DESMOND ROURRE IRISHMAN JOHN HASLETTE /yf>Y''^ DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN "'It's au revoir then. ... I won't say good-by.'" (Page 247-1 DESMOND ROURKE IRISHMAN BY JOHN HASLETTE AUTHOR OF "THE PASSION OF THE PRESIDENT, "THE CARVEN BALL" NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1911 6}^ Copyright, 1911, by D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Published September, 1911 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. — ROURZE I II. — The Speculator 17 III. — Uncertainty 30 IV. — Leon 46 V. — The Water-Seller 65 VI.— The Proper Tool Si VII. — The Letter 93 VIII. — Loopholes of Retreat no IX. — Smith Decides 126 X. — The Shadow 142 XI. — The Visitant 156 XII. — A Cleared Field 169 XIII. — MiTAD Collaborates 186 XIV. — A Clean Slate 203 XV. — Love Shatters an Illusion 216 XVI. — Confession 231 XVII.— Retreat 24S XVin. — In Concert 262 XIX.— The Contact 277 XX. — The Legacy 293 XXI. — The Bettered Time 310 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN CHAPTER I ROURKE I HAVEN'T seen a woman for six months ! " Jeanne, the daughter of old Courvois, proprietor of the Cafe Fleur de Lys, at Santola, glanced across the counter at the flushed and dusty man who had spoken, and Hfting her full lids slightly, replied to him in a tone which was completely passive and unmoved. " Comment? Seex months — C'est drole ga." Her hands, meanwhile, went on with the drying of a wine-glass which had occupied them when the stranger addressed her, but she found time to flash a glance at her father, who was re- garding them from his end of the cafe with an expression of interested amusement. "Droll is it?" said the man earnestly. " Well, it may be to a woman. But a man who's been back of the mountains feels that a woman's face is a kind of diversion." The earnestness of his tone brought the slow blood to Jeanne's cheeks. It startled her to no- I DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tice that he was looking at her with quite hon- est admiration. There was a curious gHtter in his eyes which surprised her, too. Old Courvois had crossed the cafe now, to interview the cus- tomer, and his business glance took in all the details of his torn and dilapidated clothes. '' American ? " he asked abruptly. '' No, Irish — Rourke's my name, and I hope you like it." " You got something to sell, monsieur ? " " Something, or anything, or anybody ; but nothing in particular." Courvois shrugged: *' To buy then? " Rourke slipped up against the counter sud- denly, and his muscular hand reaching across took a grip on the Frenchman's shoulder. His voice came in a whisper which was almost fero- cious. "Food!" Courvois did not blink but he swung a hand to the shelf behind him, and grasping a bottle, passed it to the swaying man. His eyes strayed to Jeanne, who put down the wine-glass, and going across the cafe began methodically to cut bread and meat. Rourke took the bottle, straightened himself with an effort, and drew the cork with his teeth. As the liquid gurgled, Courvois was set free, and came from behind the counter to fetch a seat ROURKE for this strange customer. Jeanne approached with the food, and set it down on a table at hand. " Pas si vite; slowly ! " advised the French- man. " It is not good to eat quickly when one has not eaten for a long time." He was rather an original, this Courvois; a redhot royalist, though he had never known France under the rule of a king; a fiery patriot, though he had never seen France, being, indeed, the son and grandson of planters who had lived all their lives in Martinique. His cafe aped those of the boulevards of Paris, while disclaim- ing republican sympathies by a display of painted fieur-de-lys on its front fagade — the old flower of France ; before those oddly named months of rev- olution had swept away all the vestiges of a royal dynasty, and turned for these years a palace into a pla3^ground for tourists. Santola missed the esoteric significance of these symbols, being a re- public in a republic; governing its own small af- fairs without particular interference from the Federal government. But Santola appreciated Courvois, because he had given the town a cafe of a luxurious kind, and had a reputation for hon- esty — a characteristic which receives its full mead of praise in those places where it is rarest. The Irishman recovered himself slowly, and as his strength came back, subjected his host to a furtive but searching scrutiny. The results 3 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN must have been satisfactory, for when he had finished eating, he laid his fingers on the other's lapel, and drew him down a little. *' Is there anywhere we can talk? This place may be filling up in a bit. Private, I mean." " Mais certainement. There is a little court at the back, where one may sit without molest- ment. Follow me, if you please." Rourke followed him out through a swing door into a tiled courtyard, where the sunlight lay in flat gold beyond the deep purple shadows of the cafe. He caught sight, then, of a plaster statuette, topping a pedestal, stared at it curious- ly, and sank into a seat Courvois had drawn for- ward. '* What you got there — the gentleman with the odd breeches, and the smile? " Courvois turned to the statue, and bowed: " Eet is my King ! " he said seriously. Rourke took off his battered hat: " I beg his royal pardin. I hope he keeps well ? " Courvois moved restlessly, then sat down: " Monsieur, we will talk. You will explain, per- haps, what business you have with me." Rourke beat the dust from his ragged coat^ and stretched out his booted feet, with a luxuri- ous sigh. " It was Roquille did it," he explained vaguely. " I came across him five months back, and he says to me, ' Courvois is your man,' he 4 ROURKE says. ' He lives over in Santola, and you couldn't do better than go to him. Old Johnny Courvois is honest; old Johnny is straight,' those were his words. He's a homme honnete, or honnete homme, one or the other, he said." Courvois threw out his hands : " You have seen him, ce brave Roquille! Ah, the good fel- low, I have not seen him for a year it may be. What news of him ? " Rourke looked down gravely : " The poor f el- low'll never rub gray hairs, Courvois. It's dead he is. I was wid him then, and I tell you he supped more quinine than any man I've ever seen, before he'd give up and go. It's a comfort to me to think I had it to give him." "Dead? That is unfortunate, but it will be a rest to the good fellow." " That's true, anyway. It's the first good rest he's had, and no man could doubt but he needed it. It's hard running from sorrow when it's tied to your coat tails, Courvois, that it is. Seems all the more strange that he didn't go out easy. Man ! he took a power of quinine ! " Courvois sighed : " You were a partner to him?" " That's it. I left him the other side of the Andes. I've come over them since, and a tire- foot job it was. Cold and hunger and dirt's as old as the hills, but you never seem to get used 5 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN to them the same way. Well, Roquille told me to come to you, and here I am. Now I've got the bite and sup in me we'll talk." " Ah, monsieur has, what you call him — struck it? " '' As I'm a sinner, I did, but it's little use it'll be to me, unless I can get help wid it." " That is true. I hope, too, that monsieur has kept the secret to himself." Rourke laughed shortly, and taking off his ragged coat, held it up for inspection. ''D'ye think that's the coat of a man who's let anyone know about it? Sure it's purple and fine linen I'd be wearing, if I'd met anyone to develop the thing." Courvois shrugged. " With anyone who would assist to develop, that is correct ; but there are the others. One steals a secret sometimes, monsieur." Rourke rolled up his shirt sleeves, and bared an upper arm tmder the smooth skin of which mighty muscles rippled and grew tense. " What's that, Courvois ? Muscle ! I've the arm of a man who can keep a secret." He felt in the pocket of his coat, and drew out a life preserver. " Here's another old friend ; only his muscles are all whalebone, and the head of him's harder than my own. For close quarters, that's equal to two knives and a sawed-off shotgun, I'd give the odds most days, and glad. I pride 6 ROURKE myself on that tool. It's never touched one that didn't richly deserve it — and they didn't know it till after." The Frenchman smiled a little. His business brain was occupied at the moment with a more concrete subject. " Monsieur s' amuse — but to business. You have a sample, perhaps? " Rourke plunged a hand into his trousers pocket. When he withdrew it, there lay upon his open palm a rugged and dull object about the size of a small potato. Courvois' eyes lighted up, but he kept his lips tight, and preserved an appear- ance of disinterested calm. '* Virgin? " he asked slowly. " The same. There's twelve ounces in that bit, and more where it came from." He did not look at his host as he spoke, but seemed to address himself to the statue of France's latest Bourbon king, which regarded him with a complacent plaster smile. '* Monsieur is fortunate — it may seem strange to others that he does not sell the silver himself, if it is to be picked up in such lumps, with no trou- ble to make the mine." Rourke looked at him quickly. " You know nothing about mining, then? " "I have seen them — these mines; nothing more." Rourke's lids dropped, and he seemed to be 7 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN pondering. '* I'll not deny that there's these odd bits lying about on the surface, mind you," he said, *' but the whole kit's not enough to pay for carting. The lode's the thing, and that takes experts and tools and money. Courvois, I'm will- ing to sell this bit if you'll give me a price." Courvois shrugged. '' How much of price ? '^ " Five thousand pounds ! " The Frenchman smiled tranquilly : " These pieces are worth about twenty francs each." " About that — and my price is five thousand pounds." Courvois offered his companion a black cigar- ette, and lighting one himself, lay back in his chair and regarded the sky with an expression of easy reflection. " You know my friend Ro- quille long?" he asked quietly. Rourke looked him straight in the face. " Not long. I met him five months since, and he went out two months after that. It was a kind of community of interests brought us together. He was after silver, and so was I. Beyond that, mind you, Courvois, we knew precious little of each other. He wasn't what you call a talker. When you try to get anything out of him, he'd shut up, like an oyster you're inviting out wid the point of a knife. He told me he had great trouble of some kind, and I let it go at that." 8 ROURKE " Ah, he did not impart to you that he had been married ? " '' No, was he, though ? Well, it's wondering I am what's happened to the wife. It'll be a sorry day for her, poor creature, when she hears of it. Faith ! he never struck me as the marrying kind, being surly like, and solitary in his habits." " You speak truly." Courvois could not keep the satisfaction out of his voice. " Tell me, then, of his illness — he had not of the delirium, when ill?" Rourke stared steadily at the ground. " Let me think now — ^no; I think his mind only wan- dered once. Talked about you a little then, though nothing to speak of " Courvois raised himself a little in his chair, and his lips seemed to shape themselves for a question. The other went on thoughtfully: *' ' Rourke,' he says to me, ' Johnny Cour- vois is an honest man.' But I told you that be- fore " Courvois sat back, and smiled a little. " Noth- ing more ? " The Irishman smiled, too : " Not a thing — he came back to his senses then, and wanted qui- nine. It was a kind of fever, you see, brought on by living for a while in some lowlands with a marsh at hand." 9 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN *' But that was sad. At other times he talked of silver, is it not?" " Aye, that was his hobby. A silver mine he was always going to find in the mountains. He'd a bit of a sketch some old Indian had given him. Lot of marks on it; distances, scratches, and so on." "You have got it, this sketch?" " I have." Courvois again made a movement. " With you?" Rourke tapped his broad forehead, and his large, humorous gray eyes twinkled a little: " In the attics it is, and stowed away as nice as you please. I've got a good memory to me." Courvois threw away his cigarette and ap- peared agitated. He put up a hand to his bald head, contracted his keen eyes till they shone like mere pin points of light, and regarded his com- panion from under twitching eyelids. " If I give to you three thousand pounds, you will make me the copy of this sketch, take me to the place, and give