval and his
deputies were guarding the Loustalot sheep.

At ten o'clock he entered the patio.  In a wicker chaise-longue John
Parker lounged on the porch outside his room; Farrel caught the scent
of his cigar on the warm, semi-tropical night, saw the red end of it
gleaming like a demon's eye.

"Hello, Mr. Farrel," Parker greeted him.  "Won't you sit down and smoke
a cigar with me before turning in?"

"Thank you.  I shall be happy to."  He crossed the garden to his guest,
sat down beside him and gratefully accepted the fragrant cigar Parker
handed him.  A moment later Kay joined them.

"Wonderful night," Parker remarked.  "Mrs. P. retired early, but Kay
and I sat up chatting and enjoying the peaceful loveliness of this old
garden.  A sleepless mocking bird and a sleepy little thrush gave a
concert in the sweet-lime tree; a couple of green frogs in the fountain
rendered a bass duet; Kay thought that if we remained very quiet the
spirits of some lovers of the 'splendid idle forties' might appear in
your garden."

The mood of the night was still upon the girl.  In the momentary
silence that followed she commenced singing softly:

  I saw an old-fashioned missus,
  Taking old-fashioned kisses,
  In an old-fashioned garden,
  From an old-fashioned beau.

Don Mike slid off the porch and went to his own room, returning
presently with a guitar.  "I've been wanting to play a little," he
confessed as he tuned the neglected instrument, "but it seemed sort of
sacrilegious--after coming home and finding my father gone and the
ranch about to go.  However--why sip sorrow with a long spoon?  What's
that ballad about the old-fashioned garden, Miss Kay?  I like it.  If
you'll hum it a few times--"

Ten minutes later he knew the simple little song and was singing it
with her.  Mrs. Parker, in dressing gown, slippers and boudoir cap,
despairing of sleep until all of the members of her family had first
preceded her to bed, came out and joined them; presently they were all
singing happily together, while Don Mike played or faked an
accompaniment.

At eleven o'clock Farrel gave a final vigorous strum to the guitar and
stood up to say good-night.

"Shall we sing again to-morrow night, Don Mike?" Kay demanded, eagerly.

Farrel's glance rested solemnly upon her father's face.  "Well, if we
all feel happy to-morrow night I see no objection," he answered.  "I
fear for your father, Miss Kay.  Have you told him of my plans for
depleting his worldly wealth?"

She flushed a little and answered in the affirmative.

"How does the idea strike you, Mr. Parker?"

John Parker grinned--the superior grin of one who knows his superior
strength, "Like a great many principles that are excellent in theory,
your plan will not work in practice."

"No?"

"No."

For the second time that day Kay saw Don Mike's face light up with that
insouciant boyish smile.

Then he skipped blithely across the garden thrumming the guitar and
singing:

  Mine eyes have seen the glory of the
        coming of the Lord!

At seven o'clock next morning, while Miguel Farrel was shaving, John
Parker came to his door, knocked, and without further ado came into the
room.

"Farrel," he began, briskly, "I do not relish your way of doing
business.  Where are the spark plugs of my two cars?"

"My dear man, I haven't taken them, so why do you ask me?  I am not
flattered at your blunt hint that I would so far forget my position as
host as to steal the spark plugs from my guest's automobiles."

"I beg your pardon.  Somebody took them and naturally I jumped to the
conclusion that you were the guilty party."

Don Mike shaved in silence.

"Do you know who removed those spark plugs, Mr. Farrel?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Who did it?"

"Bill Conway.  He came by last night and concluded it would be better
to make quite certain that you remained away from El Toro until about
nine-thirty o'clock this morning.  It was entirely Bill's idea.  I did
not suggest it to him, directly or indirectly.  He's old enough to roll
his own hoop.  He had a complaint in action drawn up against you last
night; it will be filed at nine o'clock this morning and immediately
thereafter your bank account and your stock in the First National Bank
of El Toro will be attached.  Of course you will file a bond to lift
the attachment, but Bill will have your assets where he can levy on
them when he gets round to collecting on the judgment which he will
secure against you unless you proceed with the contract for that dam."

"And this is Conway's work entirely?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's clever work.  I'm sorry it wasn't yours.  May I have the loan of
a saddle horse--Panchito or the gray?"

"Not to ride either of them, breakfastless, twenty-one miles to El Toro
in two hours.  They can do it, but not under an impost of a hundred and
ninety pounds.  You might ruin both of them--" he scraped his chin,
smiling blandly-- "and I know you'd about ruin yourself, sir.  The
saddle had commenced to get very sore before you had completed eight
miles yesterday."

"Then I'm out of luck, I dare say."

"Strikes me that way, Mr. Parker."

"Very well.  You force me to talk business.  What will that quit-claim
deed cost me?"

"Six hundred thousand dollars.  I've raised the ante since last night."

"I'll not pay it."

"What will you pay?"

"About fifty per cent. of it."

"I might consider less than my first figure and more than your last.
Make me a firm offer--in writing--and I'll give you a firm answer the
instant you hand me the document.  I'm a poor bargainer.  Haggling
irritates me--so I never haggle.  And I don't care a tinker's hoot
whether you buy me off or not.  After nine o'clock this morning you
will have lost the opportunity, because I give you my word of honor, I
shall decline even to receive an offer."

He reached over on his bureau and retrieved therefrom a sheet of paper.
"Here is the form I desire your offer to take, sir," he continued,
affably, and handed the paper to Parker.  "Please re-write it in ink,
fill in the amount of your offer and sign it.  You have until nine
o'clock, remember.  At nine-one you will be too late."

Despite his deep annoyance, Parker favored him with a sardonic grin.
"You're a good bluffer, Farrel."

Don Mike turned from the mirror and regarded his guest very solemnly.
"How do you know?" he queried, mildly.  "You've never seen me bluff.
I've seen a few inquests held in this country over some men who bluffed
in an emergency.  We're no longer wild and woolly out here, but when we
pull, we shoot.  Remember that, sir."

Parker felt himself abashed in the presence of this cool young man, for
nothing is so disconcerting as a defeated enemy who refuses to
acknowledge defeat.  It occurred to Parker in that moment that there
was nothing extraordinary in Farrel's action; for consideration of the
sweetness of life cannot be presumed to arouse a great deal of interest
in one who knows he will be murdered if he does not commit suicide.

John Parker tucked the paper in his pocket and thoughtfully left the
room.  "The boy distrusts me," he soliloquized, "afraid I'll go back on
any promise I make him, so he demands my offer in writing.  Some more
of his notions of business, Spanish style.  Stilted and unnecessary.
How like all of his kind he is!  Ponderous in minor affairs, casual in
major matters of business."

An hour later he came up to Don Mike, chatting with Kay and Mrs. Parker
on the porch, and thrust an envelope into Farrel's hand.

"Here is my offer--in writing."

"Thank you, sir."  Don Mike thrust the envelope unopened into the
breast pocket of his coat and from the side pocket of the same garment
drew another envelope.  "Here is my answer--in writing."

Parker stared at him in frank amazement and admiration; Kay's glance,
as it roved from her father to Don Mike and back again, was sad and
troubled.

"Then you've reopened negotiations, father," she demanded, accusingly.

He nodded.  "Our host has a persuasive way about him, Kay," he
supplemented.  "He insisted so on my making him an offer that finally I
consented."

"And now," Farrel assured her, "negotiations are about to be closed."

"Absolutely?"

"Absolutely.  Never to be reopened, Miss Kay."

Parker opened his envelope and read.  His face was without emotion.
"That answer is entirely satisfactory to me, Mr. Farrel," he said,
presently, and passed the paper to his daughter.  She read:

I was tempted last night.  You should have closed then.  I have changed
my mind.  Your offer--whatever it may be--is declined.

"I also approve," Kay murmured, and in the swift glance she exchanged
with Don Miguel he read something that caused his heart to beat
happily.  Mrs. Parker took the paper from her daughter's hand and read
it also.

"Very well, Ajax.  I think, we all think a great deal more of you for
defying the lightning," was her sole comment.

Despite his calm, John Parker was irritated to the point of fury.  He
felt that he had been imposed upon by Don Mike; his great god,
business, had been scandalously flouted.

"I am at a loss to understand, Mr. Farrel," he said, coldly, "why you
have subjected me to the incivility of requesting from me an offer in
writing and then refusing to read it when I comply with your request.
Why subject me to that annoyance when you knew you intended to refuse
any offer I might make you?  I do not relish your flippancy at my
expense, sir."

"Do you not think, sir, that I can afford a modicum of flippancy when I
pay such a fearfully high price for it?" Don Mike countered smilingly.
"I'll bet a new hat my pleasantry cost me not less than four hundred
thousand dollars.  I think I'll make certain," and he opened Parker's
envelope and read what was contained therein.  "Hum-m!  Three hundred
and twenty-five thousand?"

Parker extended his hand.  "I would be obliged to you for the return of
that letter," he began, but paused, confused, at Farrel's cheerful,
mocking grin.

"All's fair in love and war," he quoted, gaily.  "I wanted a document
to prove to some banker or pawn-broker that I have an equity in this
ranch and it is worth three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars,
in the opinion of the astute financier who holds a first mortgage on
it.  Really, I think I'd be foolish to give away this evidence," and he
tucked it carefully back in his pocket.

"I wonder," Kay spoke up demurely, "which ancestor from which side of
the family tree put that idea in his head, father?"

Don Mike pretended not to have heard her.  He turned kindly to John
Parker and laid a friendly hand upon the latter's arm.

"I think Bill Conway will drift by about ten o'clock or ten-thirty, Mr.
Parker.  I know he will not cause you any more inconvenience than he
finds absolutely necessary, sir.  He's tricky, but he isn't mean."

Parker did not reply.  He did not know whether to laugh or fly into a
rage, to offer Don Mike his hand or his fist.  The latter must have
guessed Parker's feelings, for he favored his guests with a Latin shrug
and a deprecatory little smile, begged to be excused and departed for
the barn.  A quarter of an hour later Kay saw him and Pablo ride out of
the yard and over the hills toward the west; she observed that Farrel
was riding his father's horse, wherefore she knew that he had left
Panchito behind for her.

Farrel found Don Nicolas Sandoval, the sheriff, by riding straight to a
column of smoke he saw rising from a grove of oaks on a flat hilltop.

"What do you mean by camping out here, Don Nicolas?" Farrel demanded as
he rode up.  "Since when has it become the fashion to await a formal
invitation to the hospitality of the Rancho Palomar?"

"I started to ride down to the hacienda at sunset last night," Don
Nicolas replied, "but a man on foot and carrying a rifle and a blanket
came over the hills to the south.  I watched him through my binoculars.
He came down into the wash of the San Gregorio--and I did not see him
come out.  So I knew he was camped for the night in the willow thickets
of the river bed; that he was a stranger in the country, else he would
have gone up to your hacienda for the night; that his visit spelled
danger to you, else why did he carry a rifle?

"I went supperless, watching from the hillside to see if this stranger
would light a fire in the valley."

"He did not?" Farrel queried.

"Had he made a camp-fire, my boy, I would have accorded myself the
pleasure of an informal visit, incidentally ascertaining who he was and
what he wanted.  I am very suspicious of strangers who make cold camps
in the San Gregorio.  At daylight this morning I rode down the wash and
searched for his camp.  I found where he had slept in the grass--also
this," and he drew from his pocket a single rifle cartridge.
"Thirty-two-forty caliber, Miguel," he continued, "with a soft-nose
bullet.  I do not know of one in this county who shoots such a heavy
rifle.  In the old days we used the .44 caliber, but nowadays, we
prefer nothing heavier than a .30 and many use a .35 caliber for deer."

Farrel drew a 6 millimeter Mannlicher carbine from the gun scabbard on
his saddle, dropped five shells into the magazine, looked at his sights
and thrust the weapon back into its receptacle.  "I think I ought to
have some more life insurance," he murmured, complacently.  "By the
way, Don Nicolas, about how many sheep have I attached?"

"Loustalot's foreman says nine thousand in round numbers."

"Where is the sheep camp?"

"Over yonder."  Don Nicolas waved a careless hand toward the west.  "I
saw their camp-fire last night."

"I'm going over to give them the rush."

"By all means, Miguel.  If you run those Basques off the ranch I will
be able to return to town and leave my deputies in charge of these
sheep.  Keep your eyes open, Miguel.  _Adios, muchacho_!"

Farrel jogged away with Pablo at his heels.  Half an hour later he had
located the sheep camp and ridden to it to accost the four bewhiskered
Basque shepherds who, surrounded by their dogs, sullenly watched his
approach.

"Who is the foreman?" Don Mike demanded in English as he rode.

"I am, you ---- ---- ----," one of the Basques replied,
briskly.  "I don't have for ask who are you.  I know."

"Mebbeso some day, you forget," Pablo cried.  "I will give you
something for make you remember, pig."  The old majordomo was riding
the black mare.  A touch of the spur, a bound, and she was beside
Loustalot's foreman, with Pablo cutting the fellow furiously over the
head and face with his heavy quirt.  The other three sheepmen ran for
the tent, but Don Mike spurred the gray in between them and their
objective, at the same time drawing his carbine.

There was no further argument.  The sheepherders' effects were soon
transferred to the backs of three burros and, driving the little
animals ahead of them, the Basques moved out.  Farrel and Don Nicolas
followed them to the boundaries of the ranch and shooed them out
through a break in the fence.

"Regarding that stranger who camped last night in the valley, Don
Miguel.  Would it not be well to look into his case?"

Don Mike nodded.  "We will ride up the valley, Pablo, as if we seek
cattle; if we find this fellow we will ask him to explain."

"That is well," the old Indian agreed, and dropped back to his
respectful position in his master's rear.  As they topped the ridge
that formed the northern buttress of the San Gregorio, Pablo rode to
the left and started down the hill through a draw covered with a thick
growth of laurel, purple lilac, a few madone trees and an occasional
oak.  He knew that a big, five-point buck had its habitat here and it
was Pablo's desire to jump this buck out and thus afford his master a
glimpse of the trophy that awaited him later in the year.

From the valley below a rifle cracked.  Pablo slid out of his saddle
with the ease of a youth and lay flat on the ground beside the trail.
But no bullet whined up the draw or struck near him, wherefore he knew
that he was not the object of an attack; yet there was wild pounding of
his heart when the rifle spoke again and again.

The thud of hoofs smote his ear sharply, so close was he to the ground.
Slowly Pablo raised his head.  Over the hog's back which separated the
draw in which Pablo lay concealed from the draw down which Don Miguel
had ridden, the gray horse came galloping--riderless--and Pablo saw the
stock of the rifle projecting from the scabbard.  The runaway plunged
into the draw some fifteen yards in front of Pablo, found a cow-trail
leading down it and disappeared into the valley.

Pablo's heart swelled with agony.  "It has happened!" he murmured.
"Ah, Mother of God!  It has happened!"

Two more shots in rapid succession sounded from the valley.  "He makes
certain of his kill," thought Pablo.  After a while he addressed the
off front foot of the black mare.  "I will do likewise."

He started crawling on his belly up out of the draw to the crest of the
hog's back.  He had an impression, amounting almost to a certainty,
that the assassin in the valley had not seen him riding down the draw,
otherwise he would not have opened fire on Don Miguel.  He would have
bided his time and chosen an occasion when there would be no witnesses.

For an hour he waited, watching, grieving, weeping a little.  From the
draw where Don Miguel lay no sound came forth.  Pablo tried hard to
erase from his mind a vision of what he would find when, his primal
duty of vengeance, swift and complete, accomplished, he should go down
into that draw.  His tear-dimmed, bloodshot eyes searched the
valley--ah, what was that?  A cow, a deer or a man?  Surely something
had moved in the brush at the edge of the river wash.

Pablo rubbed the moisture from his eyes and looked again.  A man was
crossing the wash on foot and he carried a rifle.  A few feet out in
the wash he paused, irresolute, turned back, and knelt in the sand.

"Oh, blessed Mother of God!" Pablo almost sobbed, joyously.  "I will
burn six candles in thy honor and keep flowers on thy altar at the
Mission for a year!"

Again the man stood up and started across the wash.  He no longer had
his rifle.  "It is as I thought," Pablo soliloquized.  "He has buried
the rifle in the sand."

Pablo watched the man start resolutely across the three-mile stretch of
flat ground between the river and the hills to the south.  Don Nicolas
Sandoval had remarked that the stranger had come in over the hills to
the south.  Very well!  Believing himself undetected, he would depart
in the same direction.  The Rancho Palomar stretched ten miles to the
south and it would be a strange coincidence if, in that stretch of
rolling, brushy country, a human being should cross his path.

The majordomo quickly crawled back into the draw where the black mare
patiently awaited him.  Leading her, he started cautiously down, taking
advantage of every tuft of cover until, arrived at the foot of the
draw, he discovered that some oaks effectually screened his quarry from
sight.  Reasoning quite correctly that the same oaks as effectually
screened him from his quarry, Pablo mounted and galloped straight
across country for his man.

He rode easily, for he was saving the mare's speed for a purpose.  The
fugitive, casting a guilty look to the rear, saw him coming and paused,
irresolute, but observing no evidences of precipitate haste, continued
his retreat, which (Pablo observed, grimly) was casual now, as if he
desired to avert suspicion.

Pablo pulled the mare down to a trot, to a walk.  He could afford to
take his time and it was not part of his plan to bungle his work by
undue baste.  The fugitive was crossing through a patch of lilac and
Pablo desired to overhaul him in a wide open space beyond, so he urged
the mare to a trot again and jogged by on a parallel course, a hundred
yards distant.

"_Buena dias, senor_," he called, affably, and waved his hand at the
stranger, who waved back.

On went the old majordomo, across the clear space and into the oaks
beyond.  The fugitive, his suspicions now completely lulled, followed
and when he was quite in the center of this chosen ground, Pablo
emerged from the shelter of the oaks and bore down upon him.  The mare
was at a fast lope and Pablo's rawhide riata was uncoiled now; the loop
swung in slow, fateful circles--

There could be no mistaking his purpose.  With a cry that was curiously
animal-like, the man ran for the nearest brush.  Twenty feet from him,
Pablo made his cast and shrieked exultantly as the loop settled over
his prey.  A jerk and it was fast around the fellow's mid-riff; a half
hitch around the pommel, a touch of a huge Mexican spur to the flank of
the fleet little black thoroughbred and Pablo Artelan was headed for
home!  He picked his way carefully in order that he might not snag in
the bushes that which he dragged behind him, and he leaned forward in
the saddle to equalize the weight of the THING that bumped and leaped
and slid along the ground behind him.  There had been screams at first,
mingled with Pablo's exultant shouts of victory, but by the time the
river was reached there was no sound but a scraping, slithering
one--the sound of the vengeance of Pablo Artelan.

When he reached the wagon road he brought the mare to a walk.  He did
not look back, for he knew his power; the scraping, slithering sound
was music to his ears; it was all the assurance he desired.  As calmly
as, during the spring round-up, he dragged a calf up to the branding
fire, he dragged his victim up into the front yard of the Rancho
Palomar and paused before the patio gate.

"Ho!  Senor Parker!" he shouted.  "Come forth.  I have something for
the _senor_.  Queeck, _Senor_!"

The gate opened and John Parker stepped out.  "Hello, Pablo!  What's
all the row about?"

Pablo turned in his saddle and pointed.  "_Mira_!  Look!" he croaked.

"Good God!" Parker cried.  "What is that?"

"Once he use' for be one Jap.  One good friend of you, I theenk, Senor
Parker.  He like for save you much trouble, I theenk, so he keel my Don
Mike--an' for that I have--ah, but you see!  An' now, senor, eet is all
right for take the Rancho Palomar!  Take eet, take eet!  Ees nobody for
care now--nobody!  Eef eet don' be for you daughter I don't let you
have eet.  No, sir, I keel it you so queeck--but my Don Mike hes never
forget hes one great _caballero_--so Pablo Artelan mus' not forget,
too--you sleep in theese hacienda, you eat the food--ah, senor, I am so
'shame' for you--and my Don Mike--hees dead--hees dead--"

He slid suddenly off the black mare and lay unconscious in the dust
beside her.




CHAPTER XXIV

Once again a tragic scene had been enacted under the shade of the
catalpa tree before the Farrel hacienda.  The shock of a terrible,
unexpected trend of events heralded by the arrival of Pablo Artelan and
his victim had, seemingly, paralyzed John Parker mentally and
physically.  He felt again a curious cold, weak, empty feeling in his
breast.  It was the concomitant of defeat; he had felt it twice before
when he had been overwhelmed and mangled by the wolves of Wall Street.

He was almost nauseated.  Not at sight of the dusty, bloody, shapeless
bundle that lay at the end of Pablo's riata, but with the realization
that, indirectly, he had been responsible for all of this.

Pablo's shrill, agonized denunciation had fallen upon deaf ears, once
the old majordomo had conveyed to Parker the information of Don Mike's
death.

"The rope--take it off!" he protested to the unconscious Pablo.  "It's
cutting him in two.  He looks like a link of sausage!  Ugh!  A Jap!
Horrible!  I'm smeared--I can't explain--nobody in this country will
believe me--Pablo will kill me--"

He sat down on the bench under the catalpa tree, covered his face with
his hands and closed his eyes.  When he ventured again to look up, he
observed that Pablo, in falling from his horse, had caught one huge
Mexican spur on the cantle of his saddle and was suspended by the heel,
grotesquely, like a dead fowl.  The black mare, a trained roping horse,
stood patiently, her feet braced a little, still keeping a strain on
the riata.

Parker roused himself.  With his pocket knife he cut the spur strap,
eased the majordomo to the ground, carried him to the bench and
stretched him out thereon.  Then, grasping the mare by the bridle, he
led her around the adobe wall; he shuddered inwardly as he heard the
steady, slithering sound behind her.

"Got to get that Thing out of the way," he mumbled.  The great barn
door was open; from within he could hear his chauffeur whistling.  So
he urged the mare to a trot and got past the barn without having been
observed.  An ancient straw stack stood in the rear of the barn and in
the shadow of this he halted, removed the riata from the pommel,
dragged the body close to the stack, and with a pitchfork he hastily
covered it with old, weather-beaten straw.  All of this he accomplished
without any purpose more definite than a great desire to hide from his
wife and from his daughter this offense which Pablo had thrust upon him.

