A Daughter of the Dons. William MacLeod Raine

and compact of muscle. The ruddy bloom that beat through the tanned cheeks and the elasticity of his tread hinted at an age not great, but there was no suggestion of immaturity in the cool steadiness of the gaze or in the quiet poise of the attitude.

      He indicated a chair, after relieving his visitor of hat and cane. Pesquiera glanced at the bandage round the head.

      "I trust, señor, your experience of yesterday has not given you a wakeful night?"

      "Slept like a top. Fact is, I'm just getting up. You heard this morning yet how Tom is?"

      "The morning newspaper says he is doing very well indeed."

      "That's good hearing. He's a first-rate boy, and I'd hate to hear worse of him. But I mustn't take your time over our affairs. I think you mentioned business, sir?"

      The Castilian leaned forward and fixed his black, piercing eyes on the other. Straight into his business he plunged.

      "Señor Gordon, have you ever heard of the Valdés grant?"

      "Not to remember it. What kind of a grant is it?"

      "It is a land grant, made by Governor Facundo Megares, of New Mexico, which territory was then a province of Spain, to Don Fernando Valdés, in consideration of services rendered the Spanish crown against the Indians."

      Dick shook his head. "You've got me, sir. If I ever heard of it the thing has plumb slipped my mind. Ought I to know about it?"

      "Have you ever heard of the Moreño grant?"

      Somewhere in the back of the young man's mind a faint memory stirred. He seemed to see an old man seated at a table in a big room with a carved fireplace. The table was littered with papers, and the old gentleman was explaining them to a woman. She was his daughter, Dick's mother. A slip of a youngster was playing about the room with two puppies. That little five-year-old was the young mine operator.

      "I have," he answered calmly.

      "You know, then, that a later governor of the territory, Manuel Armijo, illegally carved half a million acres out of the former grant and gave it to José Moreño, from whom your grandfather bought it."

      The miner's face froze to impassivity. He was learning news. The very existence of such a grant was a surprise to him. His grandfather and his mother had been dead fifteen years. Somewhere in an old trunk back in Kentucky there was a tin box full of papers that might tell a story. But for the present he preferred to assume that he knew what information they contained.

      "I object to the word illegal, Don Manuel," he answered curtly, not at all sure his objection had any foundation of law.

      Pesquiera shrugged. "Very well, señor. The courts, I feel sure, will sustain my words."

      "Perhaps, and perhaps not."

      "The law is an expensive arbiter, Señor Gordon. Your claim is slight. The title has never been perfected by you. In fifteen years you have paid no taxes. Still your claim, though worthless in itself, operates as a cloud upon the title of my client, the Valdés heir."

      Dick looked at him steadily and nodded. He began to see the purpose of this visit. He waited silently, his mind very alert.

      "Señor, I am here to ask of you a relinquishment. You are brave; no doubt, chivalrous——"

      "I'm a business man, Don Manuel," interrupted Gordon. "I don't see what chivalry has got to do with it."

      "Señorita Valdés is a woman, young and beautiful. This little estate is her sole possession. To fight for it in court is a hardship that Señor Gordon will not force upon her."

      "So she's young and beautiful, is she?"

      "The fairest daughter of Spain in all New Mexico," soared Don Manuel.

      "You don't say. A regular case of beauty and the beast, ain't it?"

      "As one of her friends, I ask of you not to oppose her lawful possession of this little vineyard."

      "In the grape business, is she?"

      "I speak, señor, in metaphor. The land is barren, of no value except for sheep grazing."

      "Are you asking me to sell my title or give it?"

      "It is a bagatelle—a mere nothing. The title is but waste paper, I do assure. Yet we would purchase—for a nominal figure—merely to save court expenses."

      "I see," Dick laughed softly. "Just to save court expenses—because you'd rather I'd have the money than the lawyers. That's right good of you."

      Pesquiera talked with his hands and shoulders, sparkling into animation. "Mr. Gordon distrusts me. So? Am I not right? He perhaps mistakes me for what you call a—a pettifogger, is it not? I do assure to the contrary. The blood of the Pesquieras is of the bluest Castilian."

      "Fine! I'll take your word for it, Don Manuel. And I don't distrust you at all. But here's the point. I'm a plain American business man. I don't buy and I don't sell without first investigating a proposition submitted to me. I'm from Missouri."

      "Oh, indeed! From St. Louis perhaps. I went to school there when I was a boy."

      Gordon laughed. "I was speaking in metaphor, Don Manuel. What I mean is that I'll have to be shown. No pig-in-a-poke business for me."

      "Exactly. Most precisely. Have I not traveled from New Mexico up this steep roof of the continent merely to explain how matters stand? Valencia Valdés is the true and rightful heiress of the valley. She is everywhere so recognize' and accept' by the peons."

      The miner's indolent eye rested casually upon his guest. "Married?"

      "I have not that felicitation," replied the Spaniard.

      "It was the lady I meant."

      "Pardon. No man has yet been so fortunate to win the señorita"

      "I reckon it's not for want of trying, since the heiress is so beautiful. There's always plenty of willing lads to take over the job of prince regent under such circumstances."

      The spine of the New Mexican stiffened ever so slightly. "Señorita Valdés is princess of the Rio Chama valley. Her dependents understan' she is of a differen' caste, a descendant of the great and renowned Don Alvaro of Castile."

      "Don't think I know the gentleman. Who was he?" asked Gordon genially, offering his guest a cigar.

      Pesquiera threw up his neat little hands in despair. "But of a certainty Mr. Gordon has read of Don Alvaro de Valdés y Castillo, lord of demesnes without number, conqueror of the Moors and of the fierce island English who then infested Spain in swarms. His retinue was as that of a king. At his many manors fed daily thirty thousand men at arms. In all Europe no knight so brave, so chivalrous, so skillful with lance and sword. To the nobles his word was law. Young men worshiped him, the old admired, the poor blessed. The queen, it is said, love' him madly. She was of exceeding beauty, but Don Alvaro remember his vows of knighthood and turn his back upon madness. Then the king, jealous for that his great noble was better, braver and more popular than he, send for de Valdés to come to court."

      "I reckon Don Alvaro ought to have been sick a-bed that day and unable to make the journey," suggested Dick.

      "So say his wife and his men, but Don Alvaro scorn to believe his king a traitor. He kiss his wife and babies good-bye, ride into the trap prepare' for him, and die like a soldier. God rest his valiant soul."

      "Some man. I'd like to have met him," Gordon commented.

      "Señorita Valencia is of the same blood, of the same fine courage. She, too, is the idol of her people. Will Mr. Gordon, who is himself of the brave heart, make trouble for an unprotected child without father or mother?"

      "Unprotected isn't quite the word so long as Don Manuel Pesquiera is her friend," the Coloradoan answered with a smile.

      The dark young man flushed, but his eyes met