it to me in writing that mine is to be the half share — is it not so? " " I'm afraid it's not ! Roquille said you were an honest man, and I'm not going to run against that. But, if you're honest, faith! I'm cautious. The silver's there right enough, and quantity enough to make your mouth water. But I'm not lO ROURKE going to give the secret away to any man living. Five thousand pounds down is my price for that bit I showed you, and for that you can have all the stuff. I don't ask you to buy it, mind you; I don't give three penn'orth of coppers who buys it. There it is, and you can take it or leave it." " Mais, monsieur, how is it for me to know that it is there ? " Rourke smiled patiently. " See here, Cour- vois, if I was anxious to do you, couldn't I salt a real mine wid bits of silver, and take you to it wid a bandage round your eyes ? And wouldn't I ask you for the money down on the nail? I don't ask you any such thing, my boy. I'll take two hundred down now, and stay in Santola till I can make arrangements. I'll have to get some of the ore from the lode, and set the assayers on it, before machinery's put in." " That, of course — but I must have time to consider the affair. I do not throw the doubts on your mine — pas du tout. Mais, les affaires sont les affaires. One does not even buy a pig in a pocket. Look, Monsieur Rourke, I will give you " — he made a quick calculation — '' yes, fifty pounds at once, and we shall discuss the business again. I appreciate that you do not wish to re- veal your mine, but one must have more proof. Do we bargain? " Rourke nodded: " I'll take the fifty now, and 2 II DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN I must think out some way of letting you know, d'ye see? " Courvois nodded rapidly. " Excuse me then for a moment while I procure you the money," he said quietly, and rising from his chair passed in through the swing door. Rourke watched his retreating figure with impassive gravity, but when he had disappeared, his humorous lips curved a little, and his eyes wandered to the plaster statue of dead royalty, smiling amid a golden blaze of sunlight, imper- turbably serene. He nodded once or twice to the complacent figure. " Aren't you proud of your pathriotic subject, Louis, my boy ? " he said softly. " I suppose you were an honest man in your day, and like to be thinking that all your loyal subjects take after you. All of us have our ideals, Louis, and yours isn't a bad one, if it's that. Pity that ideals and reals don't fit always." That good royalist, and honest man, Jean Courvois, did not go immediately to his office, when the swing door had shut him off from the possibly prying gaze of his strange caller. His daughter had left the counter and her quasi- domestic occupation, and had ensconced herself in a little glass-sided box, which was, in effect, the cafe's receipt of custom. She might have been a fine woman, this Jeanne, but for some lack of 12 ROURKE vitality, a certain slowness of circulation, physi- cal and moral, a passivity of outlook and of move- ment which took from the human interest, she might conceivably have attracted had Nature gifted her with a spice of vivacity. She looked up now, at the approach of her father, with a look of dull curiosity. " You saw that man who came in ? " said Courvois, in his quick French. " That is a man to whom you must show yourself at your best. You understand me? You have the figure, the face, the age to be charming ; but you must wake yourself. Your manner is good for the cafe, where the company is mixed and possibly ' ele- vated ' ; but for this affair you must be bright, coquette. Understand? And, in all, find out how well this gentleman knew M. Roquille." He walked away from her before she had time to recover from her surprise, and her big black eyes followed him in his passage to the office with an air of puzzledom that was percep- tibly sulky. She did not like to be disturbed. Her heaven was a place where everyone went at a snail's pace, and there was a penalty for ex- cessive speed of thought. Rourke was sitting quietly in his chair, con- templating nothing with an expression of vacuity, when Courvois returned to him. " Here, monsieur, are your fifty pounds in 13 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN local money. I have put them in a bag so that you may carry them the more readily. What plans are there to you, may I be permitted to ask ? Do you wish to stay here, where you can be ac- commodated at a moderate and inclusive tariff, or do you desire that I should indicate a com- fortable lodging? The stranger finds the diffi- culties for himself in these towns." Rourke shook his head. " Aren't there any Europeans beside yourself in this town? " " An American — but rich — a speculator. The rest, Spanish, Portuguese, natives, and half- breeds. If monsieur is not particular " "I am, bedad! I'd sooner have devilment than dirt any day. But I'll manage it somehow, having been brought up to take care of myself ever since I was knee-high.'' " Well, monsieur pleases himself," said Cour- vois. Rourke sat up in his chair, and began to put on his coat. " That's a fine girl you have in be- yond," he said, with one arm straining in a sleeve. " As fine-looking a woman as I've seen in all my born days — a thought sleepy-looking, perhaps." " Ma Mle — Jeanne ? She is handsome indeed, and monsieur may have observed that the woman who sleeps long conserves herself, n'est ce pas? Your woman with sparkle, verve, espieglerie, she 14 ROURKE attracts at a glance, but when one knows the twinkle of eye, the art, the little fascinations, one wearies of her. Jeanne is a good girl, and some day love will waken her." Rourke, looking away, made a mouth at his sentiment, but he did not let Courvois perceive it: " Faith! a woman's a treat to me any time," he said slowly. " Up in the mountains, haven't I wearied for the sight of one. Married I never was, because I never had two coins to clap to- gether — but what's the use of talking about that? I say, Courvois, you wouldn't mind me dropping in now and again to have a chat with the girl ? " Courvois repressed a smile, but nodded ac- quiescence: " That is as you please. For myself I have no objection." Rourke rose leisurely. " Thanks. I'll be go- ing now. I must get a decent suit and a poncho, and then look for a lodging." He nodded to his host, and went in through the swing door. The cafe was fairly full now, and a tall, lean fellow, with a toothbrush mus- tache and sparkling black eyes, was leaning over the counter talking to Jeanne. She flashed a smile at him as he passed, showing a row of white, even teeth. Her companion scowled a little, and turned to look at the Irishman. " You smile at that sefior, Jeanne? " he asked sharply. 15 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " But, yes, he is a friend of mon pere,'' she said. Rourke was walking slowly away from the cafe, the bag swinging in his hand. " I'm a big fool! " he said to himself. " And how it is I'm going to send it there beats me entirely. I wish I had Leon here — sure I do." He turned to a passer-by, and addressed him in fluent Spanish : '* I understand, sefior, that there is a rich American living in Santola. Would you be good enough to give me his ad- dress?" " Certainly, sefior. There is but one Ameri- can, and he is rich. You will find him living in the Calle Huelva No. 4." CHAPTER II THE SPECULATOR GEORGE HARVEY SMITH occupies the largest house on the right-hand side of the Calle Huelva as you go toward the Alameda. Externally, it presents the same fea- tures that characterize the other residences in the neighborhood. The front is stuccoed, in a pleasant pink, reminding one of an anaemic sun- set glow; the first and second floors boast bal- conies of wrought iron covered with a green, hard-wearing paint, which is Smith's own inven- tion. You might pass the house a thousand times without being awakened to the fact that it was inhabited by an American, which is, indeed, an impression which the owner does not wish to convey. The interior of the house strikes a more national note. It is heated by a furnace, with Smith's patent radiators, lighted by electricity — as what comfortable South American house is not? — and boasts a greater selection of rocking chairs and cuspidors than any European dwelling could 17 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN show. Most of the furniture, and all the conven- iences, had been conceived in Smith's fertile brain. You sat in a Smith chair, smoked a Smith pipe, rang a Smith electric bell, and had your meals brought up from the lower floor by a Smith patent automatic lift. And, if you were lucky, or rich, or had something to sell, you saw Smith. On the evening following his arrival in San- tola, Rourke approached Calle Huelva No. 4 with a good deal of curiosity, but without any trepida- tion. He had discarded his ragged garments, and provided himself with a new outfit, which struck the happy mean between the Latin and Saxon garbs. He smiled as he walked; feeling that when you held a hand absolutely without honors, it behooved you to look and act as if all your cards were trumps. He rang the bell of No, 4 as if it belonged to him, and was presently confronted by a half-breed servant, who regarded him rather insolently. " Is George H. at home? " Rourke asked con- fidently. " Because if he is I want to see him, Sahef Tell him I'll keep him more than a min- ute; perhaps an hour." " The Sefior Smith has dined, and at this time he will see no one." " Bedad, he'll see me. It's in a hurry. The house is on fire ! " The servant threw out his hands, and without 18 THE SPECULATOR another word, ran down the hall shouting: " The house is burning, sefior — it burns ! " " Let it! " said a cold voice from a room be- yond. " It's sprinklered, anyway, and insured to the tiles. What d'ye want to worry me for with poppycock like that? Get a teaspoon and put it out mighty soon, or there'll be trouble — and shut that front door ; there's a draught blowing to lift your hair." Rourke tiptoed into the hall, and went toward the place from which the voice had come. Push- ing past the servant, who was gesticulating be- fore an open door, he came upon a stout, clean- shaven individual, who sat in a rocking chair, sipping toast water from a champagne glass. " How d'ye do, Mr. Smith ? " he said politely. " Glad you are able to see me." Smith looked up quietly. " Say, did you come in with the draught ? It was blowing pretty pow- erful just now. Are you the fellow set the house on fire? " "Not yet," said Rourke, laughing. "That was only a figure of speech, as you might say. Your man was bothersome, and I wanted to see you particularly." Smith motioned the servant to retire, and smiled acidly. " Well, you do see me particularly, though I must say you have a cold nerve to call on George H. after his dinner." 19 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " I'd have dined wid you, if you'd asked me. Don't blame me for your own hours. That's queer tipple you're at, by the way; dyspeptic, I suppose ? " Smith rose slowly, and fetched a box of ci- gars. " Sit down right here, and let me know all about it," he said, with more cordiality. " What proposition have you got in hand, anyway? In- vention, or mine, or just cheek aching for ex- pression? " Rourke sat down on a rocker, and contem- plated his brand new boots. " It's an invention of the devil," he announced. " New kind of hot-air system, I dessay," said Smith, cutting off the end of a cigar. " You up on furlough ? " " It's money," said Rourke, winking. " The root of all evil." " Do the roots go far ? " ** Sure they do — deeper than I can dig, any- way." Smith betrayed a trace of animation. " That's bully ! What d'ye take it in, mister ? " " Silver. I struck it some time ago — rich. But it'll take capital." " Never knew a mine yet that didn't. Nor a man either — generally some one else's. Well, let me hear about it; I get tired soon, and the man 20 THE SPECULATOR who makes me feel tired'd be better dead. Take a cigar, and let her hum." Rourke was quite aware that Smith was studying him intently. He had met this type be- fore, and knew that it covered its cleverness with a cloak of insouciance. He did not mini- mize the difficulty of the task before him, just because the American whetted an indifferent humor upon him. " You're busy wondering whether I'm a bunco steerer or a fellow wid something good to sell," he remarked, begin- ning to smoke. " You'll be clearer about it, faith ! when I tell you that the locality of the mine's a secret." " Keep it ! I haven't any use for secrets. The mines I finance can be inspected any time." Rourke smoked thoughtfully. " I want a few local people to put a bit in it. You never saw the likes of it for richness. And there's water at hand for power, a decent climate fit for you to live in, fairly good transport — or could be. I'd dispose of a half share in it cheap." " Money down ? " asked Smith, suspiciously. " Now what d'ye think? Is it me's going to ask you to put money in a mine you never saw, and won't see, and ask you for the money before the thing started? It's a bunco steerer you've decided I am, after all." 21 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Say, mister, don't cavort like that — it's un- settling. I'd admire to hear you explain how we're going to work the mine, if I'm not to see it. Oh, let up! Quit this foolin' and tell me your price." " Five thousand pounds, to be paid out of the profits, George H., that's good enough, isn't it? " " How much do you figure the plant would cost — mining plant ? " asked Smith, taking out a jotter, and figuring rapidly with a pencil. " Is it near the coast, or rail?" " Within a hundred miles of a Trunk line, it is. And I think it'd go well enough at first wid a six-stamp battery, till it developed a bit, anyway. You could start in wid ten thousand — easy." " Now you're talking. Just let me have a squint over the map of the locality, and I guess we may fix it up in time." Rourke got up, scratched his head, and for some minutes paced the floor in silence. " Don't ye see what a devil of a stew I'm in! " he burst out presently. " If I tell you where the place is, what's to hinder you going and starting a mine yourself? Och! honesty's a good thing, but it isn't common in these parts ; so, decent man as you may be, George H., I'm not likely to put my foot on my own head without thinking about it first." 