He led the black mare into the barn and tied her.  Then he returned to
Pablo.

The old Indian was sitting up.  At sight of Parker he commenced to
curse bitterly, in Spanish and English, this invader who had brought
woe upon the house of Farrel.  But John Parker was a white man.

"Shut up, you saddle-colored old idol," he roared, and shook Pablo
until the latter's teeth rattled together.  "If the mischief is done it
can't be helped--and it was none of my making.  Pull yourself together
and tell me where this killing occurred.  We've got to get Don Miguel's
body."

For answer Pablo snarled and tried to stab him, so Parker, recalling a
fragment of the athletic lore of his youth, got a wristlock on the old
man and took the dirk away from him.  "Now then," he commanded, as he
bumped Pablo's head against the adobe wall, "you behave yourself and
help me find Don Miguel and bring him in."

Pablo's fury suddenly left him; again he was the servant, respectful,
deferential to his master's guest.  "Forgive me, _senor_," he muttered,
"I have been crazy in the head."

"Not so crazy that you didn't do a good job on that Jap murderer.  Come
now, old chap.  Buck up!  We can't go after him in my automobile.  Have
you some sort of wagon?"

"_Si, senor_."

"Then come inside a moment.  We both need a drink.  We're shaking like
a pair of dotards."

He picked up Pablo's dirk and give it back to the old man.  Pablo
acknowledged this courtesy with a bow and followed to Parker's room,
where the latter poured two glasses of whisky.  Silently they drank.

"Gracias, _senor_.  I go hitch up one team," Pablo promised, and
disappeared at once.

For about ten minutes Parker remained in his room, thinking.  His wife
and Kay had started, afoot, to visit the Mission shortly after Don Mike
and Pablo had left the ranch that morning, and for this Parker was duly
grateful to Providence.  He shuddered to think what the effect upon
them would have been had they been present when Pablo made his
spectacular entrance; he rejoiced at an opportunity to get himself in
hand against the return of Kay and her mother to the ranch house.

"That wretched Okada!" he groaned.  "He concluded that the simplest and
easiest way to an immediate consummation of our interrupted deal would
be the removal of young Farrel.  So he hired one of his countrymen to
do the job, believing or at least hoping, that suspicion would
naturally be aroused against that Basque, Loustalot, who is known to
have an old feud with the Farrels.  Kate is right.  I've trained with
white men all my life; the moment I started to train with pigmented
mongrels and Orientals I had to do with a new psychology, with
mongrelized moral codes--ah, God, that splendid, manly fellow killed by
the insatiable lust of an alien race for this land of his they covet!
God forgive me!  And poor Kay--"

He was near to tears now; fearful that he might be caught in a moment
of weakness, he fled to the barn and helped Pablo hitch a team of draft
horses to an old spring wagon.  Pablo's customary taciturnity and
primitive stoicism had again descended upon him like a protecting
garment; his madness had passed and he moved around the team briskly
and efficiently.  Parker climbed to the seat beside him as Pablo
gathered up the reins and started out of the farmyard at a fast trot.

Ten minutes later they paused at the mouth of the draw down which
Farrel had been riding when fired upon.  Pablo turned the team, tied
them to an oak tree and started up the draw at a swift dog trot, with
Parker at his heels.

Jammed rather tightly in a narrow little dry water-course that ran
through the center of the draw they found the body of Don Mike.  He was
lying face downward; Parker saw that flies already rosetted a wound
thick with blood clots on top of his head.

"Poor, poor boy," Parker cried agonizedly.

Pablo straddled the little watercourse, got a grip around his master's
body and lifted it out to Parker, who received it and laid the limp
form out on the grass.  While he stood looking down at Don Mike's
white, relaxed face, Pablo knelt, made the sign of the cross and
commenced to pray for the peaceful repose of his roaster's soul.  It
was a long prayer; Parker, waiting patiently for him to finish, did not
know that Pablo recited the litany for the dying.

"Come, Pablo, my good fellow, you've prayed enough," he suggested
presently.  "Help me carry Don Miguel down to the wagon--_Pablo, he's
alive_!"

"Hah!" Pablo's exclamation was a sort of surprised bleat.  "_Madre de
Cristo_!  Look to me, Don Miguel.  Ah, little dam' fool, you make
believe to die, no?" he charged hysterically.

Don Mike's black eyes opened slightly and his slack lower jaw tightened
in a ghastly little grimace.  The transported Pablo seized him and
shook him furiously, meanwhile deluging Don Mike with a stream of
affectionate profanity that fell from his lips like a benediction.

"Listen," Don Mike murmured presently.  "Pablo's new litany."

"Rascal!  Little, wicked heretic!  Blood of the devil!  Speak, Don
Miguel."

"Shut up!  Took your--time--getting me--out--confounded
ditch--damned--lazy--beggar--"

Pablo leaped to his feet, his dusky face radiant.

"You hear!" he yelled.  "Senor Parker, you hear those boy give to me
hell like old times, no?"

"You ran--you _colorado maduro_ good-for-nothing--left me stuck
in--ditch--let bushwhacker--get away--fix you for this, Pablo."

Pablo's eyes popped in ecstasy.  He grinned like a gargoyle.  "You hear
those boy, _senor_?" he reiterated happily.  "I tell you those boy he
like ol' Pablo.  The night he come back he rub my head; yesterday he
poke the rib of me with the thumb--now pretty soon he say sometheeng, I
bet you."

"Shut up, I tell you."  Don Mike's voice, though very faint, was
petulant.  "You're a total idiot.  Find my horse--get rifle--trail that
man--who shot me--get him--damn your prayers--get him--"

"Ah, Don Miguel," Pablo assured him in Spanish, in tones that were
prideful beyond measure, "that unfortunate fellow has been shaking
hands with the devil for the last forty-five minutes."

Don Mike opened his eyes widely.  He was rapidly regaining his full
consciousness.  "Your work, Pablo?"

"Mine--with the help of God, as your illustrious grandfather, the first
Don Miguel, would have said.  But you are pleased to doubt me so I
shall show you the carcass of the animal.  I roped him and dragged him
for two miles behind the black mare."

Don Mike smiled and closed his eyes.  "I will go home," he said
presently, and Pablo and Parker lifted him between them and carried him
down to the waiting wagon.  Half an hour later he was stretched on his
bed at the hacienda, while Carolina washed his head with a solution of
warm water and lysol.  John Parker, rejoiced beyond measure, stood
beside him and watched this operation with an alert and sympathetic eye.

"That doesn't look like a bullet wound," he declared, after an
examination of the rent in Don Mike's scalp.  "Resembles the wound made
by what reporters always refer to as 'some blunt instrument.'  The
scalp is split but the flesh around the wound is swollen as from a
blow.  You have a nice lump on your head, Farrel."

"Aches terribly," Don Mike murmured.  "I had dismounted to tighten my
cinch; going down hill the saddle had slid up on my horse's withers.  I
was tucking in the latigo.  When I woke up I was lying on my face,
wedged tightly in that little dry ditch; I was ill and dazed and too
weak to pull myself out; I was lying with my head down hill and I
suppose I lost consciousness again, after awhile.  Pablo!"

"_Si, senor_."

"You caught the man who shot me.  What did you do with him?"

"Oh, those fellow plenty good and dead, Don Miguel."

"He dragged the body home at the end of his rope," Parker explained.
"He thought you had been done for and he must have gone war mad.  I
covered the body of the Jap with straw from that stack out by the barn."

"Jap, eh?" Don Mike smiled.  Then, after a long silence.  "I suppose,
Mr. Parker, you understand now--"

"Yes, yes, Farrel.  Please do not rub it in."

"Okada wants the San Gregorio rather badly, doesn't he?  Couldn't wait.
The enactment of that anti-alien land bill that will come up in the
legislature next year--do Mrs. Parker and your daughter know about this
attempt to assassinate me?"

"No."

"They must not know.  Plant that Jap somewhere and do it quickly.
Confound you, Pablo, you should have known better than to drag your
kill home, like an old she-cat bringing in a gopher.  As for my
head--well, I was thrown from my horse and struck on a sharp rock.  The
ladies would be frightened and worried if they thought somebody was
gunning for me.  When Bill Conway shows up with your spark plugs I'd be
obliged, Mr. Parker, if you'd run me in to El Toro.  I'll have to have
my head tailored a trifle, I think."

With a weak wave of his hand he dismissed everybody, so Parker and
Pablo adjourned to the stables to talk over the events of the morning.
Standing patiently at the corral gate they found the gray horse,
waiting to be unsaddled--a favor which Pablo proceeded at once to
extend.

"_Mira_!" he called suddenly and directed Parser's attention to the
pommel of Don Mike's fancy saddle, The rawhide covering on the shank of
the pommel had been torn and scored and the steel beneath lay exposed.
"You see?" Pablo queried.  "You understan', _senor_?"

"No, I must confess I do not, Pablo."

"Don Miguel is standing beside thees horse.  He makes tighter the
saddle; he is tying those latigo and he have the head bent leetle hit
while he pull those latigo through the ring.  Bang!  Those Jap shoot at
Don Miguel.  He miss, but the bullet she hit thees pommel, she go flat
against the steel, she bounce off and hit Don Miguel on top the head.
The force for keel heem is use' up when the bullet hit thees pommel,
but still those bullet got plenty force for knock Don Miguel seelly,
no?"

"Spent ball, eh?  I think you're right, Pablo."

Pablo relapsed into one of his infrequent Gringo solecisms.  "You bet
you my life you know eet," he said.

John Parker took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket.  "Pablo," he
said with genuine feeling, "you're a splendid fellow.  I know you don't
like me, but perhaps that is because you do not know me very well.  Don
Miguel knows I had nothing to do with this attempt to kill him, and if
Don Miguel bears me no ill-will, I'm sure you should not.  I wish you
would accept this hundred dollar bill, Pablo?"

Pablo eyed the bill askance.  "What for?" he demanded.

"For the way you handled that murdering Jap.  Pablo, that was a bully
job of work.  Please accept this bill.  If I didn't like you I would
not offer it to you."

"Well, I guess Carolina mebbeso she can use eet.  But first I ask Don
Miguel if eet is all right for me take eet."  He departed for the house
to return presently with an anticipatory smile on his dusky
countenance.  "Don Miguel say to me, _senor_: 'Pablo, any people she's
stay my house he's do what she please.'  _Gracias_, Senor Parker."  And
he pouched the bill.  "_Mille gracias, senor_."

"Pray, do not mention it, Pablo."

"All right," Pablo agreed.  "Eef you don't like eet, well, I don' tell
somebody!"




CHAPTER XXV

Bill Conway driving up the San Gregorio in his prehistoric automobile,
overtook Kay and her mother walking home from the Mission, and drove
them the remainder of the distance back to the hacienda.  Arrived here,
old Conway resurrected the stolen spark plugs and returned them to
Parker's chauffeur, after which he invited himself to luncheon.
Apparently his raid of the night previous rested lightly on his
conscience, and Parker's failure to quarrel with him lifted him
immediately out of any fogs of apprehension that may have clouded his
sunny soul.

"Hello, Conway," Parker greeted him, as the old contractor came into
the dining room and hung his battered old hat on a wall peg.  "Did you
bring back my spark plugs?"

"Did better'n that," Conway retorted.  "The porcelain on one plug was
cracked and sooner or later you were bound to have trouble with it.  So
I bought you a new one."

"Do any good for yourself in El Toro this morning?"

"Nope.  Managed to put over a couple of deals that will help the boy
out a little, though.  Attached your bank account and your bank stock.
I would have plastered your two automobiles, but that tender-hearted
Miguel declared that was carrying a grudge too far.  By the way, where
is our genial young host?"

"Horse bucked him off this morning.  He lit on a rock and ripped a
furrow in his sinful young head.  So he's sleeping off a headache."

"Oh, is he badly hurt?" Kay cried anxiously.

"Not fatally," Parker replied with a faintly knowing smile.  "But he's
weak and dizzy and he's lost a lot of blood; every time he winks for
the next month his head will ache, however."

"Which horse policed him?" Bill Conway queried casually.

"The gray one--his father's old horse."

"Hum-m-m!" murmured Conway and pursued the subject no further, nor did
he evince the slightest interest in the answers which Parker framed
glibly to meet the insistent demand for information from his wife and
daughter.  The meal concluded, he excused himself and sought Pablo, of
whom he demanded and received a meticulous account of the "accident" to
Miguel Farrel.  For Bill Conway knew that the gray horse never bucked
and that Miguel Farrel was a hard man to throw.

"Guess I'll have to sit in at this game," he decided, and forthwith
climbed into his rattletrap automobile and returned to El Toro.

During the drive in he surrendered his mind to a contemplation of all
of the aspects of the case, and arrived at the following conclusions:

Item.  Don Nicolas Sandoval had seen the assassin walking in from the
south about sunset the day previous.  If the fellow had walked all the
way across country from La Questa valley he must have started about two
P.M.

Item.  The Potato Baron had left the Farrel hacienda about one o'clock
the same day and had, doubtless, arrived in El Toro about two o'clock.
Evidently he had communicated with the man from La Questa valley
(assuming that Don Miguel's assailant had come from there) by telephone
from El Toro.

Arrived in El Toro, Bill Conway drove to the sheriff's office.  Don
Nicolas Sandoval had returned an hour previous from the Rancho Palomar
and to him Conway related the events of the morning.  "Now, Nick," he
concluded, "you drift over to the telephone office and in your official
capacity cast your eye over the record of long distance telephone calls
yesterday afternoon and question the girl on duty."

"_Bueno_!" murmured Don Nicolas and proceeded at once to the telephone
office.  Ten minutes later he returned.

"Okada talked to one Kano Ugichi, of La Questa, at 2:08 yesterday
afternoon," he reported.

"Considerable water will run under the bridges before Kano Ugichi
returns to the bosom of his family," Conway murmured sympathetically.
"He's so badly spoiled, Nick, we've decided to call him a total loss
and not put up any headstone to his memory.  It is Farrel's wish that
the matter be forgotten by everybody concerned."

"I have already forgotten it, my friend," the urbane Don Nicolas
replied graciously, and Bill Conway departed forthwith for the Hotel de
Las Rosas.

"Got a Jap name of Okada stopping here?" he demanded, and was informed
that Mr. Okada occupied room 17, but that he was ill and could not be
seen.

"He'll see me," quoth Bill Conway, and clumped up the stairs.  He
rapped peremptorily on the door of room 17, then tried the knob.  The
door opened and the old contractor stepped into the room to find the
Potato Baron sitting up in bed, staring at him.  Uttering no word, Bill
Conway strode to the bed, seized the Japanese by the throat and
commenced to choke him with neatness and dispatch.  When the man's face
was turning purple and his eyes rolling wildly, Conway released his
death-grip and his victim fell back on the mattress, whereupon Bill
Conway sat down on the edge of the bed and watched life surge back into
the little brown man.

"If you let one little peep out of you, Okada," he threatened--and
snarled ferociously.

"Please, please," Okada pleaded.  "I no unnerstan'.  'Scuse, please.
You make one big mistake, yes, I zink so."

"I do, indeed.  I permit you to live, which I wouldn't do if I knew
where to hide your body.  Listen to me, Okada.  You sent a countryman
of yours from the La Questa valley over to the Rancho Palomar to kill
Don Miguel Farrel.  I have the man's name, I know the hour you
telephoned to him, I know exactly what you said to him and how much you
paid him to do the job.  Well, this friend of yours overplayed his
hand; he didn't succeed in killing Farrel, but he did succeed in
getting himself captured."

He paused, with fine dramatic instinct, to watch the effect of this
broadside.  A faint nervous twitch of the chin and the eyelids--then
absolute immobility.  The Potato Baron had assumed the "poker face" of
all Orientals--wherefore Bill Conway knew the man was on his guard and
would admit nothing.  So he decided not to make any effort to elicit
information, but to proceed on the theory that everything was known to
him.

"Naturally," he continued, "that man Pablo has ways and means of making
even a stubborn Jap tell everything he knows.  Now listen, O child of
Nippon, to the white man's words of wisdom.  You're going to depart
from El Toro in a general northerly direction and you're going to do it
immediately if not sooner.  And you're never coming back.  The day you
do, that day you land in the local calaboose with a charge of
conspiracy to commit murder lodged against you.  We have the witnesses
to prove our case and any time you're tried by a San Marcos County jury
before a San Marcos County judge you'll rot in San Quentin for life.
And further: If Miguel Farrel should, within the next two years, die
out of his own bed and with his boots on, you will be killed on general
principles, whether you're guilty or not.  Do I make myself clear or
must I illustrate the point with motion pictures?"

"Yes, sir.  'Scuse, please.  Yes, sir, I zink I go very quick, sir."

"Three cheers!  The sooner the quicker--the next train, let us say.
I'll be at the station to see you off."

He was as good as his word.  The Potato Baron, mounting painfully the
steps of the observation car, made hasty appraisal of the station
platform and observed Bill Conway swinging his old legs from his perch
on an express truck.  He favored Okada with a very deliberate nod and a
sweeping, semi-military salute of farewell.

When the train pulled out, the old contractor slid off the express
truck and waddled over to his automobile.  "Well, Liz," he addressed
that interesting relic, "I'll bet a red apple I've put the fear of
Buddha in that Jap's soul.  He won't try any more tricks in San Marcos
County.  He certainly did assimilate my advice and drag it out of town
_muy pronto_.  Well, Liz, as the feller says: 'The wicked flee when no
man pursueth and a troubled conscience addeth speed to the hind legs.'"

As he was driving out of town to the place of his labors at Agua
Caliente basin, he passed the Parker limousine driving in.  Between
John Parker's wife and John Parker's daughter, Don Miguel Jose Farrel
sat with white face and closed eyes.  In the seat beside his chauffeur
John Parker sat, half turned and gazing at Don Miguel with troubled
eyes.

"That girl's sweeter than a royal flush," Bill Conway murmured.  "I
wonder if she's good for a fifty thousand dollar touch to pay my cement
bill pending the day I squeeze it out of her father?  Got to have
cement to build a dam--got to have cash to get cement--got to have a
dam to save the Rancho Palomar--got to have the Rancho Palomar before
we can pull off a wedding--got to pull off a wedding in order to be
happy--got to be happy or we all go to hell together. . . .  Well . . .
I'm going down to Miguel's place to dinner to-night.  I'll ask her."

The entire Parker family was present when the doctor in El Toro washed
and disinfected Farrel's wound and, at the suggestion of Kay, made an
X-ray photograph of his head.  The plate, when developed, showed a
small fracture, the contemplation of which aroused considerable
interest in all present, with the exception of the patient.  Don Mike
was still dizzy; because his vision was impaired he kept his eyes
closed; he heard a humming noise as if a lethargic bumble bee had taken
up his residence inside the Farrel ears.  Kay, observing him closely,
realized that he was very weak, that only by the exercise of a very
strong will had he succeeded in sitting up during the journey in from
the ranch.  His brow was cold and wet with perspiration, his breathing
shallow; his dark, tanned face was now a greenish gray.

The girl saw a shadow of deep apprehension settle over her father's
face as the doctor pointed to the fracture.  "Any danger?" she heard
him whisper,

The doctor shook his head.  "Nothing to worry about.  An operation will
not be necessary.  But he's had a narrow squeak.  With whom has he been
fighting?"

"Thrown from his horse and struck his head on a rock," Parker replied
glibly.

Kay saw the doctor's eyebrows lift slightly.  "Did he tell you that was
what happened?"

Parker hesitated a moment and nodded an affirmative.

"Wound's too clean for that story to impress me," the doctor whispered.
"Not a speck of foreign matter in it.  Moreover, the wound is almost on
top of his head.  Now, if he had been thrown from a horse and had
struck on top of his head on a rock with sufficient force to lacerate
his scalp and produce a minor fracture, he would, undoubtedly, have
crushed his skull more thoroughly or broken his neck.  Also, his face
would have been marred more or less!  And if that isn't good reasoning,
I might add that Miguel Farrel is one of the two or three men in this
world who have ridden Cyclone, the most famous outlaw horse in America."

Parker shrugged and, by displaying no interest in the doctor's
deductions, brought the conversation to a close.

That the return trip to the ranch, in Don Mike's present condition, was
not to be thought of, was apparent from the patient's condition.  He
was, therefore, removed to the single small hospital which El Toro
boasted, and after seeing him in charge of a nurse the Parker family
returned to the ranch.  Conversation languished during the trip; a
disturbed conscience on the part of the father, and on the part of Kay
and her mother an intuition, peculiar to their sex and aroused by the
doctor's comments, that events of more than ordinary portent had
occurred that day, were responsible for this.

At the ranch Parker found his attorney who had motored out from El
Toro, waiting to confer with him regarding Bill Conway's adroit
manoeuver of the morning.  Mrs. Parker busied herself with some fancy
work while her daughter sought the Farrel library and pretended to
read.  An atmosphere of depression appeared to have settled over the
rancho; Kay observed that even Pablo moved about in a furtive manner;
he cleaned and oiled his rifle and tested the sights with shots at
varying ranges.  Carolina's face was grave and her sweet falsetto voice
was not raised in song once during the afternoon.

About four o'clock when the shadows began to lengthen, Kay observed
Pablo riding forth on his old pinto pony.  Before him on the saddle he
carried a pick and shovel and in reply to her query as to what he
purposed doing, he replied that he had to clean out a spring where the
cattle were accustomed to drink.  So she returned to the library and
Pablo repaired to a willow thicket in the sandy wash of the San
Gregorio and dug a grave.  That night, at twilight, while the family
and servants were at dinner, Pablo dragged his problem down to this
grave, with the aid of the pinto pony, and hid it forever from the
sight of men.  Neither directly nor indirectly was his exploit ever
referred to again and no inquiry was ever instituted to fathom the
mystery of the abrupt disappearance of Kano Ugichi.  Indeed, the sole
regret at his untimely passing was borne by Pablo, who, shrinking from
the task of removing his riata from his victim (for he had a primitive
man's horror of touching the dead), was forced to bury his dearest
possession with the adventurer from La Questa--a circumstance which
served still further to strengthen his prejudice against the Japanese
race.

The following morning Pablo saddled Panchito for Kay and, at her
request, followed her, in the capacity of groom, to Bill Conway's camp
at Agua Caliente basin.  The old schemer was standing in the door of
his rough temporary office when Kay rode up; he advanced to meet her.

"Well, young lady," he greeted her, "what's on your mind this morning
in addition to that sassy little hat."

"A number of things.  I want to know what really happened to Mr. Farrel
yesterday forenoon."

"My dear girl!  Why do you consult me?"

She leaned from her horse and lowered her voice.  "Because I'm your
partner and between partners there should be no secrets."

"Well, we're supposed to keep it a secret, just to save you and your
mother from worrying, but I'll tell you in confidence if you promise
not to tell a soul I told you."

"I promise."

"Well, then, that scoundrel, Okada, sent a Jap over from La Questa
valley to assassinate Miguel and clear the way for your father to
acquire this ranch without further legal action and thus enable their
interrupted land deal to be consummated."

"My father was not a party to that--oh, Mr. Conway, surely you do not
suspect for a moment--"

"Tish!  Tush!  Of course not.  That's why Miguel wanted it given out
that his horse had policed him.  Wanted to save you the resultant
embarrassment."

"The poor dear!  And this wretch from La Questa shot him?"

"Almost."

"What became of the assassin?"

Bill Conway pursed his tobacco-stained lips and whistled a few bars of
"Listen to the Mocking Bird."  Subconsciously the words of the song
came to Kay's mind.

  She's sleeping in the valley,
  In the valley,
  She's sleeping in the valley,
  And the mocking bird is singing where she lies.

"I'm afraid I don't want to discuss that boy and his future movements,
Miss Parker," he sighed presently.  "I might compromise a third party.
In the event of a show-down I do not wish to be forced under oath to
tell what I know--or suspect.  However, I am in a position to assure
you that Oriental activities on this ranch have absolutely ceased.  Mr.
Okada has been solemnly assured that, in dealing with certain white
men, they will insist upon an eye for an optic and a tusk for a tooth;
he knows that if he starts anything further he will go straight to that
undiscovered country where the woodbine twineth and the whangdoodle
mourneth for its mate."

"What has become of Okada?"

"He has dragged it out of here--drifted and went hence--for keeps."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."  With an unclean thumb Mr. Conway
drew a large X on the geometrical center of his ample circumference.
"When you've been in the contracting business as long as I have, Miss
Parker," he continued sagely, "you'll learn never to leave important
details to a straw boss.  Attend to 'em yourself--and get your regular
ration of sleep.  That's my motto."

She beamed gratefully upon him.  "Need any money, Bill, old timer?" she
flashed at him suddenly, with delightful camaraderie.

"There should be no secrets between partners.  I do."

"_Quanto_?"

"_Cinquenta mille pesos oro, senorita_."

"Help!"

"Fifty thousand bucks, iron men, simoleons, smackers, dollars--"

She reached down and removed a fountain pen from his upper vest pocket.
Then she drew a check book and, crooking her knee over Panchito's neck
and using that knee for a desk, she wrote him a check on a New York
bank for fifty thousand dollars.

"See here," Bill Conway demanded, as she handed him the check, "how
much of a roll you got, young woman?"

"About two hundred thousand in cash and half a million in Liberty
bonds.  When I was about five years old my uncle died and left me his
estate, worth about a hundred thousand.  It has grown under my father's
management.  He invested heavily in Steel Common, at the outbreak of
the war, and sold at the top of the market just before the armistice
was signed."

"Well," Conway sighed, "there is a little justice in the world, after
all.  Here at last, is one instance where the right person to handle
money gets her hands on a sizable wad of it.  But what I want to know,
my dear young lady, is this: Why purchase philanthropy in fifty
thousand dollar installments?  If you want to set that boy's mind at
ease, loan him three hundred thousand dollars to take up the mortgage
your father holds on his ranch; then take a new mortgage in your own
name to secure the loan.  If you're bound to save him in the long run,
why keep the poor devil in suspense?"

She made a little moue of distaste.  "I loathe business.  The loaning
of money on security--the taking advantage of another's distress.  Mr.
Bill, it never made a hit with me.  I'm doing this merely because I
realize that my father's course, while strictly legal, is not kind.  I
refuse to permit him to do that sort of thing to a Medal of Honor man."
He noticed a pretty flush mount to her lovely cheeks.  "It isn't
sporty, Mr. Bill Conway.  However, it isn't nice to tell one's
otherwise lovable father that he's a poor sport and a Shylock, is it?
I cannot deliberately pick a fight with my father by interfering in his
business affairs, can I?  Also, it seems to me that Don Mike Farrel's
pride is too high to permit of his acceptance of a woman's pity.  I do
not wish him to be under obligation to me.  He might misconstrue my
motive--oh, you understand, don't you?  I'm sure I'm in an extremely
delicate position."

He nodded sagely.  "Nevertheless," he pursued, "he _will_ be under
obligation to you."

"He will never know it.  I depend upon you to keep my secret.  He will
think himself under obligation to you--and you're such an old and dear
friend.  Men accept obligations from each other and think nothing of
it.  By the way, I hold you responsible for the return of that fifty
thousand dollars, not Don Mike Farrel.  You are underwriting his battle
with my father, are you not?"

"Yes, I am," he retorted briskly, "and I've got more conceit than a
barber's cat for daring to do it.  Wait a minute and I'll give you my
promissory note.  I'm paying seven per cent for bank accommodations
lately.  That rate of interest suit you?"

She nodded and followed him to his office, where he laboriously wrote
and signed a promissory note in her favor.  Pablo, remaining politely
out of sound of their conversation, wondered vaguely what they were up
to.

"Don Mike has told us something of the indolent, easy-going natures of
his people," Kay continued, as she tucked the note in her coat pocket.
"I have wondered if, should, he succeed in saving his ranch without too
great an expenditure of effort, he would continue to cast off the spell
of 'the splendid, idle forties' and take his place in a world of alert
creators and producers.  Do you not think, Mr. Bill, that he will be
the gainer through my policy of keeping him in ignorance of my part in
the re-financing of his affairs--if he dare not be certain of victory
up to the last moment?  Of course it would be perfectly splendid if he
could somehow manage to work out his own salvation, but of course, if
he is unable to do that his friends must do it for him.  I think it
would be perfectly disgraceful to permit a Medal of Honor man to be
ruined, don't you, Mr. Bill?"

"Say, how long have you known this fellow Miguel?"

"Seventy-two hours, more or less."

He considered.  "Your father's nerve has been pretty badly shaken by
the Jap's attempt to kill Miguel.  He feels about that pretty much as a
dog does when he's caught sucking eggs.  Why not work on your father
now while he's in an anti-Jap mood?  You might catch him on the
rebound, so to speak.  Take him over to La Questa valley some day this
week and show him a little Japan; show him what the San Gregorio will
look like within five years if he persists.  Gosh, woman, you have some
influence with him haven't you?"

"Very little in business affairs, I fear."

"Well, you work on him, anyhow, and maybe he'll get religion and renew
Miguel's mortgage.  Argue that point about giving a Medal of Honor man
another chance."

The girl shook her head.  "It would be useless," she assured him.  "He
has a curious business code and will not abandon it.  He will only
quote some platitude about mixing sentiment and business."

"Then I suppose the battle will have to go the full twenty rounds.
Well, Miss Parker, we're willing.  We've already drawn first blood and
with your secret help we ought to about chew the tail off your old man."

"Cheerio."  She held out her dainty little gloved hand to him.  "See me
when you need more money, Mr. Bill.  And remember!  If you tell on me
I'll never, never forgive you."

He bent over her hand and kissed it.  His caress was partly reverence,
partly a habit of courtliness surviving from a day that is done in
California, for under that shabby old tweed suit there beat the gallant
heart of a true cavalier.

[Illustration: The girl--Kay Parker.]

When Miss Parker had ridden away with Pablo at her heels, Bill Conway
unburdened himself of a slightly ribald little chanson entitled: "What
Makes the Wild Cat Wild?"  In the constant repetition of this query it
appeared that the old Californian sought the answer to a riddle not
even remotely connected with the mystifying savagery of non-domestic
felines.

Suddenly he slapped his thigh.  "Got it," he informed the payroll he
had been trying to add for half an hour.  "Got it!  She does love him.
Her explanation of her action is good but not good enough for me.
Medal of Honor man!  Rats.  She could loan him the money to pay her
father, on condition that her father should never know the source of
the aid, but if they reduced their association to a business basis he
would have to decide between the ranch and her.  She knows how he loves
this seat of his ancestors--she fears for the decision.  And if he
decided for the ranch there would be no reasonable excuse for the
Parker family to stick around, would there?  There would not.  So he is
not to be lost sight of for a year.  Yes, of course that's it.
Methinks the lady did protest too much.  God bless her.  I wonder what
he thinks of her.  One can never tell.  It might be just her luck to
fail to make a hit with him.  Oh, Lord, if that happened I'd shoot him,
I would for a fact.  Guess I'll drop in at the ranch some day next week
and pump the young idiot. . . .  No, I'll not.  My business is building
dams and bridges and concrete highways . . . well, I might take a
chance and sound him out . . . still, what thanks would I get . . . no,
I'll be shot if I will . . . oh, to the devil with thanks.  If he don't
like it he can lump it. . . ."

  "What makes the wild cat wild, boys,
  Oh, what makes the wild cat wild?"




CHAPTER XXVI

It was fully two weeks before Miguel returned to the ranch from the
little hospital at El Toro.  During that period the willows had already
started to sprout on the last abiding place of Kano Ugichi, the pain
had left the Farrel head and the Farrel attorney had had Andre
Loustalot up in the Superior Court, where he had won a drawn verdict.
The cash in bank was proved to have been deposited there by Loustalot
personally; it had been subject to his personal check, and was
accordingly adjudged to be his personal property and ordered turned
over to Miguel Farrel in partial liquidation of the ancient judgment
which Farrel held against the Basque.  A preponderance of testimony,
however (Don Nicolas Sandoval swore it was all perjured and paid for)
indicated that but one quarter of the sheep found on the Rancho Palomar
belonged to Loustalot, the remainder being owned by his foreman and
employees.  To Farrel, therefore, these sheep were awarded, and in some
occult manner Don Nicolas Sandoval selected them from the flock; then,
acting under instructions from Farrel, he sold the sheep back to
Loustalot at something like a dollar a head under the market value and
leased to the amazed Basque for one year the grazing privilege on the
Rancho Palomar.  In return for the signing of this lease and the
payment of the lease money in advance, Farrel executed to Loustalot a
satisfaction in full of the unpaid portion of the judgment.  "For," as
the sheriff remarked to Farrel, "while you hold the balance of that
judgment over this fellow's head your own head is in danger.  It is
best to conciliate him, for you will never again have an opportunity to
levy against his assets."

"I think you're right, Don Nicolas," Farrel agreed.  "I can never feel
wholly safe until I strike a truce with that man.  Tell him I'll give
him back his eight thousand dollar automobile if he will agree on his
own behalf and that of his employees, agents and friends, not to
bushwhack me or any person connected with me."

"I have already made him a tentative offer to that effect, my boy, and,
now that the first flush of his rage is over, he is a coyote lacking
the courage to kill.  He will agree to your proposal, and I shall take
occasion to warn him that if he should ever break his word while I am
living, I shall consider, in view of the fact that I am the mediator in
this matter, that he has broken faith with me, and I shall act
accordingly."

The arrangement with Loustalot was therefore made, and immediately upon
his return to the ranch Farrel, knowing that the sheep would spoil his
range for the few hundred head of cattle that still remained of the
thousands that once had roamed El Palomar, rounded up these cattle and
sold them.  And it was in the performance of this duty that he
discovered during the roundup, on the trail leading from the hacienda
to Agua Caliente basin, a rectangular piece of paper.  It lay, somewhat
weather-stained, face up beside the trail, and because it resembled a
check, he leaned easily from his horse and picked it up.  To his
amazement he discovered it to be a promissory note, in the sum of fifty
thousand dollars, in favor of Kay Parker and signed by William D.
Conway.

Pablo was beating the thickets in the river bottom, searching out some
spring calves he knew were lurking there, when his master reined up
beside him.

"Pablo," he demanded, "has Senor Conway been to the ranch during my
absence?"

"No, Don Miguel, he has not."

"Has Senorita Parker ridden Panchito over to Senor Conway's camp at
Agua Caliente basin?"

"Yes, Don Miguel.  I rode behind her, in case of accident."

"What day was that?"

Pablo considered.  "The day after you were shot, Don Miguel."

"Did you see Senorita Parker give Senor Conway a writing?"

"I did, truly.  She wrote from a small leathern book and tore out the
page whereon she wrote.  In return Senor Conway made a writing and this
he gave to Senorita Parker who accepted it.

"Thank you, Pablo.  That is all I desired to know."  And he was away
again, swinging his lariat and whooping joyously at the cattle.  Pablo
watched narrowly.

"Now whatever this mystery may be," he soliloquized, "the news I gave
Don Miguel has certainly not displeased him.  Ah, he is a sharp one,
that boy.  He learns everything and without effort, yet for all he
knows he talks but little.  Can it be that he has the gift of second
sight?  I wonder!"




CHAPTER XXVII

Kay Parker was seated on the bench under the catalpa tree when Miguel
Farrel rode up the palm-lined avenue to the hacienda, that night; his
face, as he dismounted before her, conveyed instantly to the girl the
impression that he was in a more cheerful and contented mood than she
had observed since that day she had first met him in uniform.

She smiled a welcome.  He swept off his hat and favored her with a bow
which appeared to Kay to be slightly more ceremonious than usual.

"Your horse is tired," she remarked.  "Are you?"

"'Something accomplished, something done, has earned a night's
repose,'" he quoted cheerfully.  "Rather a hard task to comb this ranch
for a few hundred head of cattle when the number of one's riders is
limited, but we have gotten the herd corraled at the old race-track."
He unbuckled his old leathern chaps, and stepped out of them, threw
them across the saddle and with a slap sent his horse away to the barn.

"You're feeling quite yourself again?" she hazarded hopefully.

"My foolish head doesn't bother me," he replied smilingly, "but my
equally foolish heart--" he heaved a gusty Castilian sigh and tried to
appear forlorn.

"Filled with mixed metaphors," he added.  "May I sit here with you?"

She made room for him beside her on the bench.  He seated himself,
leaned back against the bole of the catalpa tree and stretched his
legs, cramped from a long day in the saddle.  The indolent gaze of his
black eyes roved over her approvingly before shifting to the shadowy
beauty of the valley and the orange-hued sky beyond, and a silence fell
between them.

"I was thinking to-day," the girl said presently, "that you've been so
busy since your return you haven't had time to call on any of your old
friends."

"That is true, Miss Parker."

"You _have_ called me Kay," she reminded him.  "Wherefore this sudden
formality, Don Mike?"

"My name is Miguel.  You're right, Kay.  Fortunately, all of my friends
called on me when I was in the hospital, and at that time I took pains
to remind them that my social activities would be limited for at least
a year."

"Two of your friends called on mother and me today, Miguel."

"Anita Sepulvida and her mother?"

"Yes.  She's adorable."

"They visited me in hospital.  Very old friends--very dear friends.  I
asked them to call on you and your mother.  I wanted you to know Anita."

"She's the most beautiful and charming girl I have ever met."

"She _is_ beautiful and charming.  Her family, like mine, had become
more or less decayed about the time I enlisted, but fortunately her
mother had a quarter section of land down in Ventura County and when a
wild-cat oil operator on adjacent land brought in a splendid well,
Senora Sepulvida was enabled to dispose of her land at a thousand
dollars an acre and a royalty of one-eighth on all of the oil produced.
The first well drilled was a success and in a few years the Sepulvida
family will be far wealthier than it ever was.  Meanwhile their ranch
here has been saved from loss by foreclosure.  Old Don Juan, Anita's
father, is dead."

"Anita is the only child, is she not?"

He nodded.  "Ma Sepulvida is a lady of the old school," he continued.
"Very dignified, very proud of her distinguished descent--"

"And very fond of you," Kay interrupted.

"Always was, Kay.  She's an old peach.  Came to the hospital and cried
over me and wanted to loan me enough money to lift the mortgage on my
ranch."

"Then--then--your problem is--solved," Kay found difficulty in voicing
the sentence.

He nodded.  She turned her face away that he might not see the pallor
that overspread it.  "It is a very great comfort to me," he resumed
presently, "to realize that the world is not altogether barren of love
and kindness."

"It must be," she murmured, her face still averted.

"It was the dearest wish of my poor father and of Anita's that the
ancient friendship between the families should be cemented by a
marriage between Anita and me.  For me Senora Sepulvida would be a
marvelous mother-in-law, because she's my kind of people and we
understand each other.  Really, I feel tremendously complimented
because, even before the oil strike saved the family from financial
ruin, Anita did not lack opportunities for many a more brilliant match."

"She's--dazzling," Kay murmured drearily.  "What a brilliant wife she
will be for you!"

"Anita is far too fine a woman for such a sacrifice.  I've always
entertained a very great affection for her and she for me.  There's
only one small bug in our amber."

"And that--"

"We aren't the least bit in love with each other.  We're children of a
later day and we object to the old-fashioned method of a marriage
arranged by papa and mama.  I know there must be something radically
wrong with me; otherwise I never could resist Anita."

"But you are going to marry her, are you not?"

"I am not.  She wouldn't marry me on a bet.  And of course I didn't
accept her dear old mother's offer of financial aid.  Couldn't, under
the circumstances, and besides, it would not be kind of me to transfer
my burden to them.  I much prefer to paddle my own canoe."

He noticed a rush of color to the face as she turned abruptly toward
him now.  "What a heritage of pride you have, Miguel.  But are you
quite certain Anita does not love you?  You should have heard all the
nice things she said about you to-day."

"She ought to say nice things about me," he replied casually.  "When
she was quite a little girl she was given to understand that her
ultimate mission in life was to marry me.  Of course I always realized
that it would not be a compliment to Anita to indicate that I was not
head over heels in love with her; I merely pretended I was too bashful
to mention it.  Finally one day Anita suggested, as a favor to her and
for the sake of my own self-respect, that I abandon the pose; with
tears in her eyes she begged me to be a gallant rebel and save her from
the loving solicitude of her parents to see her settled in life.  At
that moment I almost loved her, particularly when, having assured her
of my entire willingness and ability to spoil everything, she kissed me
rapturously on both cheeks and confided to me that she was secretly
engaged to an engineer chap who was gophering for potash in Death
Valley.  The war interrupted his gophering, but Anita informs me that
he found the potash, and now he can be a sport and bet his potash
against Senora Sepulvida's crude oil.  Fortunately, my alleged death
gave Anita an opportunity to advance his claims, and he was in a fair
way of becoming acceptable until my unexpected return rather greased
the skids for him.  Anita's mother is trying to give the poor devil the
double-cross now, but I told Anita she needn't worry."

Kay's eyes danced with merriment--and relief.  "But," she persisted,
"you told me your problem was settled?  And it isn't."

"It is.  I'm going to sell about eighteen thousand dollars worth of
cattle off this ranch, and I've leased the valley grazing privilege for
one year for ten thousand dollars.  My raid on Loustalot netted me
sixty-seven thousand dollars, so that my total bankroll is now about
ninety-five thousand dollars.  At first I thought I'd let Bill Conway
have most of my fortune to help him complete that dam, but I have now
decided to stop work on the dam and use all of my energy and my fortune
to put through such other deals as may occur to me.  If I am lucky I
shall emerge with sufficient funds to save the ranch.  If I am unlucky,
I shall lose the ranch.  Therefore, the issue is decided.  'God's in
his Heaven; all's right with the world.'  What have you been doing all
day?"

"Painting and sketching.  I'll never be a worth-while artist, but I
like to paint things for myself.  I've been trying to depict on canvas
the San Gregorio in her new spring gown, as you phrase it.  The arrival
of the Sepulvida family interrupted me, and I've been sitting here
since they departed.  We had tea."

"Getting a trifle bored with the country, Kay?  I fancy you find it
lonely out here."

"It was a trifle quiet while you were in hospital.  Now that you're
back I suppose we can ride occasionally and visit some of the places of
local interest."

"By all means.  As soon as I get rid of that little bunch of cattle I'm
going to give a barbecue and festival to the countryside in honor of my
guests.  We'll eat a half dozen fat two-year-old steers and about a
thousand loaves of bread and a couple of barrels of claret and a huge
mess of chilli sauce.  When I announce in the El Toro _Sentinel_ that
I'm going to give a _fiesta_ and that everybody is welcome, all my
friends and their friends and relatives will come and I'll be spared
the trouble of visiting them individually.  Don Nicolas Sandoval
remarked when he collected that Loustalot judgment for me that he
supposed I'd do the decent thing, now that I could afford it.  Mother
Sepulvida suggested it and Anita seconded the motion.  It will probably
be the last event of its kind on such a scale ever given in California,
and when it is finished it will have marked my transition from an
indolent _ranchero_ to some sort of commercial go-getter."

"I see.  Little Mike, the Hustler."

He nodded, rose and stood before her, smiling down at her with an
inscrutable little smile.  "Will you motor me in to El Toro to-morrow
morning?" he pleaded.  "I must go there to arrange for cattle cars."

"Of course."

"Thank you, Kay.  Now, if I have your permission to withdraw, I think I
shall make myself presentable for dinner."

He hesitated a moment before withdrawing, however, meanwhile gazing
down on her with a gaze so intent that the girl flushed a little.
Suddenly his hand darted out and he had her adorable little chin
clasped between his brown thumb and forefinger, shaking it with little
shakes of mock ferocity.  He seemed about to deliver some important
announcement--impassioned, even, but to her huge disgust he smothered
the impulse, jerked his hand away as if he had scorched his fingers,
and blushed guiltily.  "Oh, I'm a sky-blue idiot," he half growled and
left her abruptly.

A snort--to a hunter it would have been vaguely reminiscent of that of
an old buck deer suddenly disturbed in a thicket--caused her to look
up.  At the corner of the wall Pablo Artelan stood, staring at her with
alert interest; his posture was one of a man suddenly galvanized into
immobility.  Kay blushed, but instantly decided to appear nonchalant.