22 THE SPECULATOR " Or lengthening out your legs considerably," put in Smith dryly. " You make me tired. What's your trouble? " " Well, I can't get capital without giving the secret away; and I can't give the secret away without giving myself away." " Have you been shooting off your mouth about this to anyone else, mister ? " " I did mention it to Johnny Courvois — but he won't let it out." " Oh ! the coffee slinger over to the plaza. Well, you are an innocent! Does he know you were coming here?" " I never mentioned it at all." " Don't ! That galoot could grow hairs on a bald head with a bottle of lime water. He's slick, is Johnny. We'll freeze him right out, I guess! He's too mighty ready with that glad smile of his. What you want to do, sonny, is to interest me in this right away. I can put up the dough, if I think it a practical proposition. Now then! I've given you half an hour, without hitting the rock. Are you or are you not going to put me on this ? " Rourke shook his head, with an uncom- fortable expression. " Thanks, I'll thry old Courvois after all. Maybe he won't ask so many questions. I've struck it at last, after years of wandering up and down looking for it ; so it isn't 23 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN likely I'm going to lose it by talking. Sorry to have wasted your time, Mister Harvey Smith." " George Harvey Smith, sonny," said the other, and put out a hand to detain him. " Don't get mad because you don't find me shoveling dol- lars into your mouth as if they were pastilles. You think it over, and come to see me to-morrow. Butt in, and exercise your teeth with me at half- past six." Rourke took his cigar from his lips, and re- flected. " Thanks," he said, a little mollified, " but it's clean impossible. I'm going out of town to-night, and mayn't be back for a fortnight." " Oh ! you are. Well, let me have a squint at you when you come home again — see ! We may do a deal over this. What, are you going? Won't you gargle ? " " I don't — much. But I'll look in on you, when I come back. By-bye." Rourke stepped out on an almost deserted street, and an impression of pale fagades, in sil- houette against a blue-black sky. Yellow squares of light spoke to life within the barred windows ; from one there came the sound of a pianola, playing a waltz with exaggerated correctness, and the intermittent stamping of feet. In the deep shade of the jutting balconies across the street, he thought he saw a woman's figure, drawn up against one of the doorways, shrouded -4 THE SPECULATOR in a black cloak. Something in the lines of the figure seemed familiar. He did not look again, but turned his eyes toward the glow that hung above the plaza. This had been the day of a fiesta, and even from where he stood he could see dimly the lines of fairy lamps, festooned amid the palm trees ; the brilliant lighting of the square ; and hear the municipal band playing a swinging melody, against a monotone background of voices. The figure by the doorway stood very still, and he walked rapidly ofif to the plaza, without appear- ing to have been aware of its presence. Turning the corner of the street, he broke into a run, and mingling with the crowded promenaders, made his way to the Cafe Fleur de Lys. It, too, was crowded. In the entrance, with its short vista of terrazzo flooring under the Moorish arches, where miniature palms rioted in ornate earthen pots; in the interior, under the glass cupola the people thronged, chatting, smil- ing, staring, eating, or sipping. Courvois, cool and fresh looking amid the heat and noise, con- templated his customers with unruffled good- humor. Rourke went up to him, and nodded. " You're having a fine time, Courvois," he said softly. "This looks like business, bedad! But Where's Jeanne to-nio^ht? " Courvois smiled : '* She is somewhere in the 25 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN cafe, monsieur — " He bit his lip, and Rourke looked quickly round. Jeanne had just come into the little glass-sided box, and was bending down. " I'll go over and pay my respects," said Rourke, moving away. " I haven't seen her the day." Courvois took him by the sleeve. " I should like to present you to a friend," he said persua- sively. " He sits in the entrance, monsieur. If you will come with me " " By and by," said Rourke amiably. " Lady comes first with me. I'll be wid you in a mo- ment," and with that he released his sleeve, and crossed the floor. Jeanne looked up, with a troubled look in her eyes, and hid something under a chair. Rourke caught a glimpse of something black, and shot a swift glance at her feet. " And how are you^ mademoiselle? " he asked affably. " Been out for a stroll ? " She shrugged, and shook her head. " No, I do not walk to-night. It is rough in the plaza — the crowds, monsieur, understands?" " Couldn't you speak Spanish to please me? " he said lightly. " I don't know a bit of French, excepting ' hon jour' ' s'il voiis plait,' and the like of that." " If so little pleases the sefior, I am delighted to humor him," she said, acquiescing. " But he 26 THE SPECULATOR is mistaken when he imagines that I have been out/' "Did I say you had?" he asked, smiling. " I asked a question only. Don't you allow peo- ple to ask you questions, Jeanne ? " She winced at the use of her name, but re- covering her equanimity, and endeavoring to act upon her father's instructions, looked at him from under arch lids : " It depends so much upon the question. There are some questions that mean so little, and others " " That mean so much," he hinted. He was a susceptible man, and Jeanne looked rather daz- zling to-night. " That's the kind of question a man might put to you, I'm thinking, without needing much driving to it. Faith ! you're look- ing charming to the last degree this evening. And that's the truth." The color came to her face : " The sefior has not forgotten the manner in which to pay compli- ments, even if he has been living in the moun- tains," she murmured. " There's some beautiful things in the moun- tains, Jeanne." " I will take the senor's word." *' Scenery," said Rourke, with a twinkling eye. "Ah! no doubt!" " But if I wasn't sick of scenery coming here, 3 27 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN no matter. Sure, it takes something better than a starving man to admire trees, and rocks, and grass " " You came to tell my father of the death of that poor M. Roquille? All the way from the mountains." He smiled slightly. " Well, not altogether. You see we were partners, but hadn't known each other long. I can't get on well with people who won't talk, Jeanne. Roquille was one of them; and what's your tongue given you for, if it wasn't to wag? You might as well be a dummy or a grave-digger. Old Roquille wasn't a bad sort, but the tightest-mouthed fellow I ever met." " Perhaps his wife talked for both? " " Now isn't that funny ! Your father was talking about his wife. I knew he was in some trouble." " You are complimentary." " Come now, Jeanne ! You women are always making trouble — in our hearts or our pockets — somewhere anyway, and bless you all for it. It was Roquille told me of your father, by the way " Jeanne started, and smiled at him stiffly. " I was looking for an honest man to help me wid a bit of business. I didn't tell Roquille that, for fear he'd think it some reflection on him, but one day when he was ill he sat up in his ham- 28 THE SPECULATOR mock, and said, ' Johnny Courvois's an honest man ' — just like that. He wouldn't say more, but then, I never expected it of him. If you wanted to know anything, he'd shut up like a locked safe with the key inside it." Courvois approached softly : " It is too late to present you to my friend now," he said. " He has just gone out." " Then I'll be going, too," said Rourke. " I'm tired and all, and it's time I was in my bed. Well, a happy good night to you, mademoiselle; dormez bien, Courvois." He walked down the cafe, only turning as he passed under the arch to look back swiftly. Courvois stood beside Jeanne, and tapped rapidly on her shoulder with an angry finger. Her face wore a passive expression, but her mouth was set in a sulky curve. Then he strode out of the cafe, and went quickly across the square. CHAPTER III UNCERTAINTY HONEST Courvois detested clumsiness. Himself always deft, bland, and diplo- matic, he was apt to regard people who were lacking in these useful and ingratiating qualities as little better than clogs upon the great wheels of what we call Life. Even the paternal relation in which he stood to Jeanne did not blind him to the fact that she was clumsy. He told her so in an irritable voice, and tapped the irate forefinger, which Rourke's departing glance had taken in. to drive home his points. '' It would have been better not to have en- tered at all ! " he said. " He noticed that you were not here when he came in ; he asked for you, and when you did come in he saw you." Jeanne winced at this damning indictment, and sat down upon the chair, spreading her skirt to hide the hint of black which peeped out be- neath. " After all, I asked him about the wife of Roquille." 30 UNCERTAINTY He snorted and shrugged. '" Et puisf " '* He does not know the woman. It appears that Roquille was a silent man." Courvois fitted that in with his own experi- ence, but was still doubtful — with that annoying doubt of the man who wishes to believe. He was a man who prided himself upon his subtlety, for- getting that over-elaboration ruins many a prom- ising scheme. There were only two sides to this situation: either the Irishman was an honest prospector, who had come across a paying claim ; or he was an artful scoundrel wishing to raise cash without working for it. He had evidently known Roquille, and on that account Courvois was disposed to treat with him. Beyond the pre- liminary payment of fifty pounds, nothing had been done to clinch a bargain. Was the silver there, or was it not? Rourke would give no particulars, and without particulars it was impos- sible for a sensible man to invest. Suppose, on the other hand, that there was silver in paying quantity; what a pity to let the chance slip. Rourke had visited Smith. Was he going to play a double game; or compare offers, and take the highest bid? The American was not a man to finance a wild-cat scheme. What he took up paid hand over fist. And then Rourke had known Roquille. Courvois left his daughter. He was very 31 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN angry about something. He began to think he had thrown his money away. And he felt mor- ally certain that when Rourke came to him again, more money would follow the first. He would take no risks. He knew these touches of malaria, and the vision of Roquille, muttering about " hon- est Courvois," and heaven knows what else, agi- tated him. He went to his office, put on his hat, and set out to interview a Spanish doctor in the Calle Huelva. He was an influential man, and was not kept waiting. " Good evening, Seiior Courvois — you call late. You are not ill, I trust ? " " But no, it is merely for advice. Suppose that a man was dying of malarial fever. Would he talk wildly — be