"Good evening, Pablo," she greeted the majordomo.  "How do you feel
after your long, hard day on the range?"

"_Gracias_, mees.  Myself, I feel pretty good.  When my boss hees
happy--well--Pablo Artelan hees happy just the same."

The girl noted his emphasis.  "That's very nice of you, Pablo, I'm
sure.  Have you any idea," she continued with bland innocence, "why Don
Miguel is so happy this evening?"

Pablo leaned against the adobe wall, thoughtfully drew forth tobacco
bag and brown cigarette paper and, while shaking his head and appearing
to ponder Kay's question, rolled a cigarette and lighted it.  "We-l-l,
_senorita_," he began presently, "I theenk first mebbeso eet ees
because Don Miguel find heem one leetle piece paper on the trail.  I am
see him peeck those paper up and look at heem for long time before he
ride to me and ask me many question about the _senorita_ and Senor Beel
Conway those day we ride to Agua Caliente.  He say to me: 'Pablo, you
see Senor Beel Conway give to the senorita a writing?'  '_Si, senor_.'
'You see Senorita Parker give to Senor Beel Conway a writing?'  '_Si,
senor_.'  Then Don Miguel hee's don' say sometheeng more, but just
shake hees _cabeza_ like thees," and Pablo gave an imitation of a
muchly puzzled man wagging his head to stimulate a flow of ideas.

A faintness seized the girl.  "Didn't he say--_anything_?" she demanded
sharply.

"Oh, well, yes, he say sometheeng.  He say: 'Well, I'bedam!'  Then that
leetle smile he don' have for long time come back to Don Miguel's face
and hee's happy like one baby.  I don' understand those boy ontil I see
thees business"--Pablo wiggled his tobacco-stained thumb and
forefinger--"then I know sometheeng!  For long time those boy hee's
pretty parteecular.  Even those so beautiful _senorita_, 'Nita
Sepulvida, she don' rope those boy like you rope it, _senorita_."  And
with the license of an old and trusted servant, the sage of Palomar
favored her with a knowing wink.

"He knows--he knows!" the girl thought.  "What must he think of me!
Oh, dear, oh, dear! if he mentions the subject to me I shall die."
Tears of mortification were in her eyes as she turned angrily upon the
amazed Pablo.  "You--you--old sky-blue idiot!" she charged and fled to
her room.




CHAPTER XXVIII

Kay's first coherent thought was to claim the privilege of her sex--a
headache--and refrain from joining Don Mike and her parents at dinner.
Upon consideration, however, she decided that since she would have to
face the issue sooner or later, she might as well be brave and not try
to evade it.  For she knew now the fate of the promissory note Bill
Conway had given her and which she had thrust into the pocket of her
riding coat.  It had worked out of her pocket and dropped beside the
trail to Agua Caliente Basin, and fate had ordained that it should be
found by the one person in the world not entitled to that privilege.
Kay would have given fifty thousand dollars for some miraculous philter
which, administered surreptitiously to Miguel Farrel, would cause him
to forget what the girl now realized he knew of her secret negotiations
with Bill Conway for the salvation of the ranch.  Nevertheless, despite
her overwhelming embarrassment and distress, the question occurred to
her again and again: What would Don Miguel Farrel do about it?  She
hadn't the slightest doubt but that his tremendous pride would lead him
to reject her aid and comfort, but how was he to accomplish this
delicate procedure?  The situation was fraught with as much awkwardness
and embarrassment for him as for her.

She was late in joining the others at table.  To her great relief,
after rising politely at her entrance and favoring her with an
impersonal smile, Farrel sat down and continued to discuss with John
Parker and his wife the great natural resources of Siberia and the
designs of the Japanese empire upon that territory.  About the time the
black coffee made its appearance, Kay's harassed soul had found
sanctuary in the discussion of a topic which she knew would be of
interest--one in which she felt she could join exuberantly.

"Do tell father and mother of your plans for a _fiesta_, Miguel," she
pleaded presently.

"A _fiesta_, eh?"  Mrs. Parker was instantly interested.  "Miguel, that
is, indeed, a bright thought.  I volunteer as a patroness here and now.
John, you can be a judge of the course, or something.  Miguel, what is
the occasion of your _fiesta_?"

"At a period in the world's history, Mrs. Parker, when butter is a
dollar a pound and blue-denim over-alls sell freely for three dollars a
pair, I think we ought to do something to dissipate the general gloom.
I want to celebrate my return to civil life, and my more recent return
from the grave.  Also, I would just as lief indicate to the county at
large that, outside of business hours, we constitute a very happy
little family here; so if you all please, I shall announce a _fiesta_
in honor of the Parker family."

"It will last all day and night and we are to have a Wild West show,"
Kay added eagerly.

"Where will it be held, Miguel?"

"Down at our old abandoned race-track, about a mile from here."

Mrs. Parker nodded approval.  "John, you old dud," she decided, "you
always liked horse-races and athletics.  You're stuck for some prizes."

Her indulgent husband good-naturedly agreed, and at Kay's suggestion,
Carolina brought a pencil and a large writing-tablet, whereupon the
girl constituted herself secretary of the carnival committee and wrote
the program, as arranged by Don Mike and her father.  She thrilled when
Farrel announced a race of six furlongs for ladies' saddle-horses, to
be ridden by their owners.

"You ought to win that with Panchito," he suggested to Kay.

Kay's heart beat happily.  In Farrel's suggestion that she ride
Panchito in this race she decided that here was evidence that her host
did not contemplate any action that would tend to render the ranch
untenable for her prior to the _fiesta_; indeed, there was nothing in
his speech or bearing that indicated the slightest mental perturbation
now that he had discovered the compact existing between her and Bill
Conway.  Perhaps his pride was not so high as she had rated it; what if
her action had been secretly pleasing to him?

Somehow, Kay found this latter thought disturbing and distasteful.  It
was long past midnight before she could dismiss the enigma from her
thoughts and fall asleep.

It was later than that, however, before Don Miguel Jose Federico
Noriaga Farrel dismissed her from his thoughts and succumbed to the
arms of Morpheus.  For quite a while after retiring to his room he sat
on the edge of the bed, rubbing his toes with one hand and holding Bill
Conway's promissory note before him with the other.

"That girl and her mother are my secret allies," he soliloquized.
"Bless their dear kind hearts.  Kay has confided in Conway and for
reasons best known to himself he has secretly accepted of her aid.  Now
I wonder," he continued, "what the devil actuates her to double-cross
her own father in favor of a stranger?"

He tucked the note back in his pocket, removed a sock and rubbed the
other foot thoughtfully.  "Well, whatever happens," he decided
eventually, "I've got to keep my secret to myself, while at the same
time effectually preventing this young lady from advancing Bill Conway
any further funds for my relief.  I cannot afford her pity or her
charity; I can accept her sympathy, but not her aid.  Conway cannot
have so soon spent much of the money he borrowed from her, and if I
insist on the cessation of operations in the Basin he'll promptly give
her back her fifty thousand dollars in order to save the interest
charges; in the meantime I shall mail Kay the note in a plain white
envelope, with the address typewritten, so she will never know where it
came from, for of course she'll have to hand Bill back his canceled
note when he pays it."

He blew out the light and retired, not to sleep, but to revolve plan
after plan for the salvation of the ranch.  To float a new loan from
any source in San Marcos County he dismissed for the hundredth time as
a proposition too nebulous for consideration.  His only hope of a bank
loan lay in an attempt to interest outside bankers to a point where
they would consent to have the property appraised.  Perhaps the letter
from Parker which he held would constitute evidence to cautious
capitalists of the sufficiency of the security for the loan.  It was
for that purpose that he had cunningly inveigled Parker into making him
that offer to clear out and leave him a fair field and no litigation.
However, Don Mike knew that between bankers there exists a certain
mutual dependence, a certain cohesiveness that makes for mutual
protection.  If, for instance (he told himself), he should apply to a
San Francisco bank for a loan on the ranch, the bank, prior to wasting
either time or mental energy on his application, would first ascertain
from sources other than him, whether it was remotely worth while
considering the loan up to a point of sending a representative down to
appraise the land.  Their first move, therefore, would be to write
their correspondent in El Toro--John Parker's bank, the First
National--for information regarding the Farrel family, the ranch and
the history of the mortgage.  Don Mike was not such an optimist as to
believe that the report of Parker's bank would be such as to encourage
the outside bank to proceed further in the deal.

He was also aware that the loan would not be attractive to commercial
banks, who are forced, in self-protection, to loan their money on
liquid assets.  He must therefore turn to the savings-banks and trust
companies.  But here again he faced an impasse.  Such institutions loan
money for the purpose of securing interest on it; the last thing they
wish to do is to be forced, in the protection of the loan, to foreclose
a mortgage.  Hence, should they entertain the slightest doubt of his
inability to repay the mortgage; should they be forced to consider the
probability of foreclosure eventually, he knew they would not consider
the loan.  Don Mike was bitterly aware of the fact that the history of
his family bad been one of waste, extravagance, carelessness and
inefficiency.  In order to place the ranch on a paying basis and take
up John Parker's mortgage, therefore, he would have to have a new loan
of not less than half a million dollars, and at six per cent., the
lowest rate of interest he could hope to obtain, his annual interest
charge would be thirty thousand dollars.  Naturally he would be
expected to repay the loan gradually--say at the rate of fifty thousand
dollars a year.  By running ten thousand head of cattle on the Palomar
he knew he could meet his payments of interest and principal without
lessening his working capital, but he could not do it by attempting to
raise scrub beef cattle.  He would gradually produce a herd of
pure-bred Herefords, but in the meantime he would have to buy
"feeders," grow them out on the Palomar range and sell them at a
profit.  During the present high price of beef cattle, he dared not
gamble on borrowed capital, else with a slump in prices he might be
destroyed.  It would be a year or two, at least, before he might accept
that risk; indeed, the knowledge of this condition had induced him to
lease the San Gregorio for one year to the Basque sheep man, Andre
Loustalot.  If, in the interim, he should succeed in saving the ranch,
he knew that a rest of one year would enable the range to recover from
the damage inflicted upon it by the sheep.

In his desolation there came to him presently a wave of the strong
religious faith that was his sole unencumbered heritage.  Once again he
was a trustful little boy.  He slid out of the great bed of his
ancestors and knelt on the old rag mat beside it; he poured out an
appeal for help from One who, he had been told--who, he truly
believed--marked the sparrow's fall.  Don Mike was far from being the
orthodox person one ordinarily visualizes in a Spanish-Irish Catholic,
but he was deeply religious, his religious impulse taking quite
naturally a much more practical form and one most pleasing to himself
and his neighbors, in that it impelled him to be brave and kind and
hopeful, a gentleman in all that the word implies.  He valued far more
than he did the promise of a mansion in the skies a certain
tranquillity of spirit which comes of conscious virtue.

When he rose from his knees he had a feeling that God had not lost
track of him and that, despite a long list of debit entries, a
celestial accountant had, at some period in Don Mike's life, posted a
considerable sum to his credit in the Book of Things.  "That credit may
just balance the account," he reflected, "although it is quite probable
I am still working in the red ink.  Well--I've asked Him for the
privilege of overdrawing my account . . . we shall see what we shall
see."

At daylight he awakened suddenly and found himself quite mysteriously
the possessor of a trend of reasoning that automatically forced him to
sit up in bed.

Fifteen minutes later, mounted on Panchito, he was cantering up the San
Gregorio, and just as the cook at Bill Conway's camp at Agua Caliente
Basin came to the door of the mess hall and yelled: "Come an' git it or
I'll throw it out," Panchito slid down the gravel cut-bank into camp.

"Where is Mr. Conway?" he demanded of the cook,

The latter jerked a greasy thumb toward the interior of the mess hall,
so, leaving Panchito "tied to the breeze," Don Mike dismounted and
entered.

"Hello there, young feller," Bill Conway roared at him.

"Top o' the morning to you, old dirt-digger," Farrel replied.  "Please
deal me a hand of your ham and eggs, sunny side up.  How be ye, Willum?"

"R'arin' to go," Conway assured him.

"All right.  Pack up and go to-day.  You're through on this job."

"Why?"

"I've changed my mind about fighting Parker on this dam deal--and no
profanity intended."

"But--but--"

"But me no buts, even if you are the goat.  You're through.  I forbid
the bans.  The eggs, man!  I'm famished.  The midnight ride of Paul
Revere was a mere exercise gallop, because he started shortly after
supper, but the morning ride of Mike Farrel has been done on fresh air."

"You're a lunatic.  If you knew what I know, Miguel--"

"Hush!  I want to ascertain what you know.  Bet you a dollar!"  He
slammed a dollar down on the table and held his palm over it.

Bill Conway produced a dollar and likewise covered it.  "Very well,
son," he replied.  "I'll see your dollar.  What's the nature of the
bet?"

"I'm betting a dollar you didn't draw the plans for this dam."

Bill Conway flipped his dollar over to his guest.

"I'm betting two dollars!"

Conway took two silver dollars from his vest pocket and laid them on
the table.  "And the bet?" he queried.

"I'm betting two dollars the plans were drawn by an engineer in Los
Angeles."

"Some days I can't lay up a cent," the old contractor complained, and
parted with his two dollars.

"I'm betting four dollars!" Farrel challenged.

"See your four dollars," Conway retorted and covered the bet.

"I'm betting that those plans were drawn by the engineer of the South
Coast Power Corporation."

"Death loves a shining mark, Michael, my boy.  Hand over that four
dollars."

Farrel produced a five dollar bill.  "I'm betting five dollars," he
challenged again.

"Not with me, son.  You're too good.  I suppose your next bet will be
that the plans were drawn by the engineer of the Central California
Power Company."

"Were they?"

"Yes."

"Got a set of the plans with his name on them?"

"You bet."

"I want them."

"They're yours, provided you tell your Uncle Bill the Big Idea."

Don Mike flipped some pepper and salt on his eggs and while doing so
proceeded to elucidate.

"If I had two projects in mind--one for irrigation and one for power, I
would not, of course, unless I happened to be a public service
corporation engaged in producing and selling electric power, consider
for a moment wasting my time monkeying with the hydro-electric
buzz-saw.  Indeed, I would have to sell it, for with the juice
developed here I could not hope to compete in a limited field with the
established power companies.  I would proceed to negotiate the sale of
this by-product to the highest bidder.  Bill, do you know that I've
seen enough flood water running down the San Gregorio every winter to
have furnished, if it could have been stored in Agua Caliente Basin,
sufficient water to irrigate the San Gregorio Valley for five years?"

"I know it, Miguel."

"All a power company requires is the assurance that the dam you are
building will impound in the Agua Caliente Basin during an ordinarily
wet winter, sufficient run-off water to insure them against a shortage
during the summer.  After the water has passed over their wheels
they're through with it and it can be used for irrigation, can it not?"

"Yes, of course, although you'd have to have a greater volume of water
than the amount coming through the power company's pen-stocks.  But
that's easily arranged.  Two ditches, Miguel!"

"If the engineer of the Central California Power Company had not
examined the possibilities here and approved of them, it is reasonable
to suppose that he would not have drawn the plans and Parker would not
have engaged you to build the dam."

"You're on the target, son.  Go on."

"Then Parker must have entered into an agreement to sell, and the
Central California Power Company must have agreed to buy, if and when
Parker could secure legal title to the Rancho Palomar, a certain number
of miner's inches of water daily, in perpetuity, together with certain
lands for a power station and a perpetual right of way for their power
lines over the lands of this ranch."

"Well, son, that's what I would have done in a similar situation.
Nothing to be made by letting that hydro-electric opportunity lie
fallow.  No profit in wasting kilowatts, Miguel.  We haven't got a
third of the power necessary for the proper development/of this state."

"In the absence of conclusive proof to the contrary, Bill, I am
convinced that John Parker did enter into such a contract.  Naturally,
until he should secure the title to the ranch, the railroad commission,
which regulates all public service corporations in this state, would
not grant the power company permission to gamble on the truth of an
official report that I had been killed in Siberia."

"Your reasoning is sound.  Now eat, and after breakfast I'll tell you
things.  Your visit and your eager inquiries have started a train of
thought in my thick head."

Don Mike obeyed, and while he devoted himself to his breakfast, old
Bill Conway amused himself rolling pellets out of bread and flipping
them at a knot-hole in the rough wall of the mess hall.

"You've been pretty well troubled, haven't you, son?" he remarked
paternally when Don Mike, having completed his meal, sat back and
commenced rolling a cigarette.

"_Si_.  Got your train of thought ditched, Bill?"

"I have.  Assuming that Parker has made a deal with the Central
California Power Company, what I want to know is: Why did he do it?"

"I've just told you why he did it."

"You've just told me why he would make a deal with a power company, but
you haven't explained why he should make a deal with this _particular_
power company."

"I cannot answer that question, Bill."

"Nor can I.  But there's a reason--perhaps two reasons.  Territorially,
this power site is the natural property of but two power
corporations--the Central California and the South Coast.  The South
Coast is the second largest corporation of its kind in the state; the
Central California is the fifth.  Why go gunning for a dickey bird when
you can tie up to an eagle?"

They were both silent, pondering the question.  Then said Bill Conway,
"Well, son, if I had as much curiosity regarding the reason for this
situation as you have, I'd most certainly spend some money to find out."

"I have the money and I am prepared to spend it.  How would you start,
Bill?"

"Well, I'd buy a couple of shares of stock, in the Central California
Power Company as a starter.  Then I would descend upon the main office
of the company, exhibit my stock and claim my stockholder's right to
look over the list of stockholders and bondholders of record; also, the
board of directors and the minutes of the previous meetings.  You may
not find John Parker's name listed either as stockholder, bondholder or
director, but you might find the First National Bank of El Toro,
represented by the cashier or the first vice-president of that
institution.  Also, if I were you, I'd just naturally hop the rattler
for San Francisco, hie myself to some stockbroker's office to buy this
stock, and while buying it look over the daily reports of the stock
market for the past few years and see if the figures suggested anything
to me."

"Anything else?"

"Thus endeth the first lesson, Miguel.  At that it's only a vague
suspicion.  Get out of my way, boy.  I'm going out to build a dam and
you're not ready to stop me--yet."

"Bill, I'm serious about this.  I want you to cease operations."

Bill Conway turned upon him almost angrily.  "What for?" he demanded.

"I own the Rancho Palomar.  I forbid it.  I have a good and sufficient
reason."

"But, son, I can finance the confounded dam.  I have it financed
already."

"So have I--if I cared to accept favors."

Bill Conway approached and took his young friend by each shoulder.
"Son," he pleaded, "please let me build this dam.  I was never so plumb
interested in any job before.  I'll take a chance.  I know what I'm
going to do and how I'm going to do it, and you aren't going to be
obligated the least little bit.  Isn't John Parker stuck for it all, in
the long run?  Why, I've got that _hombre_ by the short hair."

"I know, but long before you can collect from him you'll be financially
embarrassed."

"Don't worry.  I've been a miser all my life and I've got a lot of
money hid out.  Please, son, quit interfering with me.  You asked me to
help you out, I accepted and I'm going to go through until stopped by
legal procedure.  And if you have the law on me I'll never speak to you
again."

"Your attitude doesn't fit in with my plans, Bill Conway."

"Yours don't fit in with mine.  Besides, I'm older than you and if
there was one thing your father taught you it was respect for your
elders.  Two heads are better than one.  You crack right along and try
to save your ranch in your way and I'll crack right along and try to
save it my way.  You pay your way and I'll pay mine.  That's fair,
isn't it?"

"Yes, but--"

"Fiddlesticks; on your way.  You're wasting your breath arguing with
me."

Don Mike knew it.  "Well, let me have a set of the plans," he concluded
sulkily.

Bill Conway handed him out a roll of blue-prints and Farrel mounted
Panchito and returned to the hacienda.  The blue-prints he hid in the
barn before presenting himself at the house.  He knew his absence from
the breakfast-table would not be commented upon, because for a week,
during the round-up of the cattle, he and Pablo and the latter's male
relatives who helped in the riding, had left the hacienda at daylight
after partaking of a four o'clock breakfast.




CHAPTER XXIX

"We've been waiting for you, Miguel, to motor with us to El Toro," Kay
greeted him as he entered the patio.

"So sorry to have delayed you, Kay.  I'm ready to start now, if you
are."

"Father and mother are coming also.  Where have you been?  I asked
Pablo, but he didn't know."

"I've been over to Bill Conway's camp to tell him to quit work on that
dam."

The girl paled slightly and a look of apprehension crept into her eyes.
"And--and--he's--ceasing operations?" she almost quavered.

"He is not.  He defied me, confound him, and in the end I had to let
him have his way."

El Mono, the butler, interrupted them by appearing on the porch to
announce that William waited in the car without.  Mrs. Parker presently
appeared, followed by her husband, and the four entered the waiting
car.  Don Mike, satisfied that his old riding breeches and coat were
clean and presentable, had not bothered to change his clothes, an
evidence of the democracy of his _ranchero_ caste, which was not lost
upon his guests.

"I know another route to El Toro," he confided to the Parkers as the
car sped down the valley.  "It's about twelve miles out of our way, but
it is an inspiring drive.  The road runs along the side of the high
hills, with a parallel range of mountains to the east and the low
foothills and flat farming lands sloping gradually west to the Pacific
Ocean.  At one point we can look down into La Questa Valley and it's
beautiful."

"Let us try that route, by all means," John Parker suggested.  "I have
been curious to see La Questa Valley and observe the agricultural
methods of the Japanese farmers there."

"I am desirous of seeing it again for the same reason, sir," Farrel
replied.  "Five years ago there wasn't a Jap in that valley and now I
understand it is a little Japan."

"I understand," Kay struck in demurely, "that La Questa Valley suffered
a slight loss in population a few weeks ago."

Both Farrel and her father favored her with brief, sharp, suspicious
glances.  "Who was telling you?" the latter demanded.

"Senor Bill Conway."

"He ought to know better than to discuss the Japanese problem with
you," Farrel complained, and her father nodded vigorous assent.  Kay
tilted her adorable nose at them.