delirious ? " " Yes, sefior ; in such cases there is sometimes delirium; but often quite slight. That is in the second, or hot stage. Death might come from the complications induced by repeated attacks." " Many thanks, but with regard to the de- lirium — that is not generally severe? It might be absent altogether ? " '' That is true. But usually there is delirium of a slight nature — nothing to speak of. Is that all?" Courvois nodded, paid a fee, and bade him farewell. He went on, down the street, to the house where Smith lived, and sent in a card. The 32 UNCERTAINTY American was an occasional customer at his cafe. " The sefior is just about to retire," said the servant. Courvois was cursing himself for coming. A visit at this hour was likely to make Smith sus- picious. He wished that he had not given his name. He was glad now of the chance to retire without coming to closer quarters, and moved hastily back. " A thousand pardons. I will not disturb him. I was passing, and ventured to call." He backed away in a worse temper than ever. Smith had a Hair for a speculation, and would try to worm the secret out of him. Rourke had been closeted with the speculator for almost an hour. What had passed between them in that time? The very fact that he might have sub- mitted his project to Smith spoke to its genuine- ness. Courvois began to doubt if he would not have done better to settle the affair out of hand ; yet it would be a preposterous thing to pay five thousand pounds for the right to mine metal which might only exist in the Irishman's imagi- nation. When he returned to the cafe, Jeanne's friend had arrived and was talking earnestly. He had made Jeanne more sulky than usual, and Cour- vois thought it might be the man's jealousy. The 33 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN fellow was a rich half-breed, and, though not the girl's novio, still sufficiently in the running to make trouble. He went by the name of Mitad, and owned a hacienda near Escabar, from which he often rode in to have a chat with Jeanne. Courvois walked restlessly about the cafe, stopping here and there to exchange greetings with an old habitue. He was wondering if Rourke would visit him in the morning to con- tinue the negotiations. He could not turn his thoughts from that potential silver mine. He loved money, and the making of it. The cafe had once loomed large, but now he was longing for a larger horizon, greater possibilities of get- ting rich. He felt that he had financial genius, constrained perforce by the narrow circle in which he moved. Under the stress of these thoughts, he found himself unable to concentrate his mind. At one moment he thought of speaking to Jeanne, telling her that Rourke was a fraud, the mine a chimera, and himself a man of perspicacity betrayed into parting with his money, but now steeled against a swindler's wheedling. But that would not do. He wanted to believe; and the nugget of virgin silver seemed to grow heavy in his pocket, as if wishful to persuade him that it was only an ear- nest of the wealth to come. In the seclusion of his office, he took it out and looked at it ; scratched 34 UNCERTAINTY it with his pen-knife, and threw it violently from him. It struck the floor with a thud, and rolled clumsily under a desk standing in a corner. Cour- vois stared for a minute into vacancy, then went down on his knees, and dusted himself thorough- ly in his fumbling to recover the precious lump. He looked at it with greedy eyes, and restor- ing it to his pocket, went into the cafe, and across to where Jeanne and her lover were talking. '' Ah, Sefior Mitad," he said ponderously, " how does the world go with you ? " Mitad pulled at his toothbrush mustache, and rolled his eyes. " There is always something to displease a man," he said, " but nothing important happens." Courvois lowered his voice, and plunged into his subject. " There is an Irishman who has late- ly come to live in Santola," he said. " I imagine that you have seen him. Well, sefior, I am sus- picious of that fellow, me. I do not know where he comes from, nor what his business is " " That Rourke ! " said Mitad, tugging at his mustache, and looking fierce. " But yes, that is his name — I wish it were possible to watch him. It is impossible for me — since he knows me, but " Mitad threw a glance at Jeanne, and surprised a look of interest in her calm eyes. Courvois fixed the point by staring, too, and making a pre- 35 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tense of biting his lip. Jeanne looked confused, and felt resentful that her father should encour- age her lover in his jealousy. " I thought he was your friend, mon pere? " she said defiantly. " Watch your friends first," he said, forcing a smile. " A man who is secure in his friends can afiford to ignore his enemies." Mitad was simple enough to take this for sincerity, and above all anxious to stand well with the girl's father. Yet he knew there was some- thing more in the affair than met the eye. What that something was he hoped to learn from Jeanne when she had got over her sulky mood. " If I can assist you," he said quickly. '' If you tell me where he lives, I can find out for you what he does, and where he goes." Courvois patted him on the shoulder, beam- ing. " That is very amiable. It may not be nec- essary to watch him long; perhaps, only in the event of his leaving the town, and naturally the one who undertakes this duty must proceed with caution." " Where does he live, sefior ? " " I understand he has taken a lodging in the Calle Passado 9. You know it — running from the Calle Huelva to the Calle San Simon. I of- fered to receive him here, but he refused." Mitad nodded. '' Leave it to me. If he leaves 36 UNCERTAINTY the town I shall be a shadow to him. You can trust my discretion." Courvois looked across the cafe. " Who's this? " he asked, staring at a man who had just entered. " I believe it is the landlord of that fel- low — a water-seller," he added a moment after- wards. The man came up as he spoke, bowed, and presented a letter : " From the Senor Rourke," he observed, and gazed about him with frank curi- osity. " He told me to deliver it to you. I will wait, in case there should be an answer." Courvois snatched the letter, and tore open the envelope. But before he began to read, he had wit enough to order a waiter to pour a glass of wine for the messenger. " Dear Monsieur : I am sorry I couldn't see you to-day, and more sorry I can't see you to- morrow, or the next day. Indeed, I am going away for a fortnight on business. All the same, I shall be back and look you up some time after that. I might have called to say an revoir, but thought you might be out, and have no time to spare. You might take this as a sort of valedic- tory epistle, and give my best respects to Mile. Jeanne. Looking forward to our next meeting. " I remain, yours to command, " Desmond Rourke." 37 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN There was no mention of the mine, and Cour- vois had difficulty in restraining his rage. But the messenger stood within earshot, sipping his wine, and staring in these unfamihar surround- ings, and it would be unwise to let him know that the Irishman's departure held any special or unpleasant significance. He forced himself to smile as he turned to the man. " Ah, the sehor has left town. Was he oit foot?" ** No, seiior ; he had bought a horse this after- noon, and rode away, it may be three hours ago." " Three hours — did he pay you for your rooms ? " '* Truly, for a fortnight, when he will return. He talked of some mine which it was necessary he should see." Courvois' hopes sprang high again. There must be something in all this ; some grain of truth at least. Jeanne and Mitad looked at each other in perplexity, but the latter thought he saw a way to ingratiate himself with the patron. " I can follow him," he whispered. " He is probably mounted on some screw, and will go slowly — what do you say ? " " Say? Nom d'une pipe! You can follow a man who has left town three hours ago, in the darkness and in an unknown direction. You must be an angel or a fool, Seiior Mitad," Cour- 38 UNCERTAINTY vois observed with sullen sarcasm. " But, your pardon, you would do your best, I believe." Mitad's growling scowl faded, and he showed his teeth in a smile. " What does your woman's wit make of this, sefiorita ? " he asked. Jeanne looked at the water-seller, and raised her eyebrows. " If he comes back you might try- that person," she said softly. " Tiens! We will try him, indeed. Here, ' Quien quiere agiia ' — I have the misfortune not to know your name — do you like to earn money without working for it ? " The water-seller wiped his lips, and grinned appreciatively : " The sefior has touched upon my weakness." '* Then you can earn twenty pesos when the Sefior Rourke returns. Simply by letting me know when he thinks of leaving the town again, and in which direction he goes." " Certainly, or perhaps it would be better for me to ask the sefior to inform you himself." " I will give you thirty pesos, then." " Si, sefior. Ten pesos down, and twenty when I bring you the information." Courvois nodded, and motioned to the man to follow him to the office. When both had disap- peared, Mitad turned to Jeanne. It seemed to him that, as affairs were going at present, he might expend his jealous fury in some more prof- 39 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN itable way than could be found by questioning- Jeanne as to this presumptive rival. " What has this Irishman done to your fa- ther ? " he asked, smiling, and fondling his mus- tache. " I thought he was his very good friend, but it seems otherwise. Do you know anything of him?" Jeanne raised her indolent eyes with weary indifference. ** Me, what should I know? My father does not talk to me of his afifairs. The gentleman was a partner of my father's old friend, M. Roquille, and came here to say that his partner had died of fever. If there is anything more in it than that I do not know it." Mitad scowled. " You will not tell, sefiorita. Well, it will be known. I, Jose Mitad, will know it. There will be trouble for this Rourke if he calls here too frequently." " Trouble ? I think you are half savage. Monsieur Jose. He looks well able to take care of himself; and that is not my part — no. You do me the honor to be jealous. And, well, I am tired of your jealousy. Perhaps soon I shall be tired of you. Do not be too sure." " I shall see to that ! " he said, turning away. " Good night." " Will you not wait, and concert a plan with the water-seller ? " she called after him softly. "He comes now." 40 UNCERTAINTY He set his head back, and went out. A waiter had taken Jeanne's place at the receipt of custom, and the cafe was beginning- to empty. The wa- ter-seller went out with the rest, a black cigar rolling between his teeth, cocked atilt in a con- fident way. Mitad was waiting for him outside. On the following morning, Courvois had strolled out across the plaza when he came across George Smith. He would have hurried past, but the American came up and held out his hand. " Well, Musher Courvois, you're looking purty bright and spry this morning. How's trade?" " Very fair, monsieur— not bad." "That's bully! My blackamoor was telling me you called last night. What's your trouble, anyway? " Courvois did not bite his lip, though he wanted to badly. He smiled instead, and waved his hand airily. " Oh, it was nothing — nothing at all. We talked of floating the cafe, you will remem- ber, and I had an idea that you might wish to reopen the question." " I surely don't! " said Smith. " I reckon it pays you well enough, but I'm mighty certain it wouldn't pay you and me and a kit of others. No, your cafe isn't my meat. If you'd brought me a mine now; well, we'd talk." " Ah, a mine," said Courvois, stroking his 41 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN cheek thoughtfully, and seeming to consider the possibilities presented by Smith's suggestion. His own unspoken thought was that this fellow knew something, and was trying to pump him. At all events, he would be on his guard. " I suppose, monsieur, you would develop such a proposition, if I had one to lay before you ? " Smith lit a cigar, blew an enormous ring of smoke, and watched it wreathe upward and dis- perse in the clear morning air : " Well, sir, I reckon I might. Being, as you might say, be- calmed in the matter of mines at the present min- ute, I don't say but I wouldn't feel inclined to look into it." Courvois saw that he had heard something, and was determined to keep it dark. Smith was denying by inference that he had any knowledge of Rourke's find; a sure sign that he was on the track of it. " Suppose some one's been putting you up to a good thing? " he added. Courvois shrugged: "Me, no. I think I would find money for such a thing myself, if I had been fortunate enough to hear of one." Smith mustered up his deductive faculties, and tried another tack. " See here, Courvois," he began, looking as honest and straightforward as he might. " I was fool enough to guess you might have been got at by a bunco steerer that 42 UNCERTAINTY called on me yesterday. Seemed just the kind of feller'd be toting something of the sort round. He tried to touch me for a few yesterday, but I stalled him off at onst." "Money?" asked Courvois, and moved a little. Smith saw that he had hit the mark. " Right ! I heard he had been up to your cafe on the same job." '* No, no." Courvois denied it categorically. " That Monsieur Rourke came to tell me of the death of an old friend — so he told you of a mine ? " " Place where one might be, sure. Mighty fine story he handed me, but not quite fine enough for George H. No, sir, the man who touches George H. for a dollar must pan out one hun- dred and ten cents every time. That's me — good and spry, but cast-iron all over, with agate bear- ings, warranted to stand wear. You take that from me, sonny; the Rourke merchant went away as if he'd been bitten, and took his mine with him." He overdid it a bit, and Courvois felt that his morning had not been wasted. Still, he cursed the Irishman for running away and bringing the negotiations to a standstill. " Then you have not heard that monsieur went away last night? " 4 43 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Yes, I did, some." The American evidently suspected that Cour- vois had come to terms. That explained his anx- iety to know something of Rourke's relations with the cafe proprietor. " If he has found a silver mine, he is a big fool," said the latter, smiling. " I met the water- seller who lodges him, and he said the Irishman had been talking to him of a mine." " See here, he couldn't want to touch the sky- juice merchant for anything — " Smith began, but stopped. " He's op'ning his mouth wide enough anyhow." Honors were easy. Smith wouldn't pay to see Courvois' hand, and Courvois would not play a card till he could look over his opponent's shoul- der. When two men of their type start bluffing the game becomes unduly protracted. They were suspicious of Rourke, and suspicious of each other. Courvois was, if anything, the more eager, for Rourke was the friend of the man who, in his delirium, had apostrophized " Honest Courvois." The confidence to a disinterested wa- ter-seller staggered them both. It was indiscreet, and possibly dangerous. Santola boasted a few rough characters, who might think it worth their while to waylay a man carrying the secret of a silver mine in his pockets. 44 UNCERTAINTY " Mon ami," laughed Courvois, " one who opens his mouth wide may catch something." " Trouble, sure. No flies, sonny." " Well, he did not mistake me for a fly, though he paid you that compliment. He tells me of the death of his friend, that is all. A very sad affair —triste." " You're bearing up well," said Smith, iron- ically. " I bet it's made you feel good." " One must live. Eh, bien, Monsieur Smith, I must return to my cafe. You will oblige me by letting me know if this Irishman returns. Adieu." Smith watched him as he walked away, and a cunning smile came to his lips. " You haven't touched it yet, Mr. Johnny Courvois," he said un- der his breath, " and, smart and all as you think yourself, George H. will be on to that lot while you're hunting around for a shoe-lace. I'd ad- mire to see that fool Irishman touch you for a heap, and scoot, so you couldn't see him for dust. That's as soon as I've turned him inside out, sonny." Then he, too turned away, and strolled on leisurely toward the Alameda. CHAPTER IV LEON HALFWAY down the track leading from a high pass on the sierra lying west of Santola, a tall mulatto stood looking across the distant valley that lay below his feet and quivered in a transparent heat haze. Behind and above him the mountain climbed in high re- ceding steps, from the lower summits, glowing like white steel in the morning sun, to the peak of snow-capped Apotica that seemed a jagged ivory fang gnawing the sky. This was a place of rocks; they lay on either hand in an amor- phous jumble, blunt, ragged, smooth and spike- like, forming natural walls to the track, piled up in buttresses on the mountain's flank. Scant vegetation grew in the crevices, or hung desper- ately from the faces of the clififs; rough grass grew in tufts in the exiguous shade cast by gnarled shrubs ; but, for the most part, the man- tle of growth stopped dead halfway up the steep, so that the mountain resembled a giant who has 46 LEON half withdrawn himself from bed and gazes ston- ily at the green quilt still draping his feet. The mulatto looked haggard in the revealing sun. His cheeks sagged, his eyes were very big and black, in a face that was faded to an un- healthy yellow tint. One could see that he had gone hungry of late, and the pessimism of his expression told that he anticipated nothing bet- ter for the future. He waited immovable, lean- ing on a rock, his brown hand shading his eyes from the fierce downward light. His lips moved constantly, for he was chewing a piece of hard tobacco, and it was his last, with the additional discomfort that he had not smoked for three days. An hour passed without incident, and he moved his feet restlessly. Then something, a spot, a speck, moving far below caught his eye, and focused his excited attention. He used some thick exclamation, and moistened his full lips with his tongue, still staring intently at the diminutive object, which hardly seemed to pro- gress at all, but was in reality coming upward at a fast walk. The pass to which the track led was never used by the arrieros with their mule trains. A superstition had its locale there ; some story of a phantom dog which centered on the desolate place, and made it taboo to the ignorant mule- teers. This, then, must be a stranger, or the man 47 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN for whom the mulatto waited. Leon, for that was his name (the very Leon spoken of by Rourke) , was desperate. If the newcomer proved to be a stranger, he must serve. No man would traverse the sierra without a supply of food ; and assuredly he should not pass without having toll levied upon his store. Leon drew a knife from under his poncho, and laid the blade up his fore- arm. The speck gradually magnified, and became distinct. It was that of a man astride a pack mule, but unidentifiable as yet, in a shrouding poncho, and sombrero pulled over the brows as a shade from the glare. As he drew nearer, Leon sidled into a recess among the rocks, and grinned sardonically. His was not a particularly savage nature, and he found it necessary to stimulate anger against the man who was approaching — the man well fed, approaching the man who was desperate. From his concealment he peered out, keeping steady watch upon the winding track. Then a grunt or a cry came from him, and he threw his knife up. The sunrays glinted upon the broad blade, and the tinkle of its fall was echoed with a bell-like persistency by the rocks. He sprang out and hailed. ''Hola,sehorl Hola!" Rourke rode alongside, and slinging himself down from the mule, smacked him on the shoul- 48 LEON der. " Och ! you old ragamuffin, and is it you ? Sure the cheeks of you are clapping together like the sides of an empty bladder." He wrung the mulatto's hand hard, and with a quick pull drew a packet of coarse cigarettes from his pocket, and thrust them into Leon's hand. " Smoke, you divil, smoke! I've got food, money, and all. Never thought to see me back, did you ? I never thought to see myself back, bedad ! " Leon nodded rapidly, and lighting a cigarette, inhaled the smoke greedily. He looked a new man, despite his haggard cheeks; his eyes glit- tered with affection and welcoming, his thick lips took on the curve of laughter. European and half-breed, pure-bred and mongrel, there was evi- dently a friendship between them such as springs up only upon a foundation of mutual esteem and respect. Rourke was unroping a package excit- edly, as the other smoked. He took food from it presently, withdrew a bottle from a holster, and pushed them into the other's hands. " Let me see you get that inside you, ye beau- tiful scarecrow ! " he said loudly ; more loudly than was necessary, perhaps. " Man ! it'll be great to see you filling out like a great balloon, so it will. Oh, the divil take you quick, Leon ; is that the best you can do. Can't you get it down faster?" Leon grinned and ate furiously. He held the 49 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN bottle to his lips and let the contents trickle down his hot throat with a sigh of immense and pro- longed enjoyment. Every time he met Rourke's eyes he nodded, and his big mouth left the bottle neck, to smile thanks and pleasure. " Sefior 7nio/' he said presently. *' The best joke in the w^orld — I had a knife ready for you here. If you had been some other man, I should have robbed you." Rourke went into a shout of laughter : " Sure, I couldn't have made a better speech myself. But I'm thinking if I'd been some other man you wouldn't have robbed me, d'ye see?" He looked grave of a sudden. " Is all well, Leon? " he asked, in a low voice. The mulatto lit another cigarette, and stared at his questioner as gravely. " Sefior, it is as usual, but food has run out — for me at least, and in a little while you would not have found us here." " Bless your black soul ! " said Rourke, with moist eyes. " Anyway, here I am, and the best of meat with me, enough to go on with till I can get more. And I'll leave you a hundred pesos, in case you might have the chance to run over to Copar. No wild times since I left, I hope, Leon?" Leon shrugged, and pulling up his poncho at one side, rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, and ex- 50 LEON hibited a brawny arm. Rourke bent to look. There, on the tanned skin of the forearm, he could see a newly healed wound, the mark of three teeth which had bitten deep into the flesh. " It happened in the night, seiior, I had fallen asleep, and awakened just in time." A long shudder went through Rourke's pow- erful frame, and he turned away his eyes : " It's on to us, Leon," he said gravely. " But neither you nor I are going to weaken." Leon shook his head decidedly, and settled his poncho about him. " What will be must ! " he said philosophically. " Let us forget it. What of your journey to the town? " They sat down under the shade of a rock, after they had tethered the mule, and Rourke smoked silently for a few minutes. Then, pres- ently, " Sure it was an awful job," he said slow- ly. " I was sick, sore, and tired of it before I set foot in the place. But anyway I got to Santola, and called on Courvois — I'm going back there, an'll leave the burro with you. It's coming off, my boy, yes, it's coming off. The big hunger's going to be shifted for good and all this time. He gave me some on account, and in time I'll get the rest. But it's a big job I have before me. I can't push quick, but I must keep at it all the time. Sure, there's two of them want to be in it, Leon." 51 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Bueno" said the mulatto, brightening, ** you are clever, sefior. Both shall pay." " No, indeed, they won't ! One of them'll pay his whack, but the other I won't touch. Honest Courvois is the boy." " Honest Courvois," repeated Leon, waving his cigarette. " The other's an American, and may be in- quisitive. Mind that ! I bought you a pistol, my boy, to scare the crows with. If you see any of them settling on the fence, don't hesitate to shoot. I won't have trespassers worrying me on my own ground." Leon took the pistol his companion handed to him, and looked admiringly at the nickeled cham- bers. It was a hammerless self-cocker of Amer- ican make, long in the barrel, and handy as a toy. Rourke added a box of cartridges, and nodded. '' The dose, to be taken when necessary ; blue pill guaranteed to cure all long-standing complaints. Now, you know what to do, Leon ? " " That, yes." Rourke looked thoughtfully before him. " Look here, Leon," he began, " this business may take two or three months, and I'm not able at all to find a way of communicating with you. Supposing now, I want to send you some money. I couldn't always get up from Santola; for it's 52 LEON six days' ride, and some one might follow me if they saw me coming and going." " That is difficult, but I think can be arranged. If you send a letter to Copar, I could steal down there sometimes, and fetch it. Address care of Seiior Seguien at the pulperia. I know him slightly." " Does he know you live up here ? " " Here ! Why, if I told him he would laugh at me. No