"How delightful to have one's intelligence underrated by mere men," she
retorted.

"Did Bill Conway indicate the direction of the tide of emigration from
La Questa?" Farrel asked craftily, still unwilling to admit anything.
The girl smiled at him, then leaning closer she crooned for his ear
alone:

  He's sleeping in the valley,
    The valley,
    The valley,
  He's sleeping in the valley,
  And the mocking bird is singing where he lies.

"Are you glad?" he blurted eagerly.  She nodded and thrilled as she
noted the smug little smile of approval and complete understanding that
crept over his dark face like the shadow of clouds in the San Gregorio.
Mrs. Parker was riding in the front seat with the chauffeur and Kay sat
between her father and Don Mike in the tonneau.  His hand dropped
carelessly on her lap now, as he made a pretense of pulling the auto
robe up around her; with quick stealth he caught her little finger and
pressed it hurriedly, then dropped it as if the contact had burned him;
whereat the girl realized that he was a man of few words, but--

"Dear old idiot," she thought.  "If he ever falls in love he'll pay his
court like a schoolboy."

"By the way, sir," Farrel spoke suddenly, turning to John Parker, "I
would like very much to have your advice in the matter of an
investment.  I will have about ninety thousand dollars on hand as soon
as I sell these cattle I've rounded up, and until I can add to this sum
sufficient to lift the mortgage you hold, it scarcely seems prudent to
permit my funds to repose in the First National Bank of El Toro without
drawing interest."

"We'll give you two and one-half per cent. on the account, Farrel."

"Not enough.  I want it to earn six or seven per cent. and it occurred
to me that I might invest it in some good securities which I could
dispose of at a moment's notice, whenever I needed the money.  The
possibility of a profit on the deal has even occurred to me."

Parker smiled humorously.  "And you come to me for advice?  Why, boy,
I'm your financial enemy."

"My dear Mr. Parker, I am unalterably opposed to you on the Japanese
colonization scheme and I shall do my best to rob you of the profit you
plan to make at my expense, but personally I find you a singularly
agreeable man.  I know you will never resign a business advantage, but,
on the other hand, I think that if I ask you for advice as to a
profitable investment for my pitiful little fortune, you will not be
base enough to advise me to my financial detriment.  I trust you.  Am I
not banking with your bank?"

"Thank you, Farrel, for that vote of confidence.  You possess a truly
sporting attitude in business affairs and I like you for it; I like any
man who can take his beating and smile.  Yes, I am willing to advise an
investment.  I know of a dozen splendid securities that I can
conscientiously recommend as a safe investment, although, in the event
of the inevitable settlement that must follow the war and our national
orgy of extravagance and high prices, I advise you frankly to wait
awhile before taking on any securities.  You cannot afford to absorb
the inevitable shrinkage in the values of all commodities when the
show-down comes.  However, there is a new issue of South Coast Power
Company first mortgage bonds that can be bought now to yield eight per
cent. and I should be very much inclined to take a chance on them,
Farrel.  The debentures of the power corporations in this state are
about the best I know of."

"I think you are quite right, sir," Farrel agreed.  "Eventually the
South Coast Company is bound to divide with the Pacific Company control
of the power business of the state.  I dare say that in the fullness of
time the South Coast people will arrange a merger with the Central
California Power Company."

"Perhaps.  The Central California Company is under-financed and not
particularly well managed, Farrel.  I think it is, potentially, an
excellent property, but its bonds have been rather depressed for a long
time."

Farrel nodded his understanding.  "Thank you for your advice, sir.
When I am ready will your bank be good enough to arrange the purchase
of the South Coast bonds for me?"

"Certainly.  Happy to oblige you, Farrel.  But do not be in too great a
hurry.  You may lose more in the shrinkages of values if you buy now
than you would make in interest."

"I shall be guided by your advice, sir.  You are very kind."

"By the way," Parker continued, with a deprecatory smile, "I haven't
entered suit against you in the matter of that foreclosure.  I didn't
desire to annoy you while you were in hospital and you've been busy on
the range ever since.  When can I induce you to submit to a
process-server?"

"This afternoon will suit me, Mr. Parker."

"I'll gladly wait awhile longer, if you can give me any tangible
assurance of your ability to meet the mortgage."

"I cannot do that to-day, sir, although I may be able to do so if you
will defer action for three days."

Parker nodded and the conversation languished.  The car had climbed out
of the San Gregorio and was mounting swiftly along the route to La
Questa, affording to the Parkers a panorama of mountain, hill, valley
and sea so startling in its vastness and its rugged beauty that Don
Mike realized his guests had been silenced as much by awe as by their
desire to avoid a painful and unprofitable conversation.

Suddenly they swung wide around a turn and saw, two thousand feet below
them, La Questa Valley.  The chauffeur parked the car on the outside of
the turn to give his passengers a long, unobstructed view.

"Looks like a green checker-board with tiny squares," Parker remarked
presently.

"Little Japanese farms."

"There must be a thousand of them, Farrel."

"That means not less than five thousand Japanese, Mr. Parker.  It means
that literally a slice of Japan has been transplanted in La Questa
Valley, perhaps the fairest and most fruitful valley in the fairest and
most fruitful state in the fairest and most fruitful country God ever
made.  And it is lost to white men!"

"Serves them right.  Why didn't they retain their lands?"

"Why doesn't water run up hill?  A few Japs came in and leased or
bought lands long before we Californians suspected a 'yellow peril.'
They paid good prices to inefficient white farmers who were glad to get
out at a price in excess of what any white man could afford to pay.
After we passed our land law in 1913, white men continued to buy the
lands for a corporation owned by Japanese with white dummy directors,
or a majority of the stock of the corporation ostensibly owned by white
men.  Thousands of patriotic Californians have sold their farms to
Japanese without knowing it.  The law provides that a Japanese cannot
lease land longer than three years, so when their leases expire they
conform to our foolish law by merely shifting the tenants from one farm
to another.  Eventually so many Japs settled in the valley that that
white farmers, unable to secure white labor, unable to trust Japanese
labor, unable to endure Japanese neighbors or to enter into Japanese
social life weary of paying taxes to support schools for the education
of Japanese children, weary of daily contact with irritable, unreliable
and unassimilable aliens, sold or leased their farms in order to escape
into a white neighborhood.  I presume, Mr. Parker, that nobody can
realize the impossibility of withstanding this yellow flood except
those who have been overwhelmed by it.  We humanitarians of a later day
gaze with gentle sympathy upon the spectacle of a noble and primeval
race like the Iroquois tribe of Indians dying before the advance of our
Anglo-Saxon civilization, but with characteristic Anglo-Saxon
inconsistency and stupidity we are quite loth to feel sorry for
ourselves, doomed to death before the advance of a Mongolian
civilization unless we put a stop to it--forcibly and immediately!"

"Let us go down and see for ourselves," Mrs. Parker suggested.

Having reached the floor of the valley, at Farrel's suggestion they
drove up one side of it and down the other.  Motor-truck after
motor-truck, laden with crated vegetables, passed them on the road,
each truck driven by a Japanese, some of them wearing the peculiar
bamboo hats of the Japanese coolie class.

The valley was given over to vegetable farming and the fields were
dotted with men, women and children, squatting on their heels between
the rows or bending over them in an attitude which they seemed able to
maintain indefinitely, but which would have broken the back of a white
man.

"I know a white apologist for the Japanese who in a million pamphlets
and from a thousand rostrums has cried that it is false that Japanese
women labor in the fields," Farrel told his guests.  "You have seen a
thousand of them laboring in this valley.  Hundreds of them carry
babies on their backs or set them to sleep on a gunnysack between the
rows of vegetables.  There is a sixteen-year-old girl struggling with a
one-horse cultivator, while her sisters and her mother hold up their
end with five male Japs in the gentle art of hoeing potatoes."

"They live in wretched little houses," Kay ventured to remark.

"Anything that will shelter a horse or a chicken is a palace to a Jap,
Kay.  The furnishings of their houses are few and crude.  They rise in
the morning, eat, labor, eat, and retire to sleep against another day
of toil.  They are all growing rich in this valley, but have you seen
one of these aliens building a decent home, or laying out a flower
garden?  Do you see anything inspiring or elevating to our nation due
to the influence of such a race?"

"Yonder is a schoolhouse," Mrs. Parker suggested.  "Let us visit it."

"The American flag floats over that little red school-house, at any
rate," Parker defended.

William halted the car in the schoolhouse yard and Farrel got out and
walked to the schoolhouse door.  An American school-teacher, a girl of
perhaps twenty, came to the door and met him with an inquiring look.
"May we come in?" Farrel pleaded.  "I have some Eastern people with me
and I wanted to show them the sort of Americans you are hired to teach."

She smiled ruefully.  "I am just about to let them out for recess," she
replied.  "Your friends may remain in their car and draw their own
conclusions."

"Thank you."  Don Mike returned to the car.  "They're coming out for
recess," he confided.  "Future American citizens and citizenesses.
Count 'em."

Thirty-two little Japanese boys and girls, three Mexican or Indian
children and four of undoubted white parentage trooped out into the
yard and gathered around the car, gazing curiously.  The school-teacher
bade them run away and play and, in her role of hostess, approached the
car.  "I am Miss Owens," she announced, "and I teach this school
because I have to earn a living.  It is scarcely a task over which one
can enthuse, although I must admit that Japanese children are not
unintelligent and their parents dress them nicely and keep them clean."

"I suppose, Miss Owens," Farrel prompted her, having introduced himself
and the Parkers, "that you have to contend with the native Japanese
schools."

She pointed to a brown house half a mile away.  Over it flew the flag
of Japan.  "They learn ancestor worship and how to kow-tow to the
Emperor's picture down there, after they have attended school here,"
she volunteered.  "Poor little tots!  Their heads must ache with the
amount of instruction they receive.  After they have learned here that
Columbus discovered America on October 12th, 1492, they proceed to that
Japanese school and are taught that the Mikado is a divinity and a
direct descendant of the Sun God.  And I suppose, also, they are taught
that it is a fine, clean, manly thing to pack little, green, or decayed
strawberries at the bottom of a crate with nice big ones on top--in
defiance of a state law.  Our weights and measures law and a few others
are very onerous to our people in La Questa."

"Do you mean to tell me, Miss Owens," Parker asked, "that you despair
of educating these little Japanese children to be useful American
citizens?"

"I do.  The Buddhist school over yonder is teaching them to be Japanese
citizens; under Japanese law all Japanese remain Japanese citizens at
heart, even if they do occasionally vote here.  The discipline of my
school is very lax," she continued.  "It would be, of course, in view
of the total lack of parental support.  In that other school, however,
the discipline is excellent."

She continued to discourse with them, giving them an intimate picture
of life in this little Japan and interesting revelations upon the point
of view, family life and business ethics of the parents of her pupils,
until it was time to "take up" school again, when she reluctantly
returned to her poorly paid and unappreciated efforts.

"Well, of course, these people are impossible socially," John Parker
admitted magnanimously, "but they do know how to make things grow.
They are not afraid of hard work.  Perhaps that is why they have
supplanted the white farmers."

"Indeed they do know how, Mr. Parker.  And they can produce good crops
more cheaply than a white farmer.  A Japanese with a wife and two
fairly well-grown daughters saves the wages of three hired men.  Thus
he is enabled to work his ground more thoroughly.  When he leases land
he tries to acquire rich land, which he robs of its fertility in three
years and then passes on to renew the outrage elsewhere.  Where he owns
land, however, he increases fertility by proper fertilization."

"So you do not believe it possible for a white man to compete
economically with these people, Farrel?"

"Would you, if you were a white farmer, care to compete with the
Japanese farmers of this valley?  Would you care to live in a rough
board shack, subsist largely on rice, labor from daylight to dark and
force your wife and daughter to labor with you in the fields?  Would
you care to live in a kennel and never read a book or take an interest
in public affairs or thrill at a sunset or consider that you really
ought to contribute a dollar toward starving childhood in Europe?
Would you?"

"You paint a sorry picture, Farrel."  Parker was evasive.

"I paint what I see before me," he answered doggedly.  "This--in five
years.  And if this be progress as we view progress--if this be
desirable industrial or agricultural evolution, then I'm out of tune
with my world and my times, and as soon as I am certain of it I'll blow
my brains out."

Parker chuckled at this outburst and Kay prodded him with her elbow--a
warning prod.  The conversation languished immediately.  Don Mike sat
staring out upon the little green farms and the little brown men and
women who toiled on them.

"Angry, Don Mike?" the girl asked presently.  He bent upon her a glance
of infinite sadness.

"No, my dear girl, just feeling a little depressed.  It's hard for a
man who loves his country so well that he would gladly die a thousand
dreadful deaths for it, to have to fight the disloyal thought that
perhaps, after all, it isn't really worth fighting for and dying for.
If we only had the courage and the foresight and the firmness of the
Australians and New Zealanders!  Why, Kay, those sane people will not
even permit an Indian prince--a British subject, forsooth--to enter
their country except under bond and then for six months only.  When the
six months have expired--_heraus mit em_!  You couldn't find a Jap in
Australia, with a search warrant.  But do you hear any Japanese threats
of war against Australia for this alleged insult to her national honor?
You do not.  They save that bunkum for pussy-footing, peace-loving,
backward-looking, dollar-worshiping Americans.  As a nation we do not
wish to be awakened from our complacency, and the old theory that a
prophet is without honor in his own country is a true one.  So perhaps
it would be well if we discuss something else--luncheon, for instance.
Attention!  Silence in the ranks!  Here we are at the Hotel De Las
Rosas."

Having dined his guests, Farrel excused himself, strolled over to the
railroad station and arranged with the agent for cattle cars to be
spotted in on the siding close to town three days later.  From the
station he repaired to the office of his father's old attorney, where
he was closeted some fifteen minutes, after which he returned to his
guests, awaiting his return on the wide hotel veranda.

"Have you completed your business?" Parker inquired.

"Yes, sir, I have.  I have also completed some of yours.  Coming away
from the office of my attorney, I noticed the office of your attorney
right across the hall, so I dropped in and accepted service of the
complaint in action for the foreclosure of your confounded old
mortgage.  This time your suit is going to stick!  Furthermore, as I
jogged down Main Street, I met Judge Morton, of the Superior Court, and
made him promise that if the suit should be filed this afternoon he
would take it up on his calendar to-morrow morning and render a
judgment in your favor."

"By George," Parker declared, apparently puzzled, "one gathers the
impression that you relish parting with your patrimony when you
actually speed the date of departure."

Mrs. Parker took Don Mike by the lapel of his coat.  "You have a
secret," she charged.

He shook his head.

"You have," Kay challenged.  "The intuition of two women cannot be
gainsaid."

Farrel took each lady by the arm and with high, mincing steps,
simulating the utmost caution in his advance, he led them a little way
down the veranda out of hearing of the husband and father.

"It isn't a secret," he whispered, "because a secret is something which
one has a strong desire to conceal.  However, I do not in the least
mind telling you the cause of the O-be-joyful look that has aroused
your curiosity.  Please lower your heads and incline your best ears
toward me. . . .  There!  I rejoice because I have the shaggy old wolf
of Wall Street, more familiarly known as John Parker, beaten at his
favorite indoor sport of high and lofty finance.  'Tis sad, but true.
The old boy's a gone fawn.  _Le roi est mort_! _vive le roi_!"

Kay's eyes danced.  "Really, Miguel?"

"Not really or actually, Kay, but--er--morally certain."

"Oh!"  There was disappointment in her voice.  Her mother was looking
at Don Mike sharply, shrewdly, but she said nothing, and Farrel had a
feeling that his big moment had fallen rather flat.

"How soon will John be called upon to bow his head and take the blow?"
Mrs. Parker finally asked.  "Much as I sympathize with you, Miguel, I
dislike the thought of John hanging in suspense, as it were."

"Oh, I haven't quite made up my mind," he replied.  "I could do it
within three days, I think, but why rush the execution?  Three months
hence will be ample time.  You see," he confided, "I like you all so
well that I plan to delay action for six months or a year, unless, of
course, you are anxious for an excuse to leave the ranch sooner.  If
you really want to go as soon as possible, of course I'll get busy and
cook Senor Parker's goose, but--"

"You're incorrigible!" the lady declared.  "Procrastinate, by all
means.  It would be very lonely for you without us, I'm sure."

"Indeed, it would be.  That portion of me which is Irish would picture
my old hacienda alive at night with ghosts and banshees."

Mrs. Parker was looking at him thoughtfully; seemingly she was not
listening.  What she really was doing was saying to herself: "What
marvelous teeth he has and what an altogether debonair, captivating
young rascal he is, to be sure!  I cannot understand why he doesn't
melt John's business heart.  Can it be that under that gay, smiling,
lovable surface John sees something he doesn't quite like?  I wonder."

As they entered the waiting automobile and started for home, Farrel,
who occupied the front seat with the chauffeur, turned and faced the
Parkers.  "From this day forward," he promised them, "we are all going
to devote ourselves to the serious task of enjoying life to the utmost.
For my part, I am not going to talk business or Japanese immigration
any more.  Are you all grateful?"

"We are," they cried in unison.

He thanked them with his mirthful eyes, faced around in his seat and,
staring straight ahead, was soon lost in day dreams.  John Parker and
his wife exchanged glances, then both looked at their daughter, seated
between them.  She, too, was building castles in Spain!

When they alighted from the car before the hacienda, Mrs. Parker
lingered until the patio gate had closed on her daughter and Farrel;
then she drew her husband down beside her on the bench under the
catalpa tree.

"John, Miguel Farrel says he has you beaten."

"I hope so, dear," he replied feelingly.  "I know of but one way out
for that young man, and if he has discovered it so readily I'd be a
poor sport indeed not to enjoy his victory."

"You never really meant to take his ranch away from him, did you, John?"

"I did, Kate.  I do.  If I win, my victory will prove to my entire
satisfaction that Don Miguel Jose Federico Noriaga Farrel is a
throwback to the _Manana_ family, and in that event, my dear, we will
not want him in ours.  We ought to improve our blood-lines, not
deteriorate them."

"Yet you would have sold this valley to that creature Okada."

"Farrel has convinced me of my error there.  I have been anti-Jap since
the day Farrel was thrown from his horse and almost killed--by a Jap."

"I'm sure Kay is in love with him, John."

"Propinquity," he grunted.

"Fiddlesticks!  The man is perfectly charming."

"Perhaps.  We'll decide that point later.  Do you think Farrel is
interested in Kay?"

"I do not know, John," his better half declared hopelessly.  "If he is,
he possesses the ability to conceal it admirably."

"I'll bet he's a good poker-player.  He has you guessing, old girl, and
the man who does that is a _rara avis_.  However, Katie dear, if I were
you I wouldn't worry about this--er--affair."

"John, I can't help it.  Naturally, I'm curious to know the thoughts in
the back of that boy's head, but when he turns that smiling innocent
face toward me, all I can see is old-fashioned deference and amiability
and courtesy.  I watch him when he's talking to Kay--when he cannot
possibly know I am snooping, and still, except for that frank
friendliness, his face is as communicative as this old adobe wall.  A
few days ago he rode in from the range with a great cluster of wild
tiger-lilies--and he presented them to me.  Any other young man would
have presented them to my daughter."

"I give it up, Kate, and suggest that we turn this mystery over to
Father Time.  He'll solve it."

"But I don't want Kay to fall in love with Don Mike if he isn't going
to fall in love with her," she protested, in her earnestness raising
her voice, as was frequently her habit.

The patio gate latch clicked and Pablo Artelan stood in the aperture.

"_Senora_," he said gravely.  "Ef I am you I don' worry very much about
those boy.  Before hee's pretty parteecular.  All those hightone'
_senorita_ in El Toro she give eet the sweet look to Don Miguel, jus'
the same like thees--"  Here Pablo relaxed his old body, permitted
his head to loll sideways and his lower jaw to hang slackly, the while
his bloodshot eyes gazed amorously into the branches of the catalpa
tree.  "But those boy he don' pay some attention.  Hee's give beeg
smile to thees _senorita_, beeg smile to thees one, beeg smile to that
one, beeg smile for all the mama, but for the _querida_ I tell to you
Don Miguel hee's pretty parteecular.  I theenk to myself--Carolina,
too--'Look here, Pablo.  What he ees the matter weeth those boy?  I
theenk mebbeso those boy she's goin' be old bach.  What's the matter
here?  When I am twenty-eight _anos_ my oldes' boy already hee's bust
one bronco'." Here Pablo paused to scratch his head.  "But now," he
resumed, "by the blood of those devil I know sometheeng!"

"What do you know, you squidgy-nosed old idol, you?" Parker demanded,
with difficulty repressing his laughter.

"I am ol' man," Pablo answered with just the correct shade of
deprecation, "but long time ago I have feel like my _corazon_--my
heart--goin' make barbecue in my belly.  I am in love.  I know.  Nobody
can fool me.  An' those boy, Don Miguel, I tell you, _senor_, hee's
crazy for love weeth the Senorita Kay."

Parker crooked his finger, and in obedience to the summons Pablo
approached the bench.

"How do you know all this, Pablo?"

Let us here pause and consider.  In the summer of 1769 a dashing,
care-free Catalonian soldier in the company of Don Gaspar de Portola,
while swashbuckling his way around the lonely shores of San Diego Bay,
had encountered a comely young squaw.  _Mira, senores_!  Of the blood
that flowed in the veins of Pablo Artelan, thirty-one-thirty-seconds
was Indian, but the other one-thirty-second was composed of equal parts
of Latin romance and conceit.

Pablo's great moment had arrived.  Lowly peon that he was, he knew
himself at this moment to be a most important personage; death would
have been preferable to the weakness of having failed to take advantage
of it.

"Why I know, Senor Parker?"  Pablo laughed briefly, lightly,
mirthlessly, his cacchination carefully designed to convey the
impression that he considered the question extremely superfluous.  With
exasperating deliberation he drew forth his little bag of tobacco and a
brown cigarette paper; he smiled as he dusted into the cigarette paper
the requisite amount of tobacco.  With one hand he rolled the
cigarette; while wetting the flap with his garrulous tongue, he gazed
out upon the San Gregorio as one who looks beyond a lifted veil.