one would live on the pass, so he be- lieves." " This phantom dog? " asked Rourke. " What else — Seguien thinks I am from Pie- rola." " That'll do then. I'll send anything to him, so I needn't make the fellows suspicious in San- tola. Sure, Leon, it's not a bed of roses I have to sleep on, over beyond. The thing'll be pretty complicated presently, and Courvois is clever enough not to talk of the American. Have you got any of the stuff since ? " The mulatto nodded, and felt under his poncho, producing a piece of metal of a size and shape similar to that so heavily paid for by Cour- vois. He handed it to Rourke, untethered the mule, and stepped into the roadway to fetch his knife. " I would rather you took the burro back with you," he said. " It is impossible to walk back." 53 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN ** Not impossible, for I did it. But it would be tiresome, and I never intended doing it this time. I have just enough cash left to buy a horse, so I'll get one in the valley, and touch Courvois for a few pounds more when I get back." Leon mopped his brow, and stared up the track to where the entrance of the pass gaped like a black mouth : " Will he give it ? " Rourke laughed. " I bet you he's just fer- menting all this while," he remarked wisely. " What's fifty to him ; and what would fifty be to me, if I was in the mind to do him? Sure, he'll know that, and if he's not watching all roads to see me coming back, I'm an honest man, like old Johnny. Aye, he and the American'll be thinking it over. They'll be trying to pump each other; for Johnny knew that I was after calling on the other, seeing his own daughter was watching, under the shade of the house opposite, when I came out. A black mania she had on, and didn't I see her come in, and hide it away under a chair in the cafe." Leon sat down again, and lit a fresh cigarette, keeping an eye to the mule, which had strayed to one side of the track to nibble at a clump of coarse grass. " There is a woman, then ? " he said dryly. Rourke slapped his shoulder. " Och ! Leon, as fine a girl as ever you saw. Big and straight 54 LEON and healthy, with a sweet mouth and eyes in her head, would remind you of the best kind of stars on a dark night. I'm not ashamed to tell you she struck me sure. She's one of them big sleepy creatures, powerful fascinating when they keep so, and amazing when they wake up." " Sefior, it seems to me that Monsieur Cour- vois will know that, too. He will try to get at you through the woman." Rourke winked. " Sure he will, but I'm no fool. I'll be bound he's given her instructions be- fore this. But that's neither here nor there. It isn't a woman would open my teeth when I'd made up my mind to keep them tight shut. But the girl's grand, she goes to the heart of you in a funny way. It's good to look at her, and there's something behind the eyes tells me she goes straight, in spite of old Johnny and all. Well, never mind that now, I want you to blast me out a bit of ore, and have it ready to send down if I want it. I'll see they don't send it to an assayer." " But this American — is he interested in mines? " " Yes, and knows about them, too. I'll see he doesn't clap eyes on the stuff." " It is for the other, then ? " " It is. Perhaps I'll be bringing him this way- one day." 55 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Leon started up, rolling his eyes. " Not here?" " Trust me ! I wasn't born yesterday, my boy, nor born in blinkers. Mind that ! " Leon rose once more, and stood looking un- easily down upon his companion. " Will you come up the pass with me before you return to Santola ? " he asked quietly. " I will. It's heart sorry I am to leave you alone here so long, but this job must be done. Can you stick it out ? " " Si, si, it is not happy work, but that also must be done." Leon took the mule's bridle, and began to lead it upward. Rourke followed, talking to him in undertones, a new expression of gravity on his face. As they drew nearer the mouth of the pass both were more solemn than usual, and their steps lagged a little. " It's the devil and all ! " cried Rourke sud- denly. The mulatto shrugged comprehensively and tugged at the bridle. Then they passed round a projecting corner of rock, and disappeared into the silent fastnesses of the gorge. The sun was still high in the heavens, bathing the steep in a flood of yellow light, when the Irishman again appeared at the mouth of the pass, and came wearily down the track. A frown 56 LEON furrowed his broad forehead, and his Hps were drawn tight. Leon had not come with him, and the mule with its load he had left behind. As he went farther from the pass his face cleared, and his steps quickened. Every mile he traversed saw him happier, brighter. Yet he had not forgotten the mulatto keeping his vigil among the rocks above. He thought of him only too often for his own peace of mind. The horse on which he had left Santola he had disposed of to a pulperia keeper in Copar, in exchange for the pack mule and an assortment of foodstuffs. It would have been useless to ex- pect the animal to climb the precipitous track, up which the mule had passed without a stumble. Besides, the horse had been bought in a reckless moment, and was too good for the work to which it would be put. Seguien had not been told in which direction he was traveling, but was merely informed by Rourke that he would be back in the course of a few days, and asked to keep an eye out for a half-bred animal that might be bought cheap. By using a short cut over a stretch of broken country, Rourke reached Copar within twenty- four hours, and promptly went to sleep in a ham- mock slung for him under the veranda. When he wakened, he found Seguien pulling at his sleeve, to attract his attention to a skewbald mare 57 DESAIOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN which a peon was leading up and down in front of the pulperia. He jumped out of the hammock, and inspected this new mount, expressed partial satisfaction, and strolled back to his hammock to turn in once more. Seguien followed him closely, and began to talk of the beast's points. " And I am willing to let the sefior have her for four hundred pesos," he wound up. Rourke settled himself comfortably, and closed his eyes. " I am not wanting half a dozen of them," he said drowsily. " Ah, but it is a magnificent animal, worth at the least six hundred pesos." " Keep her then, and you can send her to the races at Buenos Ayres. Sure they couldn't make up their mind about that mare, but put in patches of all colors to see which'd fit best. It wasn't a Joseph's coat I wanted, but a horse. It's a circus she should be in." Seguien walked away, and Rourke began to snore gently. Then the man came back and touched him on the shoulder. " You shall have the animal for three hundred," he said reproach- fully. " Not at a gift," said Rourke, raising himself on one elbow. " It shall be a gift," said the other gener- ously. '' One hundred pesos, and she is yours." 58 LEON " With a saddle and fixings ? " asked Rourke^ rubbing his eyes. Seguien wrung his hands. " I rob myself." " Do ! and have the saddle put on him, or her, whichever it is. It isn't often I have a chance of robbing anybody. Here's your money." ** Gracias, sefior." Seguien thanked him, for the price was more than he had expected. " Will you have some wine with me ? " " Thanks, no ; I never take drinks between sleeps. Adios, Sefior Seguien." He got up without further speech, and slung himself on to the saddle, threw some coins to the peon, and put his knees into the skewbald's sides. The mare sidled, made an attempt to buck, and then struck into a canter. She had a good mouth, and, though her manners were not those of a lady's hack, was not particularly vicious. She had a fashion of turning her head, when pulled up, in an endeavor to graze off her rider's knee, but showed no other signs of temper. Once clear of the pulperia, Rourke set her hard at it, was soon hidden from Seguien's view by a cloud of rolling dust, and quickly left Copar on the dis- tant skyline. Four days later he rode into Santola, as the sun dived beneath the horizon, and made his way to the Cafe Fleur de Lys. Some distance out of the town he had made a detour, and came jog- 5 59 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN ging up the Calle San Salvador, as if coming from Paralles, which lay away eastward. Courvois was out when he arrived, but Jeanne sat in the little glass-sided compartment, and smiled welcome to him as he strode up the cafe. ''Bon soir, mademoiselle," he said, smiling, and dusting his coat vigorously. " J'espere que je vous troiive en bon sante — Och! bother. I can't talk French, and never could, but how are you?" "Very well, thank you, monsieur. And you?" " Dying ! " he announced, leaning over to look down at her. " Sure I've missed you terribly. Couldn't eat nor sleep since I went away, just for thinking of you." " Monsieur draws inspiration from the moun- tains again," she said demurely, but looked pleased, nevertheless ; " and monsieur grows fat without food and sleep." " No, do I ? I was never one of Pharaoh's lean kine, but fat I do hate. Perhaps it's love does it, Jeanne." " Love — is monsieur in love ? " He smiled gently. " Och, Jeanne ! Was I ever out of it? It's a kind of disease, I'm think- ing, and mighty catching. We've all got it more or less. I'll be getting jealous of that Mister Mitad of yours presently." 60 LEON " Do not talk to me of it ! " she said seriously. ** I am tired. Ciel! how tired of the word. You men are a curious race, monsieur. You are pleased with one woman, and you never ask is she pleased with you. But when another comes — pooh! you fly into a passion, and make our lives a burden. No, I think that love may be in- tolerable sometimes." " Don't ! " he cried, holding up his hands in mock horror. " Would you deprive me of my last hope, and send me to a suicide's grave ? Be easy, Jeanne, my heart's so fragile. Feel here, and you'll notice how it's bumping." Jeanne looked swiftly about the cafe, and laughingly put her hand on his broad chest. " Just there, monsieur ? " " That's it, only tighter. Sure it's so light I can't feel it. Have you got a heart, Jeanne ? " " I have been told so," she smiled. " Who had the impertinence " " It was my doctor, monsieur." " Well, Jeanne, I don't believe it ! Does it beat like anyone else's ? " He put out his hand laughingly, but dropped it, and captured her wrist. " Monsieur ! " " The dearest little pulse in all the world," he said rapturously. " Sure it's like the little angels in you trying and struggling to get out." 6i DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Jeanne colored, and the pink flush on her cheeks and throat gave her face an unusual look of animation; then suddenly, and in a tone of alarm: "My father comes." Rourke straightened himself, and looked se- rious. " Well, Courvois," he said, holding out a hand as the other came up eagerly, " here I am again, you see. I had to take a run up to see that place we were talking of, and couldn't get back sooner. I'm thinking now I put the figure too low." " You may rest for a short time, Jeanne," said Courvois. Then : " Well, monsieur, I am glad to see you once more. I wished to talk with you about that matter." Jeanne nodded brightly to Rourke, and left the cafe to go upstairs to her own room. Cour- vois looked after her for a moment, then signed to the head waiter to look after things in his absence, and led the way out to the tiled court beyond the swing door. When they were com- fortably seated, he turned inquiringly to his visitor. " Well, I've seen the place again," said the latter, tapping his knee with impressive finger, " and I'm more sure than ever that it's going to be a fortune for some one. Here's another sam- ple nugget from the claim, and I'm getting a 62 LEON man of mine over there to blast a piece out of the ore body to show you." '' Bien, I shall be pleased to examine it when it arrives. Meanwhile, I hope you have decided to give me some further proofs of the genuine- ness of the proposition." Rourke stood up, towering over the smaller man, and staring down at him contemptuously. " If it had been anyone but yourself had said the like of that to me, I'd have given him something to know me by! " he said shortly. " D'ye mean to accuse me of cheating you, Mister Courvois? " Courvois shook his head vigorously, and gesticulated with extraordinary opulence. *' Ac- cuse you — me? Ah, monsieur, you misunder- stand me completely. I meant to say that I hoped you were going to place the affair on a business footing." " Well, why didn't you say so? " " Pardon, I express myself clumsily. Tell me what decision you have come to." Rourke replaced the nugget in his pocket, and rubbed his