He answered his own question.  "Well, _senor_--and you, _senora_!  I
tell you.  _Por nada_--forgeeve; please, I speak the Spanish--for
notheeng, those boy he poke weeth hee's thumb the rib of me."

"No?" cried John Parker, feigning profound amazement.

"_Es verdad_.  Eet ees true, _senor_.  Those boy hee's happy, no?  Eh?"

"Apparently."

"You bet you my life.  Well, las' night those boy hee's peench weeth
his thumb an' theese fingair--what you suppose?"

"I give it up, Pablo."

Pablo wiped away with a saddle-colored paw a benignant and paternal
smile.  He wagged his head and scuffed his heel in the dirt.  He
feasted his soul on the sensation that was his.

"Those boy hee's peench--" a dramatic pause.  Then:

"Eef you tell to Don Miguel those things I tol' you--_Santa
Marias_--Hees cut my throat."

"We will respect your confidence, Pablo," Mrs. Parker hastened to
assure the traitor.

"All right.  Then I tol' to you what those boy peench--weeth hees thumb
an' thees fingair.  _Mira_.  Like thees."

"Cut out the pantomime and disgorge the information, for the love of
heaven," Parker pleaded.

"He peench"--Pablo's voice rose to a pseudo-feminine screech--"the
cheek of"--he whirled upon Mrs. Parker and transfixed her with a
tobacco-stained index finger--"Senorita Parker, so help me, by Jimmy,
eef I tell you some lies I hope I die pretty queeck."

Both the Parkers stared at the old man blankly.  He continued:

"He peench--queeck--like that.  He don' know hee's goin' for
peench--hees all time queeck like that--he don' theenk.  But after
those boy hee's peench the cheen of those girl, hee's got red in the
face like black-bird's weeng.  'Oh,' he say, 'I am sky-blue eedete-ot,'
an' he run away queeck before he forget heemself an' peench those girl
some more."

John Parker turned gravely to his wife.  "Old hon," he murmured softly,
"Don Mike Farrel is a pinch-bug.  He pinched Kay's chin during a mental
lapse; then he remembered he was still under my thumb and he cursed
himself for a sky-blue idiot."

"Oh, John, dear, I'm so glad."  There were tears in Mrs. Parker's eyes.
"Aren't you, John?"

"No, I'm not," he replied savagely.  "I think it's an outrage and I'd
speak to Farrel about it if it were not apparent nobody realizes more
keenly than does he the utter impossibility of permitting his fancy to
wander in that direction."

"John Parker, you're a hard-hearted man," she cried, and left him in
high dudgeon, to disappear into the garden.  As the gate closed behind
her, John Parker drew forth his pocket book and abstracted from it a
hundred-dollar bill, which he handed to Pablo Artelan.

"We have had our little differences, Pablo," he informed that astounded
individual, "but we're gradually working around toward a true spirit of
brotherly love.  In the language of the classic, Pablo, I'm here to
tell the cock-eyed world that you're one good Indian."

Pablo swept his old _sombrero_ to the ground, "_Gracias, _senor_, mille
gracias_," he murmured, and shuffled away with his prize.

Verily, the ways of this Gringo were many and mysterious.  To-day one
hated him; to-morrow--

"There is no doubt about it," Pablo soliloquized, "it is better to be
the head of a mouse than the tail of a lion!"




CHAPTER XXX

The following day Don Mike, Pablo and the latter's male relatives, who
had so mysteriously appeared on the premises, were early ahorse,
driving to El Toro the three hundred-odd head of cattle of all ages and
sizes rounded up on the Palomar.  The cattle were corraled at a ranch
half-way to El Toro the first night, and there watered and fed; the
following night they were in the cattle pens at El Toro, and the
following day Farrel loaded them aboard the cars and shipped them out
to Los Angeles, accompanying the shipment personally.  Two days later
he was back on the ranch, and the Parkers noticed that his exuberant
spirits had not in the least subsided.

"I'd give a ripe peach to know what that fellow is up to," John Parker
complained.  "Confidentially, I've had him shadowed from the moment he
arrived in Los Angeles until the moment he returned to El Toro and
started back for the ranch.  He has conferred with nobody except the
stock-yard people.  Nevertheless, he has a hen on."

"Yes, and that hen will hatch a young bald-headed eagle to scratch your
eyes out," his daughter reminded him, whereat he chuckled.

"Old Bill Conway's drilling away at his dam-site," he volunteered
presently, "and his suit against me for damages, due to breach of
contract, is set for trial so far down Judge Morton's calendar that the
old judge will have to use a telescope to find it.  However, I
shouldn't charge the judge with a lack of interest in my affairs, for
he has rendered a judgment in my favor in the matter of that mortgage
foreclosure and announced from the bench that if this judgment doesn't
stick he'll throw the case out of court the next time it is presented
for trial.  I wonder what Farrel's next move will be?"

"I heard him announce that he was going to get ready for the _fiesta_,"
Kay replied.

For two weeks he was busy harrowing, disking and rolling the old
race-track; he repainted the weather-beaten poles and reshingled the
judge's stand; he repaired the fence and installed an Australian
starting-gate, dug a pit for the barbecue and brought forth, repaired
and set up under the oaks close to the race-tracks, thirty long wooden
tables at which, in an elder and more romantic day, the entire
countryside, as guests of the Farrels and Noriagas, had gathered to
feast.  Farrel worked hard and saw but little of his guests, except at
meal-times; he retired somewhat early each night and, insofar as his
guests could note, he presented a most commendable example of a young
man whose sole interest in life lay in his work.

"When do you plan to give your _fiesta_, Miguel?" Kay inquired one
evening as they sat, according to custom, on the veranda.

"In about a month," he replied.  "I've got to fatten my steers and
harden them on a special diet before we barbecue them.  Don Nicolas
Sandoval will have charge of the feast, and if I furnished him with
thin, tough range steers, he'd charge me with modernism and disown me.
Old Bill Conway never would forget it.  He'd nag me to my grave."

"When do we give Panchito his try-out, Don Mike?"

"The track is ready for it now, Kay, and Pablo tells me Panchito's
half-brother is now a most dutiful member of society and can get there
in a hurry when he's sent for.  But he's only a half thoroughbred.
Shall we start training to-morrow?"

"Oh, goody.  By all means."

The long and patient methods of education to which a green race-horse
is subjected were unknown on the Rancho Palomar.  Panchito was a
trained saddle animal, wise, sensible, courageous and with a prodigious
faith that his rider would get him safely out of any jam into which
they might blunder together.  The starting-gate bothered him at first,
but after half a dozen trials, he realized that the web, flying upward,
had no power to hurt him and was, moreover, the signal for a short,
jolly contest of speed with his fellows of the rancho.  Before the week
was out he was "breaking" from the barrier with speed and serenity born
of the knowledge that this was exactly what was expected of him;
whereupon the other horses that Don Mike used to simulate a field of
competitors, took heart of hope at Panchito's complacency and broke
rather well with him.

Those were long, lazy days on the Palomar.  June had cast its withering
smile upon the San Gregorio and the green hills had turned to a parched
brown.  Grasshoppers whirred everywhere; squirrels whistled; occasional
little dust-devils whirled up the now thoroughly dry river-bed and the
atmosphere was redolent of the aroma of dust and tarweed.  Pablo and
his dusky relatives, now considerably augmented (albeit Don Mike had
issued no invitation to partake of his hospitality), trained colts as
roping horses or played Mexican monte in the shade of the help's
quarters.  Occasionally they roused themselves long enough to justify
their inroads upon Don Mike's groceries by harvesting a forty-acre
field of alfalfa and irrigating it for another crop, for which purpose
a well had been sunk in the bed of the dry San Gregorio.

The wasted energies of these peons finally commenced to irritate John
Parker.

"How long are you going to tolerate the presence of this healthy lot of
_cholo_ loafers and grafters, Farrel?" he demanded one day.  "Have you
any idea of what it is costing you to support that gang?"

"Yes," Farrel replied.  "About ten dollars a day."

"You cannot afford that expense."

"I know it.  But then, they're the local color, they've always been and
they will continue to be while I have title to this ranch.  Why, their
hearts would be broken if I refused them permission to nestle under the
cloak of my philanthropy, and he is a poor sort of white man who will
disappoint a poor devil of a _cholo_."

"You're absolutely incomprehensible," Parker declared.

Farrel laughed.  "You're not," he replied.  "Know anything about a
stop-watch?"

"I know _all_ about one."

"Well, your daughter has sent to San Francisco for the best stop-watch
money can buy, and it's here.  I've had my father's old stop-watch
cleaned and regulated.  Panchito's on edge and we're going to give him
a half-mile tryout to-morrow, so I want two stop-watches on him.  Will
you oblige, sir?"

Parker willingly consented, and the following morning Farrel and his
guests repaired to the race-track.  Kay, mounted on Panchito in racing
gear, was, by courtesy, given a position next to the rail.  Eighty
pounds of dark meat, answering to the name of Allesandro Trujillo and
claiming Pablo Artelan as his grandfather, drew next position on
Peep-sight, as Farrel had christened Panchito's half-brother, while
three other half-grown _cholo_ youths, gathered at random here and
there, faced the barrier on the black mare, the old gray roping horse
and a strange horse belonging to one of the volunteer jockeys.

There was considerable backing, filling and some bucking at the
barrier, and Pablo and two of his relatives, acting as starters, were
kept busy straightening out the field.  Finally, with a shrill yip,
Pablo released the web and the flighty young Peep-sight was away in
front, with the black mare's nose at his saddle-girth and the field
spread out behind him, with Panchito absolutely last.

At the quarter-pole Kay had worked her mount easily up through the ruck
to contend with Peep-sight.  The half-thoroughbred was three years old
and his muscles had been hardened by many a wild scramble up and down
the hills of El Palomar; he was game, he was willing, and for half a
mile he was marvelously fast, as Farrel had discovered early in the
tryouts.  Indeed, as a "quarter-horse" Farrel knew that few horses
might beat the comparatively green Peep-sight and he had been
indiscreet enough to make that statement in the presence of youthful
Allesandro Trujillo, thereby filling that young hopeful with a
tremendous ambition to race the famed Panchito into submission for the
mere sport of a race.

In a word, Allesandro's Indian blood was up.  If there was anything he
loved, it was a horse-race for money, chalk, marbles or fun.  Therefore
when a quick glance over his shoulder showed Panchito's blazed face at
Peep-sight's rump, Allesandro clucked to his mount, gathered the reins
a trifle tighter and dug his dirty bare heels into Peep-sight's ribs,
for he was riding bareback, as an Indian should.  Peep-sight responded
to the invitation with such alacrity that almost instantly he had
opened a gap of two full lengths between himself and Kay on Panchito.

Farrel and Parker, holding their stop-watches, watched the race from
the judge's stand.

"By Jove, that Peep-sight _is_ a streak," Parker declared admiringly.
"He can beat Panchito at that distance, even at proportionate weights
and with an even break at the start."

Farrel nodded, his father's old racing-glass fixed on Allesandro and
Kay.  The girl had "gathered" her mount; she was leaning low on his
powerful neck and Farrel knew that she was talking to him, riding him
out as he had never been ridden before.  And he was responding.  Foot
by foot he closed the distance that Peep-sight had opened up, but
within a hundred yards of the finish Allesandro again called upon his
mount for some more of the same, and the gallant Peep-sight flattened
himself perceptibly and held his own; nor could Panchito's greatest
efforts gain upon the flying half-breed a single inch.

"Bully for the Indian kid," Parker yelled.  "Man, man, that's a horse
race."

"They'll never stop at the half-mile pole," Farrel laughed.  "That race
will be won by Panchito when Panchito wins it.  Ah, I told you so."

"Well, Peep-sight wins at the half by one open length--and the _cholo_
boy is using a switch on him!"

"He's through.  Panchito is gaining on him.  He'll pass him at the
three-quarter pole."

"Right-o, Farrel.  Panchito wins by half a length at the three-quarter
pole--"

"I wish Kay would pull him up," Farrel complained.  "He's gone too far
already and there she is still heading for home like the devil beating
tan-bark . . . well, if she breaks him down she's going to be out the
grandest saddle animal in the state of California.  That's all I have
to say. . . .  Kay, Kay, girl, what's the matter with you?  Pull him up
. . . by the blood of the devil, she can't pull him up.  She's broken a
rein and he's making a run of it on his own."

"Man, look at that horse go."

"Man, look at him come!"

Panchito had swung into the home-stretch, his white face and white
front legs rising and falling with the strong, steady rhythm of the
horse whose stout heart refuses to acknowledge defeat, the horse who
still has something left for a supreme effort at the finish.

"There is a true race-horse," Parker cried exultantly.  "I once won a
ten-thousand-dollar purse with a dog that wasn't fit to appear on the
same track with that Panchito."

The big chestnut thudded by below them, stretched to the limit of his
endurance, passed what would have been the finish had the race been a
mile and a sixteenth, and galloped up the track with the broken
bridle-rein dangling.  He slowed down as he came to the other horses in
the race, now jogging back to the judge's stand, and one of the _cholo_
youths spurred alongside of him, caught the dangling rein and led him
back to the judge's stand.

Kay's face was a little bit white as she smiled up at her father and
Farrel.  "The old darling ran away with me," she called.

Farrel was instantly at her side and had lifted her out of the saddle.
She clung to him for the barest moment, trembling with fear and
excitement, before turning to examine Panchito, from whom Pablo had
already stripped the saddle.  He was badly blown, as trembly as the
girl herself, and dripping with sweat, but when Pablo slipped the
headstall on him and commenced to walk him up and down to "cool him
out," Don Mike's critical eye failed to observe any evil effects from
the long and unaccustomed race.

John Parker came down out of the grand stand, his thumb still tightly
pressing the stem of his stop-watch, which he thrust under Farrel's
nose.

"Look, you star-spangled ignoramus, look," he yelled.  "You own a horse
that's fit to win the Melbourne Cup or the American Derby, and you
don't know it.  What do you want for him?  Give you ten thousand for
him this minute--and I am not so certain that race hasn't hurt him."

"Oh, I don't want to sell Panchito.  I can make this ranch pay ten
thousand dollars, but I cannot breed another Panchito on it."

"Farrel, if you refuse to sell me that horse I'm going to sit right
down here and weep.  Son, I don't know a soul on earth who can use
twelve--yes, fifteen--thousand dollars handier than you can."

Don Mike smiled his lazy, tantalizing smile.  "I might as well be broke
as the way I am," he protested.  "What's a paltry fifteen thousand
dollars to a man who needs half a million?  Mr. Parker, my horse is not
for sale at any price."

"You mean that?"

"Absolutely."

John Parker sighed.  Since that distant day when he had decided that he
could afford such a luxury, his greatest delight had been in owning and
"fussing" with a few really great race-horses.  He had owned some
famous sprinters, but his knowledge of the racing game had convinced
him that, could he but acquire Panchito, he would be the owner of a
true king of the turf.  The assurance that, with all his great wealth,
this supreme delight was denied him, was a heavy blow.

Kay slipped her arm through his.  "Don't cry, pa, please!  We'll wait
until Don Mike loses all his sheep and cow money and then we'll buy
Panchito for a song."

"Oh, Kay, little girl, that horse is a peach.  I think I'd give a
couple of toes for the fun of getting my old trainer Dan Leighton out
here, training this animal quietly up here in the valley where nobody
could get a line on his performances, then shipping him east to
Saratoga, where I'd put a good boy on him, stick him in rotten company
and win enough races to qualify him for the biggest event of the year.
And then!  Oh, how I would steal the Derby from John H. Hatfield and
his four-year-old wonder.  I owe Hatfield a poke anyhow.  We went
raiding together once and the old sinner double-crossed me."

"Who is John H. Hatfield?" Don Mike queried mildly.

"Oh, he's an aged sinner down in Wall Street.  He works hard to make
the New Yorkers support his racing stables.  Poor old John!  All he has
is some money and one rather good horse."

"And you wish to police this Hatfield person, sir?"

"If I could, I'd die happy, Farrel."

"Very well.  Send for your old trainer, train Panchito, try him out a
bit at Tia Juana, Lower California, at the meeting this winter, ship
him to Saratoga and make Senor Hatfield curse the day he was born.  I
have a very excellent reason for not selling Panchito to you, but never
let it be said that I was such a poor sport I refused to loan him to
you--provided, of course, Kay agrees to this course.  He's her mount,
you know, while she's on El Palomar."

Parker turned to his daughter.  "Kay," he demanded, "do you love your
poor old father?"

"Yes, I do, pa, but you can't have Panchito until you do something for
me."

"Up jumped the devil!  What do you want?"

"If you accept a favor from Miguel Farrel you ought to be sport enough
to grant him one.  If you ever expect to see Panchito in your racing
colors out in front at the American Derby, Miguel must have a renewal
of his mortgage."

"Oh, the devil take that mortgage.  You and your mother never give me a
moment's peace about it.  You make me feel like a criminal; it's
getting so I'll have to sit around playing mumbley-peg in order to get
a thrill in my old age.  You win, Kay.  Farrel, I will grant you a
renewal of the mortgage.  I'm weary of being a Shylock."

"Thanks ever so much.  I do not desire it, Mr. Parker.  One of these
bright days when I get around to it, and provided luck breaks my way,
I'll take up that mortgage before the redemption period expires.  I
have resolved to live my life free from the shadow of an accursed
mortgage.  Let me see, now.  We were talking about horse-racing, were
we not?"

"Miguel Farrel, you'd anger a sheep," Parker cried wrathfully, and
strode away toward his automobile waiting in the infield.  Kay and Don
Mike watched him drive straight across the valley to the road and turn
in the direction of El Toro.

"Wilder than a March hare," Don Mike commented.

"Not at all," Kay assured him.  "He's merely risking his life in his
haste to reach El Toro and telegraph Dan Leighton to report
immediately."




CHAPTER XXXI

John Parker's boredom had been cured by a stop-watch.  One week after
Panchito had given evidence of his royal breeding, Parker's old
trainer, Dan Leighton, arrived at the Palomar.  Formerly a jockey, he
was now in his fiftieth year, a wistful little man with a puckered,
shrewd face, which puckered more than usual when Don Mike handed him
Panchito's pedigree.

"He's a marvelous horse, Danny," Parker assured the old trainer.

"No thanks to him.  He ought to be," Leighton replied.  His cool glance
measured Allesandro Trujillo, standing hard by.  "I'll have that dusky
imp for an exercise boy," he announced.  "He's built like an
aeroplane--all superstructure and no solids."

For a month the training of Panchito went on each morning.  Pablo's
grandson, under Danny Leighton's tuition, proved an excellent exercise
boy.  He learned to sit his horse in the approved jockey fashion; proud
beyond measure at the part he was playing, he paid strict attention to
Leighton's instructions and progressed admirably.

Watching the horse develop under skilled scientific training, it
occurred to Don Mike each time he held his father's old stop-watch on
Panchito that race-horses had, in a great measure, conduced to the ruin
of the Noriagas and Farrels, and something told him that Panchito was
likely to prove the instrument for the utter financial extinction of
the last survivor of that famous tribe.  "If he continues to improve,"
Farrel told himself, "he's worth a bet--and a mighty heavy one.
Nevertheless, Panchito's grandfather, leading his field by six open
lengths in the home-stretch, going strong and a sure-fire winner,
tangled his feet, fell on his nose and cost my father a thousand steers
six months before they were ready for market.  I ought to leave John
Parker to do all the betting on Panchito, but--well, he's a
race-horse--and I'm a Farrel."

"When will Panchito be ripe to enter in a mile and a sixteenth race?"
he asked Parker.

"About the middle of November.  The winter meeting will be on at Tia
Juana, Baja California, then, and Leighton wants to give him a few
try-outs there in fast company over a much shorter course.  We will win
with him in a field of ordinary nags and we will be careful not to win
too far or too spectacularly.  We have had his registry brought up to
date and of course you will be of record as his owner.  In view of our
plans, it would never do for Danny and me to be connected with him in
any way."

Don Mike nodded and rode over to Agua Caliente Basin to visit Bill
Conway.  Mr. Conway was still on the job, albeit Don Mike hazarded a
guess that the old schemer had spent almost two hundred thousand
dollars.  His dam was, as he facetiously remarked, "taking concrete
shape," and he was rushing the job in order to have the structure
thoroughly dry and "set" against the coming of the winter rains.  To
his signal relief, Farrel asked him no embarrassing questions regarding
the identity of the extremely kind-hearted person who was financing
him; he noticed that his young friend appeared a trifle pre-occupied
and depressed.  And well he might be.  The secret knowledge that he was
obligated to Kay Parker to the extent of the cost of this dam was
irritating to his pride; while he felt that her loving interest and
sympathy, so tremendously manifested, was in itself a debt he would
always rejoice in because he never could hope to repay it, it did irk
him to be placed in the position of never being able to admit his
knowledge of her action.  He prayed that Bill Conway would be enabled
to complete the dam as per his contract; that Judge Morton would then
rush to trial Conway's suit for damages against Parker for
non-performance of contract; that Conway would be enabled immediately
to reimburse himself through Parker's assets which he had attached,
repay Kay and close the transaction.

On November fifteenth Danny Leighton announced that Panchito was "right
on edge" and, with a few weeks of experience in professional company,
fit to make the race of his career.  The winter meeting was already on
at Tia Juana and, with Farrel's consent, Panchito was lovingly
deposited in a well-padded crate mounted on a motor truck and
transported to El Toro.  Here he was loaded in an express car and,
guarded by Don Mike, shipped not to Tia Juana, as Parker and his
trainer both supposed he would be, but to San Diego, sixteen miles
north of the international boundary--a change of plan originating with
Farrel and by him kept a secret from Parker and Danny Leighton.  With
Panchito went an ancient Saratoga trunk, Pablo Artelan, and little
Allesandro Trujillo, ragged and bare-footed as usual.

Upon arriving in San Diego Don Mike unloaded Panchito at the Santa Fe
depot.  Gone now were the leg bandages and the beautiful blanket with
which Danny Leighton had furnished Panchito at starting.  These things
proclaimed the race-horse, and that was not part of Don Mike's plan.
He led the animal to a vacant lot a few blocks from the depot and,
leaving him there in charge of Pablo, went up town to the Mexican
consulate and procured passports into Baja California for himself and
Allesandro.  From the consulate he went to a local stock-yard and
purchased a miserable, flea-bitten, dejected saddle mule, together with
a dilapidated old stock saddle with a crupper, and a well-worn
horse-hair hackamore.

Returning to the depot, he procured his old Saratoga trunk from the
station master and removed from it the beautiful black-leather,
hand-carved, silver-mounted stock saddle he had won at a _rodeo_ some
years previous; a pair of huge, heavy, solid silver Mexican spurs, with
tan carved-leathern straps, and a finely plaited hand-made rawhide
bridle, _sans_ throat-latch and brow-band and supporting a long, cruel,
solid silver Spanish bit, with silver chain chin-strap and heavily
embossed.  In this gear he arrayed Panchito, and then mounted him.
Allesandro mounted the flea-bitten mule, the old Saratoga trunk was
turned over to Pablo, and with a fervent "_Adios_, Don Miguel.  Go with
God!" from the old majordomo, Don Mike and his little companion rode
south through the city toward the international boundary.

They crossed at Tecarte next day and in the somnolent little border
town Don Mike made sundry purchases and proceeded south on the road
toward Ensenada.

Meanwhile, John Parker, his wife and daughter and Danny Leighton had
motored to San Diego and taken rooms at a hotel there.  Each day they
attended the races at Tia Juana, and as often as they appeared there
they looked long and anxiously for Don Miguel Jose Federico Noriaga
Farrel.  But in vain.

Three days before Thanksgiving the entries for the Thanksgiving
handicap were announced, and when Danny Leighton read them in the
morning paper he at once sought his employer.

"That fellow Farrel has spoiled everything," he complained furiously.
"He's entered Panchito in the Thanksgiving Handicap at a mile and a
sixteenth, for a ten thousand dollar purse.  There he is!"

Parker read the list and sighed.  "Well, Panchito is his horse, Danny.
He has a right to enter him if he pleases--hello!  Katie!  Kay!  Here's
news for you.  Listen!"

He read aloud:


DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, JR.

ARRIVE AT TIA JUANA--THEY ENTER PANCHITO IN THE THANKSGIVING HANDICAP

_By the Rail Bird_

Considerable interest having developed among the followers of the sport
of kings at Tia Juana race-track anent the entry of Panchito in the
Thanksgiving Handicap, and the dope books yielding nothing, your
correspondent hied him to the office of the secretary of the Lower
California Jockey Club; whereupon he was regaled with the following
extraordinary tale:

Two days ago a Mexican rode into Tia Juana from the south.  He was
riding Panchito and his outfit was the last word in Mexican
magnificence.  His saddle had cost him not a _real_ less than five
hundred dollars gold; his silver spurs could have been pawned in any
Tia Juana loan office for twenty-five dollars and many a longing glance
was cast on a magnificent bridle that would have cost any bricklayer a
month's pay.  Panchito, a splendid big chestnut with two white
stockings and a blazed face, was gray with sweat and alkali dust and
shod like a plow horse.  He wore cactus burrs in his tail and mane and
had evidently traveled far.

His rider claimed to have been on the road a week, and his soiled
clothing and unshaven face gave ample testimony of that fact.  He was
arrayed in the traditional costume of the Mexican ranchero of means and
spoke nothing but Spanish, despite which handicap the racing secretary
gleaned that his name was Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga
Farrelle.  Following Don Miguel came Sancho Panza, Junior, a stringy
Indian youth of fourteen summers, mounted on an ancient flea-bitten
mule.  The food and clothing of these two adventurers were carried
behind them on their saddles.

An interpreter informed the secretary that Don Miguel was desirous of
entering his horse, Panchito, in the Thanksgiving Handicap.  The
horse's registration papers being in order, the entry was accepted, Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza, Junior, were each given a badge, and a stall
was assigned to Panchito.  At the same time Don Quixote made
application for an apprentice license for young Sancho Panza, who
answers to the name of Allesandro Trujillo, when the _enchiladas_ are
ready.

Panchito, it appears, is a five-year-old, bred by Michael J. Farrel,
whose post-office address is El Toro, San Marcos County, California.
He is bred in the purple, being a descendant of Duke of Norfolk and,
according to his present owner, Don Quixote, he can run circles around
an antelope and has proved it in a number of scrub races at various
_fiestas_ and celebrations.  According to Don Quixote, his horse has
never hitherto appeared on a public race-track.  Panchito knows far
more about herding and roping steers than he does about professional
racing, and enters the list with no preparation other than the daily
exercise afforded in bearing his owner under a forty-pound stock saddle
and scrambling through the cactus after longhorns.  Evidently Don
Quixote knows it all.  He brushed aside with characteristic Castilian
grace some well-meant advice tendered him by his countrymen, who have
accumulated much racing wisdom since the bang-tails have come to Tia
Juana.  He spent the entire day yesterday telling everybody who
understands Spanish what a speed marvel is his Panchito, while Sancho
Panza, Junior, galloped Panchito gently around the track and warmed him
in a few quarter-mile sprints.  It was observed that the cactus burrs
were still decorating Panchito's tail and mane.

Don Quixote is a dead game Mexican sport, however.  He has a roll that
would choke a hippopotamus and appears willing to bet them as high as a
hound's back.

Figure it out for yourself.  You pays your money and you takes your
choice.  Bobby Wilson, the handicapper, says Don Quixote smokes
_marihuana_, but the _jefe politico_ says he knows it's the fermented
juice of the century plant.  However, Bobby is taking no chances as the
wise ones will note when they check the weights.  Panchito, being a
powerful horse and (according to Don Quixote) absolutely unbeatable,
faces the barrier with an impost of 118 pounds, not counting his shoes,
cactus burrs and stable accumulations.

Watch for Sancho Panza, Junior.  He rides barefooted in a two-piece
uniform, to wit, one "nigger" shirt and a pair of blue bib overalls,
and he carries a willow switch.

_Viva_ Panchito.  _Viva_ Don Quixote.  _Ditto_ Sancho Panza, Junior.


John Parker finished reading and his glance sought Leighton's.
"Danny," he informed the trainer in a low voice, "here is what I call a
dirty, low, Irish trick.  I suppose he's been making a night-bird out
of Panchito, but you can bet your last nickel he isn't neglecting him
when they're alone in the barn together.  He gets a grooming then; he
gets well fed and well rubbed and the cactus burrs and the stable
accumulations are only scenery when Panchito's on parade.  He removed
the racing plates you put on Panchito and substituted heavy work shoes,
but--Panchito will go to the post with racing plates.  I think we had
better put a bet down on him."

"I wouldn't bet tin money on him," Danny Leighton warned.  "He can
outrun anything in that field, even if he has broken training a little,
but those wise little jockeys on the other horses will never let him
win.  They'll pocket him and keep him there."

"They'll not!" Kay's voice rose sharply.  "Panchito will be off first,
no matter what position he draws, and Don Mike's orders to Allesandro
will be to keep him in front.  But you are not to bet on him, father."

"Why not?  Of course I shall bet on him."

"You know very well, Dad, that there are no book-makers of Tia Juana to
make the odds.  The Paris Mutuel system obtains here and the public
makes the odds.  Consequently the more money bet on Panchito the lower
will be his price.  I'm certain Don Mike will bet every dollar he has
in the world on Panchito, but he will bet it, through trusted agents,
in pool-rooms all over the country.  The closing price here should be
such that the pool-rooms should pay Don Mike not less than fifteen to
one."

"So you've been his confidante, have you?" Parker scrutinized his
daughter quizzically.

"He had to take somebody into his confidence in order to have his plans
protected," she confessed blushingly.

"Quite so!  Somebody with a deal of influence," Mrs. Parker
interjected.  "John, this is simply delicious.  That rascal of a Don
Miguel has reverted to type.  He has put aside his Celtic and Gaelic
blood and turned Mexican.  He tells people the truth about his horse
and a reporter with a sense of humor has advertised these truths by
writing a funny story about him and Panchito and the Indian imp."

"They'll have him up in the judge's stand for an explanation five
minutes after the race is won," Danny Leighton declared.  "Panchito
will be under suspicion of being a ringer and the payment of bets will
be held up."

"In which case, dad," Kay reminded him demurely, "you and Mr. Leighton
will be furnished with an excellent opportunity to prove yourselves
heroes.  Both of you will go to the judge's stand immediately and vouch
for Don Mike and Panchito.  If you do not I shall--and I fancy John
Parker's daughter's testimony will be given some consideration, Mr.
John Parker being very well known to every racing judge in America."

"There are days," murmured John Parker sadly, "when I find it
impossible to lay up a cent.  I have nurtured a serpent in my bosom."

"Tush!  There are no snakes in Ireland," his humorous wife reminded
him.  "What if Don Mike has hoisted you on your own petard?  Few men
have done as much," and she pinched his arm lovingly.




CHAPTER XXXII

Four days before Thanksgiving Brother Anthony returned from El Toro
with Father Dominic's little automobile purring as it had not purred
for many a day, for expert mechanics had given the little car a
thorough overhauling and equipped it with new tires and brake lining at
the expense of Miguel Farrel.  Father Dominic looked the rejuvenated
ruin over with prideful eyes and his saintly old face puckered in a
smile.

"Brother Anthony," he declared to that mildly crack-brained person,
"that little conveyance has been responsible for many a furious
exhibition of temper on your part.  But God is good.  He will forgive
you, and has He not proved it by moving our dear Don Mike to save you
from the plague of repairing it for many months to come?"

Brother Anthony, whose sense of humor, had he ever possessed one, had
long since been ruined in his battles with Father Dominic's automobile,
raised a dour face.

"Speaking of Don Miguel, I am informed that our young Don Miguel has
gone to Baja California, there to race Panchito publicly for a purse of
ten thousand dollars gold.  I would, Father Dominic, that I might see
that race."

Father Dominic laid his hand on poor Brother Anthony's shoulder.
"Because you have suffered for righteousness' sake, Brother Anthony,
your wish shall be granted.  Tomorrow you shall drive Pablo and
Carolina and me to Tia Juana in Baja California to see Panchito race on
the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day.  We will attend mass in San Diego in
the morning and pray for victory for him and his glorious young master."

Big tears stood in Brother Anthony's eyes.  At last!  At last!  Poor
Brother Anthony was a human being, albeit his reason tottered on its
throne at certain times of the moon.  He did love race-horses and
horse-races, and for a quarter of a century he had been trying to
forget them in the peace and quiet of the garden of the Mission de la
Madre Dolorosa.

"Our Don Mike has made this possible?" he quavered.  Father Dominic
nodded.

"God will pay him," murmured Brother Anthony, and hastened away to the
chapel to remind the Almighty of the debt.

Against the journey to Baja California, Carolina had baked a tremendous
pot of brown beans and fried a hundred tortillas.  Pablo had added some
twenty pounds of jerked meat and chilli peppers, a tarpaulin Don Mike
had formerly used when camping, and a roll of bedding; and when Brother
Anthony called for them at daylight the following morning, both were up
and arrayed in their Sunday clothes and gayest colors.  In an empty
tobacco sack, worn like an amulet around her fat neck and resting on
her bosom, Carolina carried some twenty-eight dollars earned as a
laundress to Kay and her mother; while in the pocket of Pablo's new
corduroy breeches reposed the two hundred-dollar bills; given him by
the altogether inexplicable Senor Parker.  Knowing Brother Anthony to
be absolutely penniless (for he had taken the vow of poverty) Pablo
suffered keenly in the realization that Panchito, the pride of El
Palomar, was to run in the greatest horse race known to man, with not a
centavo of Brother Anthony's money bet on the result.  Pablo knew
better than to take Father Dominic into his confidence when the latter
joined them at the Mission, but by the time they had reached El Toro,
he had solved the riddle.  He changed one of his hundred dollar bills,
made up a little roll of ten two-dollar bills and slipped it in the
pocket of the brown habit where he knew Brother Anthony kept his
cigarette papers and tobacco.

At Ventura, when they stopped at a garage to take on oil and gasoline,
Brother Anthony showed Pablo the roll of bills, amounting to twenty
dollars, and ascribed his possession of them to nothing more nor less
than a divine miracle.  Pablo agreed with him.  He also noticed that
for reasons best known to himself, Brother Anthony made no mention of
this miracle to his superior, Father Dominic.

At about two o'clock on Thanksgiving Day the pilgrims from the San
Gregorio sputtered up to the entrance of the Lower California Jockey
Club at Tia Juana, parked, and approached the entrance.  They were
hesitant, awed by the scenes around them.  Father Dominic's rusty brown
habit and his shovel hat constituted a novel sight in these worldly
precincts, and the old Fedora hat worn by Brother Anthony was the
subject of many a sly nudge and smile.  Pablo and Carolina, being
typical of the country, passed unnoticed.

Father Dominic had approached the gateman and in his gentle old voice
had inquired the price of admittance.  It was two dollars and fifty
cents!  Scandalous!  He was about to beat the gatekeeper down; surely
the management had special rates for prelates--

A hand fell on his shoulder and Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga
Farrel was gazing down at him with beaming eyes.

"Perhaps, Father Dominic," he suggested in Spanish and employing the
old-fashioned courtly tone of the _haciendado_, "you will permit me the
great honor of entertaining you."  And he dropped a ten-dollar bill in
the cash box and ushered the four _San Gregorianos_ through the
turn-stile.

"My son, my son," murmured Father Dominic.  "What means this
unaccustomed dress?  One would think you dwelt in the City of Mexico.
You are unshaven--you resemble a loafer in _cantinas_.  That _sombrero_
is, perhaps, fit for a bandit like Pancho Villa, but, my son, you are
an American gentleman.  Your beloved grandfather and your equally
beloved father never assumed the dress of our people--"

"Hush!  I'm a wild and woolly Mexican sport for a day, padre.  Say
nothing and bid the others be silent and make no comment.  Come with me
to the grandstand, all of you, and look at the races.  Panchito will
not appear until the fifth race."

Father Dominic bent upon Brother Anthony a glance which had the effect
of propelling the brother out of earshot, whereupon the old friar took
his young friend by the arm and lifted his seamed, sweet old face
toward him with all the _insouciance_ of a child.

"Miguel," he whispered, "I'm in the throes of temptation.  I told you
of the thousand dollars which the Senora Parker, in a moment of that
great-heartedness which distinguishes her (what a triumph, could I but
baptize her in our faith!) forced Senor Parker to present to me.  I
contemplate using it toward the needed repairs to the roof of our
Mission.  These repairs will cost at least three thousand dollars, and
the devil has whispered to me--"

"Say no more about it, but bet the money," said Miguel.  "Be a sport,
Father Dominic, for the opportunity will never occur again.  Before the
sun shall set this day, your one thousand will have grown to ten.  Even
if Panchito should lose, I will guarantee you the return of your money."

Father Dominic trembled.  "Ah, my son, I feel like a little old devil,"
he quavered, but--he protested no more.  When Don Mike settled him in a
seat in the grand-stand, Father Dominic whispered wistfully, "God will
not hold this worldliness against me, Miguel.  I feel I am here on His
business, for is not Panchito running for a new roof for our beloved
Mission?  I will pray for victory."

"Now you are demonstrating your sound common sense," Don Mike assured
him.  His right hand closed over the roll of bills Father Dominic
surreptitiously slipped him.  Scarcely had he transferred the
Restoration Fund to his trousers' pocket when Brother Anthony nudged
him and slipped a tiny roll into Don Miguel's left hand, accompanying
the secret transfer with a wink that was almost a sermon.

"What news, Don Miguel?" Pablo ventured presently.

"We will win, Pablo."

"_Valgame dios_!  I will wager my fortune on Panchito.  Here it is, Don
Miguel--one hundred and eighty dollars.  I know not the ways of these
Gringo races, but if the stakeholder be an honest man and known
personally to you, I will be your debtor forever if you will graciously
consent to attend to this detail for me."

"With pleasure, Pablo."

Carolina drew her soiled little tobacco bag from her bosom, bit the
string in two and handed bag and contents to her master, who nodded and
thrust it in his pocket.

Two tiers up and directly in back of Don Miguel and his guests, two men
glanced meaningly at each other.

"Did you twig that?" one of them whispered.  "That crazy Greaser is a
local favorite, wherever he comes from.  Those two monks and that
_cholo_ and his squaw are giving him every dollar they possess to bet
on this quarter horse entered in a long race, and I'll bet five
thousand dollars he'll drop it into that machine, little realizing that
every dollar he bets on his horse here will depress the odds
proportionately."

"It's a shame, Joe, to see all that good money dropping into the maw of
those Paris Mutuel sharks.  Joe, we ought to be kicked if we allow it."

"Can you speak Spanish?"

"Not a word."

"Well, let's get an interpreter.  That Tia Juana policeman yonder will
do."

"All right.  I'll split the pot with you, old timer."

Directly after the first race a Mexican policeman touched Farrel on the
arm.  "Your pardon, _senor_," he murmured politely, "but two American
gentlemen have asked me to convey to you a message of importance.  Will
the _senor_ be good enough to step down to the betting ring with me?"

"With the utmost delight," Don Miguel replied in his mother tongue and
followed the policeman, who explained as they proceeded toward the
betting ring the nature of the message.

"These two gentlemen," he exclaimed, "are book-makers.  While
book-makers who lay their own odds are not permitted to operate openly
and with the approval of the track authorities, there are a number of
such operating quietly here.  One may trust them implicitly.  They
always pay their losses--what you call true blue sports.  They have
much money and it is their business in life to take bets.  These two
gentlemen are convinced that your horse, Panchito, cannot possibly win
this race and they are prepared to offer you odds of ten to one for as
much money as the _senor_ cares to bet.  They will not move from your
side until the race is run and the bet decided.  The odds they offer
you are greater than you can secure playing your money in the Mutuel."

Don Mike halted in his tracks.  "I have heard of such men.  I observed
the two who talked with you and the _jefe politico_ assured me
yesterday that they are reliable gentlemen.  I am prepared to trust
them.  Why not?  Should they attempt to escape with my money when
Panchito wins--as win he will--I would quickly stop those fine
fellows."  He tapped his left side under the arm-pit, and while the
policeman was too lazy and indifferent to feel this spot himself, he
assumed that a pistol nestled there.

"I will myself guard your bet," he promised.

They had reached the two book-makers and the policeman promptly
communicated to them Don Mike's ultimatum.  The pair exchanged glances.

"If we don't take this lunatic's money," one of them suggested
presently, "some other brave man will.  I'm game."

"It's a shame to take it, but--business is business," his companion
laughed.  Then to the policeman: "How much is our high-toned Mexican
friend betting and what odds does he expect?"

The policeman put the question.  The high-toned Mexican gentleman bowed
elaborately and shrugged deprecatingly.  Such a little bet!  Truly, he
was ashamed, but the market for steers down south had been none too
good lately, and as for hides, one could not give them away.  The
American gentlemen would think him a very poor gambler, indeed, but
twelve hundred and twenty-eight dollars was his limit, at odds of ten
to one.  If they did not care to trifle with such a paltry bet, he
could not blame them, but--

"Holy Mackerel.  Ten to one.  Joe, this is like shooting fish on a
hillside.  I'll take half of it."

"I'll take what's left."

They used their cards to register the bet and handed the memorandum to
Don Mike, who showed his magnificent white teeth in his most engaging
smile, bowed, and insisted upon shaking hands with them both, after
which the quartet sauntered back to the grand-stand and sat down among
the old shepherd and his flock.

As the bugle called out the horses for the handicap, Father Dominic
ceased praying and craned forward.  There were ten horses in the race,
and the old priest's faded eyes popped with wonder and delight as the
sleek, beautiful thoroughbreds pranced out of the paddock and passed in
single file in front of the grand-stand.  The fifth horse in the parade
was Panchito--and somebody had cleaned him up, for his satiny skin
glowed in the semi-tropical sun.  All the other horses in the race had
ribbons interlaced in their manes and tails, but Panchito was barren of
adornment.

"Well, Don Quixote has had him groomed and they've combed the cactus
burrs out of his mane and tail, at any rate.  He'd be a beautiful
animal if he was dolled up like the others," the book-maker, Joe,
declared.

"Got racing plates on to-day, and that cholo kid sits him like he
intended to ride him," his companion added.  "Joe, I have a suspicion
that nag is a ringer.  _He looks like a champion_."

"If he wins we'll _know_ he's a ringer," Joe replied complacently.
"We'll register a protest at once.  Of course, the horse is royally
bred, but he hasn't been trained, he's never been on a track before and
even if he has speed, both early and late, he'll probably be left at
the post.  He's carrying one hundred and eighteen pounds and a green
_cholo_ kid has the leg up.  No chance, I tell you.  Forget it."

Don Mike, returning from the paddock after saddling Panchito and giving
Allesandro his final instructions, sat majestically in his seat, but
Father Dominic, Brother Anthony, Pablo and Carolina paid vociferous
tribute to their favorite and the little lad who rode him.
Allesandro's swarthy hands and face were sharply outlined against a
plain white jockey suit; somebody had loaned him a pair of riding boots
and a cap of red, white and blue silk.  This much had Don Mike
sacrificed for convention, but not the willow switch.  Allesandro waved
it at his master and his grandparents as he filed past.

Pablo stood up and roared in English: "_Kai_!  Allesandro!  Eef you
don' win those race you grandfather hee's goin' cut you throat sure.  I
look to you all the time, _muchacho_.  You keep the mind on the
bus-i-ness.  You hear, Allesandro _mio_?"

Allesandro nodded, the crowd laughed and the horses went to the post.
They were at the post a minute, but got away to a perfect start.