chin. " Just this," he said angrily. " I'll get the thing done myself, and save a lot of bother, or ril get some one else to take it up. What d'ye say was the name of that American fellow ? " '' Smith — but monsieur " 63 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " But nothing. I'll let no man insult me for fun. Good evening to you, Monsieur Courvois." " Permit me to explain " Rourke shook his head, and crossed the court to the swing door. It opened, swung to behind him, and he was gone. CHAPTER V THE WATER-SELLER IT was one of Rourke's most treasured max- ims that it is never wise to leave hurriedly any house where you have called on busi- ness of importance; and never discreet to look around you as you emerge. He left the Cafe Fleur de Lys at a slow walk, and looking straight before him; consequently, he did not see, or pretended not to see, his land- lord, the water-seller, who was approaching the entrance at a smart pace. As a matter of fact, he bent down at that moment to pull up one of his long boots, and only straightened himself, with a flushed face, when his host had backed rapidly into a convenient entry, and disappeared. After a moment's hesitation, he turned to- ward the Calle Passado, and presently found himself within the hospitable portals of No. 9. The water-seller greeted him with effusion, a fact which, coupled with a hot face and a manner of rather overdone politeness, should have set Rourke thinking. The effusiveness of the land- 65 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN lord's manner might have led one to believe that he v^as welcoming a tenant, who had not paid his rent, but was now returning, prodigal-like, to make amends. Rourke greeted him cheerfully, but to himself he was saying: "I wonder how much Courvois paid you to bring information." In any case, he did not intend to bid higher than Courvois, having a shrewd suspicion that the man would take pay from all parties, and sup- ply information impartially to all. He had a certain harelike aptitude for see- ing behind and to one side of him when appar- ently looking at what lay directly ahead, and the water-seller's strategic retreat had not passed unnoticed. An instinct told him that he would be better able to cope with a system of espionage by giving the spies to believe that he was igno- rant of their intentions. " Yes, it's back I am," he said, in answer to the other's sly questions. " I'll be glad if you'll get me something to eat right away, and bring me a pen and ink in the meantime. I want to write a letter." " Certainly, sefior, I shall procure them at once, also paper. And you shall have something to eat at once. You must be hungry after your long ride." " Who told you it was long? " " No one, sehor — I thought " 66 THE WATER-SELLER " Well, don't go and hurt yourself thinking too much. Run along like a good man, and bring me what I want." The water-seller bowed and retired, to return with what was required. " Will you wish me to take your letter to the post afterwards? I will wait if you wish it." "You're too kind, but I don't wish it. I'll carry the letter myself. Now run away. I'm busy." " At once, sefior." When the man had gone out, Rourke sat down at the table, and pulling the paper toward him, began to write : " The Ookatee Mining Machinery Co., " Harbord, Conn., U.S.A. " Gentlemen : — I shall be glad if you will furnish me with an estimate, giving detailed prices for supplying and setting up mining ma- chinery. I think of developing a claim, which I think can be made to yield silver in paying quan- tities, and would begin with a six-stamp battery. The price is to include machinery, labor, and carriage by rail to the town of Pierola. Let me have a reply at your earliest convenience, and oblige " Yours faithfully, " Desmond Rourke. " Calle Passado 9, Santola." 67 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN The letter finished, he sat back, and contem- plated it with sly satisfaction. Then he folded it up, and slipped it into an envelope, and was about to seal it, with a stick of wax he took from his pocket, when a thought struck him. He paused, smiled broadly, and replaced the sealing wax. Wetting the gum on the envelope, he pasted it down, and began to write the address. " I think that ought to fix it," he said under his breath. " I think so, indeed." The water-seller came in then with cofifee, tortillas, and a warm-smelling dish of frijoles, which he set down upon the table, his eye mean- while industriously roving about the room in search of the letter. He was naif enough to imagine that Rourke must have put it down somewhere within view. But the letter, with its envelope and the significant address, was repos- ing at the moment in Rourke's pocket, quite se- cure from prying eyes. " There, sefior, I saw to it myself ; and if there is anything else you wish I will see to it also." " Well, I wish you were in your bed. I don't want anything else. Good night to you." " Buenas noches, seiior," said the other, as smoothly as he could, and hastened to retire. Rourke slept soundly that night, though the heat was great, and a thousand and one inquir- 68 THE WATER-SELLER ing insects buzzed and sang outside the mosquito net. The morning sun, streaming in through the barred window, fell full upon his face, revealing it placid and smiling, made him open his eyes and blink. Then he pulled aside the mosquito net, sprang to the floor, and began hurriedly to dress. His toilet completed, he opened the door, and shouted for the water-seller. " Hello, there ! I want breakfast in two shakes, and you may get my horse saddled. I'm going for a ride to-day." " Breakfast is already waiting for you," said the water-seller, appearing from another door, and yawning prodigiously. " As for the horse, I shall see to it at once. And if the sefior is go- ing far, I could put up some food for him, and a bottle of wine." " Now don't you jump to conclusions like that! You've got what I call a kind of antici- patory mind. Faith! there's such a thing as officiousness, my boy, and I'd sooner have a care- less man any day. I'm just going for a ride along the Alameda." He sat down to his coffee good-humoredly, having got rid of the talkative half-breed, and ruminated on the plans for the day. " There's this Smith now," he said, musing. " I believe the creature takes a canter round every morning early. It wouldn't do any harm 69 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN to start up along his street. Sure I couldn't do better than not see him." He foresaw that there would be a difficulty in handling Smith. The American was a man of affairs, used to sharp dealing, and practiced in the commercial guerrilla. He was pertinacious, too, and obviously determined to follow up this question of the silver mine. He would not be an easy man to shake off. In a deal of this kind each of the protagonists must study the other, keep his own thoughts secret, and judge his op- ponent's, not so much by what has been said, as by the obvious things left unsaid. Smith had asked him to disclose the name of the locality in which his claim was situated. He had replied by stating that, once the secret was out, this claim might be jumped by some one other than him- self. That was clear enough. Still it was neces- sary to look at the thing from Smith's point of view, to put himself in Smith's place. Taking that as hypothesis, what would he have said? That also was obvious. Smith should have replied that it was only necessary to approach the Federal Government, obtain a permit to work the claim, or buy the property outright. If that was done, no outsider could interfere without coming into conflict with the authorities. The American was well acquainted with mining prop- 70 THE WATER-SELLER ositions, and hardly likely to overlook that side of the question. Rourke frowned over the prob- lem. Why had Smith left this simple point un- touched? There must be a reason for that. Either he took Rourke for a fool, who did not know the right way to secure his title to the claim ; or he had some deep plan to work out, the details of which it was as yet impossible to con- jecture. One thing was certain: he knew that the genuine owner of a mining claim has no need to make a secret of it. He lit a big cigar, and smoked thoughtfully. Then he took a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket, and began to sketch in the outlines of Smith's capable face. The manner was impres- sionist, but, from the bold, rapid strokes, the American was evolved in a lifelike fashion that spoke to the artist's skill. Rourke put his head on one side, and regarded his work with a pleased expression. Putting the sketch aside, he took another piece of paper, and touched in Jeanne's face. He seemed to have an eye for character. The girl looked up at you from the paper; lethargic of temperament, a trifle sulky; but affectionate, sympathetic, and capable of pas- sion when her heart was touched. Side by side with her on the same sheet, Rourke drew Cour- vois; ferret-featured, sharp-eyed, and shrewd of face, but softened to an appearance of suave 71 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN amiability by the smile of professional welcome which hovered always on his thin lips. " Sure, they're very unlike," said the artist, looking from one face to the other. " The eyes now — and they're generally a guide — ^Jeanne's have depth in them, while old Johnny's have all the expression on the top. Then there's the mouth — Jeanne's is generous, and the sulky curve to it doesn't hint at much subtlety. Let's see if I can make a resemblance without strain- ing." He retouched the girl's face, taking from the fullness of the lips, narrowing the eyes, making the nose thinner, the cheekbones higher. " Sure Nature never did the like of that," he said softly. " It's his stepdaughter she is, meb- be. The lines don't run the same way, and even if the mother was — " He stopped short and got up, putting the two portraits in his pocket, and tearing up the sheet of paper from which Smith looked speculatively out upon the world. Ten minutes later he went out into the street, and mounted his horse. He rode first up the Calle Huelva, keeping a tight hand on the reins, and prepared to swing his beast about if he en- countered Smith too suddenly. But the Ameri- can was not in sight, and he trotted slowly through the plaza, glancing over his shoulder as he passed near the Cafe Fleur de Lys, the doors 72 THE WATER-SELLER of which had just been opened for the day. Pres- ently he came to the Alameda, and rode quietly between the lines of graceful palms, enjoying his cigar, and the grateful brightness of the morn- ing. Perhaps half an hour had passed, when he heard hoof-beats coming up behind him. Smith must be out, for the inhabitants of Santola are not given to horse exercise in the early morning; and the animal to the rear was evidently a " pacer." Rourke kept steadily on, till he guessed that the other had come within hailing distance, then quickened pace, and began to hur- ry along toward the outskirts of the town. As he went he heard a shrill call. *' Rourke ! I say, Rourke ! " He pretended not to hear, and leaving the Alameda, cantered up a side street and out into the open country. Would Smith give up, or fol- low him? He did not call again, but the hoof- beats sounded louder, and it was probable that the American did not intend to be dropped. The going was softer here, over rough grass and patches of loose brown sand. Further away there were clumps of bushes and flowering shrubs, growing closely to the height of a tall man's head. Rourke shook his horse into a full gallop, and heard the following sound grow fainter. He pointed directly for the thickest 73 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tangle of shrubs, swerved into a disused track, and suddenly rolled from the saddle. The mo- ment he was down, he tied up the mare's off fore- leg with a strap, and pulling deftly at the other, brought her down upon her side. Here he was hidden from the eyes of anyone passing, though there was just a chance that Smith might search the scrub. He settled him- self comfortably and began to pat the mare's heaving sides. A minute passed quietly, then he heard the pacer swishing through the long grass, and rising to his feet went crouching to the rim of the bushes. It was Smith right enough. He looked hot and angry, and tapped his mount's flank irritably with a cane. His expression showed that he was exasperated by his failure to follow, and was at a loss to conjecture which path Rourke had taken. He stood up in his stirrups and stared westward, filliped his fingers in annoyance, and came slowly toward the bushes. Rourke dropped out of sight, peering at him through the rifts in the foliage. He beean to think that the