"Sancho Panza leads on Panchito!" the book-maker, Joe, declared as the
field swept past the grand-stand.  He was following the flying horses
through his racing glasses.  "Quarter horse," he informed his
companion.  "Beat the gate like a shot out of a gun.  King Agrippa, the
favorite, second by two lengths.  Sir Galahad third.  At the quarter!
Panchito leads by half a length, Sir Galahad second.  King Agrippa
third!  At the half!  Sir Galahad first, Panchito second, King Agrippa
third!  At the three-quarter pole!  King Agrippa first, Panchito
second, Polly P. third.  Galahad's out of it.  Polly P's making her
spurt, but she can't last.  Into the stretch with Panchito on the rail
and coming like he'd been sent for and delayed.  Oh, Lord, Jim, that's
a horse--and we thought he was a goat!  Look at him come!  He's an open
length in front of Agrippa and the _cholo_ hasn't used his willow
switch.  Jim, we're sent to the cleaner's--"

It was a Mexican race-track, but the audience was American and it is
the habit of Americans to cheer a winner, regardless of how they have
bet their money.  A great sigh went up from the big holiday crowd.
Then, "Panchito!  Come on, you Panchito!  Come on, Agrippa!  Ride him,
boy, ride him!"  A long, hoarse howl that carried with it the hint of
sobs.

At the paddock the gallant King Agrippa gave of the last and the best
that was in him and closed the gap in a dozen furious jumps until, as
the field swept past the grand-stand, Panchito and King Agrippa were
for a few seconds on such even terms that a sudden hush fell on the
race-mad crowd.  Would this be a dead heat?  Would this unknown
Panchito, fresh from the cattle ranges, divide first money with the
favorite?

The silence was broken by a terrible cry from Pablo Artelan.

"Allesandro!  I cut your throat!"

Whether Allesandro heard the warning or whether he had decided that
affairs had assumed a dangerous pass, matters not.  He rose a trifle in
his saddle, leaned far out on Panchito's withers and delivered himself
of a tribal yell.  It was a cry meant for Panchito, and evidently
Panchito understood, for he responded with the only answer a gallant
race-horse has for such occasions.  A hundred feet from the wire King
Agrippa's wide-flung nostrils were at Panchito's saddle girth; under
the stimulus of a rain of blows he closed the gap again, only to drop
back and finish with daylight showing between his head and Panchito's
flowing tail.

Father Dominic stood gazing down the track.  He was trembling
violently.  Brother Anthony turned lack-luster eyes toward Farrel.

"You win, Brother Anthony," Don Mike said quietly.

"How good is God," murmured Brother Anthony.  "He has granted me a joy
altogether beyond my deserts.  And the joy is sufficient.  The money
will buy a few shingles for our roof."  He slumped down in his seat and
wiped away great tears.

Pablo waited not for congratulations or exultations, but scrambled down
through the grand-stand to the railing, climbed over it and dropped
down into the track, along which he jogged until he met Allesandro
galloping slowly back with Panchito.  "Little treasure of the world,"
he cried to the boy, "I am happy that I do not have to cut your
throat," and he lifted Allesandro out of the saddle and pressed him to
his heart.  That was the faint strain of Catalonian blood in Pablo.

Up in the grand-stand Carolina, in her great excitement, forgot that
she was Farrel's cook.  When he was a baby she had nursed him and she
loved him for that.  So she waddled down to him with beaming eyes--and
he patted her cheek.

"Father Dominic," Don Mike called to the old friar, "your Mission
Restoration Fund has been increased ten thousand dollars."

"So?" the gentle old man echoed.  "Behold, Miguel, the goodness of God.
He willed that Panchito should save for you from the heathen one little
portion of our dear land; He was pleased to answer my prayers of fifty
years that I be permitted to live until I had restored the Mission of
our Mother of Sorrows."  He closed his eyes.  "So many long years the
priest," he murmured, "so many long years!  And I am base enough to be
happy in worldly pleasures.  I am still a little old devil."

Don Mike turned to the stunned book-makers.  "For some reason best
known to yourselves," he addressed them in English, bowing graciously,
"you two gentlemen have seen fit to do business with me through this
excellent representative of the civil authority of Tia Juana.  We will
dispense with his services, if you have no objection.  Here, my good
fellow," he added, and handed the policeman a ten-dollar bill.

"You're not a Mexican.  You're an American," the book-maker Joe cried
accusingly, "although you bragged like a Mexican."

"Quite right.  I never claimed to be a Mexican, however.  I heard about
this Thanksgiving Handicap, and it seemed such a splendid opportunity
to pick up a few thousand dollars that I entered my horse.  I have
complied with all the rules.  This race was open to four-year-olds and
up, regardless of whether they had been entered in a race previously or
had won or lost a race.  Panchito's registration will bear
investigation; so will his history.  My jockey rode under an apprentice
license.  May I trouble you for a settlement, gentlemen?"

"But your horse is registered under a Mexican's name, as owner."

"My name is Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel."

"We'll see the judges first, Senor Farrel."

"By all means."

"You bet we will.  The judges smell a rat, already.  The winning
numbers haven't been posted yet."

As Don Mike and his retinue passed the Parker box, John Parker and
Danny Leighton fell in behind them and followed to the judges' stand.
Five minutes later the anxious crowd saw Panchito's number go up as the
winner.  Don Mike's frank explanation that he had deceived nobody, but
had, by refraining from doing things in the usual manner, induced the
public to deceive itself and refrain from betting on Panchito, could
not be gainsaid--particularly when an inspection of the records at the
betting ring proved that not a dollar had been wagered on Panchito.

"You played the books throughout the country, Mr. Farrel?" one of the
judges asked.

Don Mike smiled knowingly.  "I admit nothing," he replied.

The testimony of Parker and Danny Leighton was scarcely needed to
convince the judges that nothing illegal had been perpetrated.  When
Don Mike had collected his share of the purse and the book-makers,
convinced that they had been out-generaled and not swindled, had issued
checks for their losses and departed, smiling, John Parker drew Farrel
aside.

"Son," he demanded, "did you spoil the Egyptians and put over a Roman
holiday?"

Again Don Mike smiled his enigmatic smile.  "Well," he admitted, "I'm
ready to do a little mortgage lifting."

"I congratulate you with all my heart.  For heaven's sake, take up your
mortgage immediately.  I do not wish to acquire your ranch--that way.
I have never wished to, but if that droll scoundrel, Bill Conway,
hadn't managed to dig up unlimited backing to build that dam despite
me, and if Panchito hadn't cinched your case for you to-day, I would
have had no mercy on you.  But I'm glad you won.  You have a head and
you use it; you possess the power of decision, of initiative, you're a
sporting, kindly young gentleman and I count it a privilege to have
known you."  He thrust out his hand and Don Mike shook it heartily.

"Of course, sir," he told Parker, "King Agrippa is a good horse, but
nobody would ever think of entering him in a real classic.  I told
Allesandro to be careful not to beat him too far.  The time was nothing
remarkable and I do not think I have spoiled your opportunity for
winning with him in the Derby."

"I noticed that.  Thank you.  And you'll loan him to me to beat that
old scoundrel I told you about?"

"You'll have to arrange that matter with your daughter, sir.  I have
raced my first and my last race for anything save the sport of a
horse-race, and I am now about to present Panchito to Miss Kay."

"Present him?  Why, you star-spangled idiot, I offered you fifteen
thousand dollars for him and you knew then I would have gone to fifty
thousand."

Don Mike laid a patronizing hand on John Parker's shoulder.  "Old
settler, you're buying Panchito and you're paying a heavier price than
you realize, only, like the overcoat in the traveling salesman's
expense account, the item isn't apparent.  I'm going to sell you a dam,
the entire Agua Caliente Basin and watershed riparian rights, a site
for a power station and a right of way for power transmission lines
over my ranch.  In return, you're going to agree to furnish me with
sufficient water from your dam, in perpetuity, to irrigate every acre
of the San Gregorio Valley."

John Parker could only stare, amazed.  "On one condition, Miguel," he
replied presently.  "Not an acre of the farm lands of the San Gregorio
shall ever be sold, without a _proviso_ in the deed that it shall never
be sold or leased to any alien ineligible to citizenship."

"Oh, ho!  So you've got religion, eh?"

"I have.  Pablo dragged it into the yard last spring at the end of his
riata, and it lies buried in the San Gregorio.  That makes the San
Gregorio consecrated ground.  I always had an idea I was a pretty fair
American, but I dare say there's room for improvement.  What do you
want for that power property?"

"I haven't the least idea.  We'll get together with experts some day
and arrive at an equitable price.

"Thank you son.  I'll not argue with you.  You've given me a
first-class thrashing and the man who can do that is quite a fellow.
Nevertheless, I cannot see now where I erred in playing the game.  Mind
telling me, boy?"

"Not at all.  It occurred to me--assistance by Bill Conway--that this
property must be of vital interest to two power companies, the Central
California Power Company and the South Coast Power Corporation.  Two
hypotheses presented themselves for consideration.  First, if you were
developing the property personally, you had no intention of operating
it yourself.  You intended to sell it.  Second, you were not developing
it personally, but as the agent of one of the two power companies I
mentioned.  I decided that the latter was the best hypothesis upon
which to proceed.  You are a multi-millionaire trained in the fine art
of juggling corporations.  In all probability you approached my father
with an offer to buy the ranch and he declined.  He was old and he was
sentimental, and he loved me and would not sell me out of my
birthright.  You had to have that ranch, and since you couldn't buy it
you decided to acquire it by foreclosure.  To do that, however, you had
to acquire the mortgage, and in order to acquire the mortgage you had
to acquire a controlling interest in the capital stock of the First
National Bank of El Toro.  You didn't seem to fit into the small town
banking business; a bank with a million dollars capital is small change
to you."

"Proceed.  You're on the target, son, and something tells me you're
going to score a bull's-eye in a minute."

"When you had acquired the mortgage following such patient steps, my
father checkmated you by making and recording a deed of gift of the
ranch to me, subject of course to the encumbrance.  The war-time
moratorium, which protected men in the military or naval service from
civil actions, forced you to sit tight and play a waiting game.  Then I
was reported killed in action.  My poor father was in a quandary.  As
he viewed it, the ranch now belonged to my estate, and I had died
intestate.  Probate proceedings dragging over a couple of years were
now necessary, and a large inheritance tax would have been assessed
against the estate.  My father broke under the blow and you took
possession.  Then I returned--and you know the rest.

"I knew you were powerful enough to block any kind of a banking loan I
might try to secure and I was desperate until Bill Conway managed to
arrange for his financing.  Then, of course, I realized my power.  With
the dam completed before the redemption period should expire, I had
something definite and tangible to offer the competitor of the power
company in which you might be interested.  I was morally certain I
could save my ranch, so I disabused my mind of worry."

"Your logical conclusions do credit to your intelligence, Miguel.
Proceed."

"I purchased, through my attorney, a fat little block of stock in each
company.  That gave me _entree_ to the company books and records.  I
couldn't pick up your trail with the first company investigated--the
Central California--but before my attorney could proceed to Los Angeles
and investigate the list of stockholders and directors of the South
Coast Power Corporation, a stranger appeared at my attorney's office
and proceeded to make overtures for the purchase of the Agua Caliente
property on behalf of an unknown client.  That man was in conference
with my attorney the day we all motored to El Toro via La Questa
Valley, and the instant I poked my nose inside the door my attorney
advised me--in Spanish,--which is really the mother tongue of El
Toro--to trail his visitor.  Out in the hall I met my dear friend, Don
Nicolas Sandoval, the sheriff of San Marcos County, and delegated the
job to him.  Don Nicolas trailed this stranger to the First National
Bank of El Toro and observed him in conference with the vice-president;
from the First National Bank of El Toro Don Nicolas shadowed his man to
the office of the president of the South Coast Power Corporation, in
Los Angeles.

"We immediately opened negotiations with the Central California Power
Company and were received with open arms.  But, strange to relate, we
heard no more from the South Coast Power Corporation.  Very strange,
indeed, in view of the fact that my attorney had assured their
representative of my very great desire to discuss the deal if and when
an offer should be made me."

John Parker was smiling broadly.  "Hot, red hot, son," he assured
Farrel.  "Good nose for a long, cold trail."

"I decided to smoke you out, so arbitrarily I terminated negotiations
with the Central California Power Company.  It required all of my own
courage and some of Bill Conway's to do it, but--we did it.  Within
three days our Los Angeles friend again arrived in El Toro and
submitted an offer higher than the one made us by the Central
California Power Company.  So then I decided to shadow you, the
president of the South Coast Power Corporation, and the president of
the Central California Power Company.  On the fifteenth day of October,
at eight o'clock, p.m., all three of you met in the office of your
attorney in El Toro, and when this was reported to me, I sat down and
did some thinking, with the following result:

"The backing so mysteriously given Bill Conway had you worried.  You
abandoned all thought of securing the ranch by foreclosure, and my
careless, carefree, indifferent attitude confirmed you in this.  Who,
but one quite certain of his position, would waste his time watching a
race-horse trained?  I knew then that news of my overtures to the
Central California people were immediately reported to the South Coast
people.  Evidently you had a spy on the Central California payroll, or
else you and your associates controlled both companies.  This last
hypothesis seemed reasonable, in view of the South Coast Power
Corporation's indifference when it seemed that I might do business with
the Central California people, and the sudden revival of the South
Coast interest when it appeared that negotiations with the Central
people were terminated.  But after that meeting on the fifteenth of
October, my attorney couldn't get a rise out of either corporation, so
I concluded that one had swallowed the other, or you had agreed to form
a separate corporation to develop and handle the Agua Caliente plant,
if and when, no matter how, the ranch should come into your possession.
I was so certain you and your fellow-conspirators had concluded to
stand pat and await events that I haven't been sleeping very well ever
since, although not once did I abandon my confident pose.

"My position was very trying.  Even with the dam completed, your power
in financial circles might be such that you could block a new loan or a
sale of the property, although the completion, of the dam would add a
value of millions to the property and make it a very attractive
investment to a great many people.  I felt that I could save myself if
I had time, but I might not have time before the redemption period
should expire.  I'd have to lift that mortgage before I could smoke you
three foxes out of your hole and force you to reopen negotiations.
Well, the only chance I had for accomplishing that was a long
one--Panchito, backed by every dollar I could spare, in the
Thanksgiving Handicap.  I took that chance.  I won.  Tag!  You're It."

"Yes, you've won, Miguel.  Personally, it hurt me cruelly to do the
things I did, but I was irrevocably tied up with the others.  I
hoped--I almost prayed--that the unknown who was financing Bill Conway,
in order to render your property valuable and of quick sale, to save
your equity, might also give you a loan and enable you to eliminate me.
Then my companions in iniquity would be forced to abandon their waiting
game and deal with you.  You are right, Miguel.  That waiting game
might have been fatal to you."

"It _would_ have been fatal to me, sir."

"Wouldn't Conway's friend come to your rescue?"

"I am not informed as to the financial resources of Bill Conway's
friend and, officially, I am not supposed to be aware of that person's
identity.  Conway refused to inform me.  I feel assured, however, that
if it were at all possible for this person to save me, I would have
been saved.  However, even to save my ranch, I could not afford to
suggest or request such action."

"Why?"

"Matter of pride.  It would have meant the violation of my code in such
matters."

"Ah, I apprehend.  A woman, eh?  That dashing Sepulvida girl?"

"Her mother would have saved me--for old sake's sake, but--I would have
been expected to secure her investment with collateral in the shape of
a six-dollar wedding ring."

"So the old lady wanted you for a son-in-law, eh?  Smart woman.  She
has a long, sagacious nose.  So she proceeded, unknown to you, to
finance old Conway, eh?"

"No, she did not.  Another lady did."

"What a devil you are with the women!  Marvelous--for one who doesn't
pay the slightest attention to any of them.  May I ask if you are going
to--ah--marry the other lady?

"Well, it would never have occurred to me to propose to her before
Panchito reached the wire first, but now that I am my own man again and
able to match her, dollar for dollar, it may be that I shall consider
an alliance, provided the lady is gracious enough to regard me with
favor."

"I wish you luck," John Parker replied, coldly.  "Let us join the
ladies."

Three days later, in El Toro, Don Mike and his attorney met in
conference with John Parker and his associates in the office of the
latter's attorney and completed the sale of the Agua Caliente property
to a corporation formed by a merger of the Central California Power
Company and the South Coast Power Corporation.  A release of mortgage
was handed Miguel Farrel as part payment, the remainder being in bonds
of the South Coast Power Corporation, to the extent of two million
dollars.  In return, Farrel delivered a deed to the Agua Caliente
property and right of way and a dismissal, by Bill Conway, of his suit
for damages against John Parker, in return for which John Parker
presented Farrel an agreement to reimburse Bill Conway of all moneys
expended by him and permit him to complete the original contract for
the dam.

"Well, that straightens out our muchly involved affairs," John Parker
declared.  "Farrel, you've gotten back your ranch, with the exception
of the Agua Caliente Basin, which wasn't worth a hoot to you anyway,
you have two million dollars in good sound bonds and all the money you
won on Panchito.  By the way, if I may be pardoned for my curiosity,
how much money did you actually win that day?"

Don Mike smiled, reread his release of mortgage, gathered up his bundle
of bonds, backed to the door, opened it and stood there, paused for
night.

"Gentlemen," he declared, "I give you my word of honor--no, I'll give
you a Spaniard's oath--I swear, by the virtue of my dead mother and the
honor of my dead father, I did not bet one single _centavo_ on Panchito
for myself, although I did negotiate bets for Brother Anthony, Father
Dominic, and my servants, Pablo and Carolina.  Racing horses and
betting on horse-racing has proved very disastrous to the
Noriaga-Farrel tribe, and the habit ceased with the last survivor of
our dynasty.  I'm not such a fool, Senor Parker, as to risk my pride
and my position and my sole hope of a poor but respectable future by
betting the pitiful remnant of my fortune on a horse-race.  No, sir,
not if Panchito had been entered against a field of mules.  _Adios,
senores_!"

"In the poetical language of your wily Latin ancestors," John Parker
yelled after him, "_Adios_!  Go with God!"  He turned to his amazed
associates.  "How would you old penny-pinchers and porch-climbers like
to have a broth of a boy like that fellow for a son-in-law?" he
demanded.

"Alas!  My only daughter has already made me a grandfather," sighed the
president of the Central California Power Company.

"Let's make him president of the merger," the president of the South
Coast Power Corporation suggested.  "He ought to make good.  He held us
up with a gun that wasn't loaded.  Whew-w-w!  Boys!  Whatever happens,
let us keep this a secret, Parker."

"Secret your grandmother!  I'm going to tell the world.  We deserve it.
Moreover, that fine lad is going to marry my daughter; she's the genius
who double-crossed her own father and got behind Bill Conway.  God
bless her.  God bless him.  Nobody can throttle my pride in that boy
and his achievements.  You two tried to mangle him and you forced me to
play your game.  While he was earning the medal of honor from Congress,
I sat around planning to parcel out his ranch to a passel of Japs.
I'll never be done with hating myself."

That night at the _hacienda_, Don Mike, taking advantage of Kay's
momentary absence, drew Mr. and Mrs. Parker aside.

"I have the honor to ask you both for permission to seek your
daughter's hand in marriage," he announced with that charming,
old-fashioned Castilian courtliness which never failed to impress Mrs.
Parker.  Without an instant's hesitation she lifted her handsome face
and kissed him.

"I move we make it unanimous," Parker suggested, and gripped Don Mike's
hand.

"Fine," Don Mike cried happily.  He was no longer the least bit
Castilian; he was all Gaelic-American.  "Please clear out and let me
have air," he pleaded, and fled from the room.  In the garden he met
Kay, and without an instant's hesitation took her by the arm and led
her over to the sweet lime tree.

"Kay," he began, "on such a moonlit night as this, on this same spot,
my father asked my mother to marry him.  Kay, dear, I love you.  I
always shall, I have never been in love before and I shall never be in
love again.  There's just enough Celt in me to make me a one-girl man,
and since that day on the train when you cut my roast beef because my
hand was crippled, you've been the one girl in the world for me.  Until
to-day, however, I did not have the right to tell you this and to ask
you, as I now do, if you love me enough to marry me; if you think you
could manage to live with me here most of the time--after I've restored
the old place somewhat.  Will you marry me, Kay--ah, you will, you
will!"

She was in his arms, her flower face upturned to his for his first kiss.

They were married in the quaint, old-world chapel of the now restored
Mission de la Madre Dolorosa by Father Dominic, and in accordance with
ancient custom, revived for the last time, the master of Palomar gave
his long-delayed _fiesta_ and barbecue, and the rich and the poor,
honest men and wastrels, the _gente_ and the _peons_ of San Marcos
County came to dance at his wedding.

Their wedding night Don Mike and his bride spent, unattended save for
Pablo and Carolina, in the home of his ancestors.  It was still
daylight when they found themselves speeding the last departing wedding
guest; hand in hand they seated themselves on the old bench under the
catalpa tree and gazed down into the valley.  There fell between them
the old sweet silence that comes when hearts are too filled with
happiness to find expression in words.  From the Mission de la Madre
Dolorosa there floated up to them the mellow music of the Angelus; the
hills far to the west were still alight on their crests, although the
shadows were long in the valley, and Don Mike, gazing down on his
kingdom regained, felt his heart filled to overflowing.

His wife interrupted his meditations.  He was to learn later that this
is a habit of all wives.

"Miguel, dear, what are you thinking about?"

"I cannot take time to tell you now, Kay, because my thoughts, if
transmuted into print, would fill a book.  Mostly, however, I have been
thinking how happy and fortunate I am, and how much I love you and
that--yonder.  And when I look at it I am reminded that but for you it
would not be mine.  Mine?  I loathe the word.  From this day
forward--ours!  I have had the ranch homesteaded, little wife.  It
belongs to us both now.  I owed you so much that I could never repay in
cash--and I couldn't speak about it until I had the right--and now that
Bill Conway has taken up all of his promissory notes to you, and his
suit against your father has been dismissed and we've all smoked the
pipe of peace, I've come to the conclusion that I cannot keep a secret
any longer.  Oh, my dear, my dear, you loved me so you wouldn't let
them hurt me, would you?"

She was holding his hand in both of hers and she bent now and kissed
the old red scar in the old tender, adoring way; but said nothing.  So
he was moved to query:

"And you, little wife--what are you thinking of now?"

"I was thinking, my husband, of the words of Ruth: entreat me not to
leave thee, and to return from following after thee: for whither thou
goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall
be my people and thy God my God.  Where thou diest will I die, and
there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught
but death part thee and me.'"



***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR***


******* This file should be named 16674.txt or 16674.zip *******


This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/6/7/16674



Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations.  To donate, please visit:
https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     https://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.