other suspected him of hiding among the bushes. No, Smith had turned his horse, and set him toward Santola. Either he had given up the chase, or thought it might be indiscreet to ap- pear to have followed closely upon the Irishman's heels. He rode away slowly, and Rourke hur- 74 THE WATER-SELLER ried back to his mare, loosed the strap from her foreleg, and urged her up. Then he mounted, and set off after the American. He caught him rapidly, and presently rang- ing alongside, greeted him cheerfully. " Hello, George H. What's brought you out so far in all the world? Sure it's in bed you ought to be so early an' all." Smith extended a limp hand : " Say, is that you, Rourke ? I reckon you must have been try- ing to draw a bead on that early worm." " Worm, is it ? There's not one to be found in a soil like this — too dry, you see. A man might look, and better look, without seeing so much as the tail of one." Smith had not explained his presence at this time, and the omission spoke to his appreciation of the other's shrewdness. A clever man will al- ways prefer to be misconstrued rather than make a faulty excuse. " That's so," he returned carelessly, and a glint of white teeth showed between his drawn lips. " But what on airth are you doing on that painted cayuse at this time of day? Been look- ing after your mine, perhaps ? " Rourke yawned indulgently. "Oh, that! In- deed, I wasn't thinking of it at all. Anyway, George H., you needn't be thinking over it, either, for you're not in it." 6 75 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Now, did I say I was? Not me, sir." Rourke drew in the mare, and glanced at him with half-closed eyes. He had all the ap- pearance of a simple man who is trying to prove how deceptive he can be; of an ingenuous saint trying to earn a reputation for worldliness. " I'm going to tell you a very queer thing," he observed, " but I hope you won't let it get any further. Sure, that mine I have is like the castles they grow in Spain. A man might look all day where it was — I mean where it wasn't, and not see it. Where would the likes of me find silver, and me knowing less of mines than a humming bird? Tell me that, George H." Smith surveyed him gravely. " Why didn't you tell me that before, sonny? " he asked, affect- ing to believe what he had been told. " I reckon it didn't take me in, anyway. I suppose you hope to rope in old Courvois with the yarn, and touch him for a few. Well, where did you tell him the claim was? " "Ah, indeed?" said Rourke, winking, and riding ahead. Smith drew up to him again. " See here," he began aggrievedly, " you're making an all- fired secret of this claim of yours. What's the use of that, anyway? " They had entered upon the Alameda, and were riding toward the plaza. Smith had made 76 THE WATER-SELLER a mistake in permitting his curious impatience to get the better of him. Seeing Rourke riding out of Santola, he had jumped to the conclusion that he was going to make a further inspection of the claim. The confession that the latter had no real existence had only served to strengthen him in the idea that the Irishman was in posses- sion of valuable information. So much was ob- vious from his unguarded phrase. " You don't believe me, then ? You think the claim is real. Well, I'm not saying that it isn't. All I do say is, you've had your chance, and didn't take it, so faith ! you haven't it any longer. I hear that you fellows in America North have a way of talking to each other that isn't over and above polite. Now that's not our way in Ireland at all. Sure, we like everything buttered, even if it's meant to be hot. Now if I was wanting to call you a knave, George H. " " You'd soon be wanting a coffin, I imagine." " D'ye tell me that ? Don't make me narvous at the start. What I was going to say is this: If I was wanting to call you a knave, and, being Irish, didn't like to hurt your feelings, I should say you were a clockwork saint with the main- spring gone. However, that's neither here nor there — the other day you as good as called me a bunco steerer. The consequence is that I don't 77 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN offer you my proposition, and that's the end of it." Rourke had brought his man to the strategic position he desired; exactly opposite the Cafe Fleur de Lys, and now, seeing Courvois come out to the doorway, and stare across the plaza, he sheered away from the American, just turn- ing a little to call softly over his shoulder : " Hist ! there's old Johnny. I don't want him to see us together." Smith took a more hopeful view of the situa- tion than he had yet done. He nodded ever so slightly, and stopped to light a cigar, while the other pulled up his skewbald under the shade near the sidewalk, and dismounting, turned into the cafe. Courvois greeted him as cheerfully as if nothing had occurred to mar the friendship and intimacy of their intercourse. He himself saw to the ordering of coffee for this customer, and brought it on a little lacquer tray. He had seen Smith and the Irishman together, and had ob- served the little bit of byplay when they parted so abruptly. He scanned Rourke closely as he arranged the tray, and could see that his boots were dusty, with the clinging brown dust of the plain outside the town. Then the speculator had been with him, and that looked as though some 78 THE WATER-SELLER business had been transacted. He must make up his mind to act quickly. With the famiHarity of a much-respected host, he sat down at the other side of the little marble-topped table, and offered a cigarette. " You will smoke — here is a light. And the cof- fee — n'est il pas hon? So you have been out for an early ride, Monsieur Rourke ? " " I have that, and a brave day it is." " You like to ride alone? " Rourke sipped his coffee. " Indeed, I do, then," he said imperturbably. '' I can't argue wid myself, and I can't fight wid myself, and I can hold my own tongue. Isn't that a deal easier than riding wid a man who's worrying you? " Courvois admitted all that in a shrug and a smile. There was something up, then. He found it hard to keep his temper. " I've got another little nugget for you," said Rourke, calmly feeling in his pockets. He handed it to his companion, and yawned a little behind his hand. Courvois took it with a bow, and placed a quick foot upon something which had slipped from Rourke's pocket and fluttered to the floor. Presently he was able to stoop and pick it up unperceived. Meanwhile, " Well, Monsieur, you will need some money for your expenses," he said pleasantly. " Will you permit me to give 79 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN you a check upon the Banco Nacional for a small sum — say fifty pounds ? " " Well, since you're so very kind, I will per- mit you. You needn't cross it — a cross woman and a crossed check are one as bad as the other ; you can't deal with either of them unless you have a banking account. Can you let me have it now ? " " Mais certainemcnt , monsieur, at once." He slipped the envelope into his pocket as he turned away, and hurried across the floor of the cafe to his little office. Rourke's gaze followed him for a moment, then turned downward. In taking out the nugget, he had also withdrawn the letter addressed to the Mining Machinery Co., and knew that it had fallen near his feet. It was gone now, and he smiled gently at Cour- vois' retreating back. CHAPTER VI THE PROPER TOOL JEALOUSY is like a Malay kris in the hands of a European, being more likely to damage the possessor than his opponent. A jealous man is the tool of anyone clever enough to feign interest in his temperament, and ingenious enough to make use of his perverted passion. George H. Smith had handled many men in his time, and was sufficient judge of human nature to have grasped this essential fact. He had made it his business, in the present instance, to reconnoiter his man's position, and inquire closely into the position and relations of those who might conceivably be brought into touch with him. The almighty dollar is power- ful in Santola. Smith assessed the average in- dividual soul there at five dollars, and had dis- covered that some came even cheaper. He soon assured himself of the fact that Rourke had taken a fancy to Jeanne, and he already knew that Sefior Jose Mitad was reputed to be a fa- vored suitor. He could see plainly that Courvois 8i DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN was playing the game on the good old-fashioned lines, using Jeanne as a decoy to secure Rourke's secret, and nursing the suitor's jealousy in order to provide himself with a weapon of offense in case such should be needed. He was quite sure that the Frenchman had already given Rourke something on account. The man had arrived in Santola, starving, disreputable, and without funds; now he had set up a horse, dressed well, and smoked good cigars. This narrowed the field of inquiry, and made it obvious that Courvois had financed the Irish- man to a certain extent. The motive was not quite so apparent. The proprietor of the Cafe Fleur de Lys was by no means a fool, and min- ing propositions are so notoriously unreliable that it was improbable that money had been paid over on the strength of the stranger's word. Either Courvois had been supplied with full in- formation, or there was some other factor as yet unknown to Smith. Rourke's partner had died, and this dead man had been an acquaintance of Courvois. Could it lie in that? Smith looked perplexed, but determined to give that point fur- ther consideration. Mitad was the man from whom some information might be gained. After lunch, Smith had his horse saddled and rode out to Mitad's hacienda. He found the owner just awakened from a siesta, and in a 82 THE PROPER TOOL grumbling and querulous mood. The fellow had been kept, by some business connected with his farm, from visiting Santola during the last three days, and was full of suspicions. " What do you want with me, Sefior Smith? " he inquired, ill-humoredly, when the American had installed himself under the shade of the ve- randa and made himself comfortable on two chairs. Smith smiled provokingly. " I reckoned you might be lonely," he said, " so I came out to give you the news." Mitad pulled at his mustache. He was curi- ous to know what had happened, but not suffi- ciently recovered from his grumbling mood to show signs of pleasure. Smith sized him up as he sat there, and struck while the iron was hot. " See here, sonny, that fool Irishman's back again in the old town, and up at old Johnny's amazingly regular. I wonder you haven't no- ticed how sweet he is on the old man's girl." "Jeanne? " said Mitad, scowling. " That's it. I should have thought a fellow like you would have tried to put a spoke in that galoot's wheel. But, of course, if you did that you'd find old Johnny up against you." Mitad stared in sheer astonishment : "Against me? Why, sefior, they are not really friends. Sefior Courvois is suspicious of him." 83 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Smith went off into gusty laughter. " So that's the kind of stuff he serves up to you, is it ? My! Mitad, they're as thick as thieves, you can bet. I suppose you didn't see that fellow when he turned up first — ragged clothes, thin as a whipping post, general down-on-his-uppers sort of look? Well, look at him now\ Does he look poor ? I guess not ! He looks plump, prosperous, and spry. Who gave him the money for that, d'ye think ? Dug it out of the ground mebbe, or picked it up in the street. No, sonny, Johnny's money is in it." Mitad pursed his lips. '' Why should he tell me " " Do you mean to say you haven't knocked on to the scheme ? Why, they're fooling you top hole. I tell you what it is: that fellow has got hold of a silver mine up in the mountains, and Courvois is anxious to hook him for his girl. They had to say something to you, knowing you to be a hot-tempered sort of fellow likely to hand out trouble in case you got the knock — see! " Mitad's wiry frame trembled with passion, and his mustache almost seemed to bristle. " For mi alma! I shall make trouble. I shall ride in at once, and " Smith smiled compassionately. " No, sonny, you won't. You'll stay right here, and listen to 84 THE PROPER TOOL your uncle, George H. I figures it out this way : You go into town, have a scrap with this Irish- man, and clean him up — we'll say you do, though he's a tough proposition. Well, what happens? Courvois is down on you, Jeanne won't look at you, and the police critters run you into the cala- hozo. That's not good enough. You want to get Jeanne, make this Rourke pretty sick, and cut into this silver pile as well. That's the right line, I guess. You stick to me, and I'll see you home." Mitad's face fell, for he was not apt at plot- ting, and the difficulties seemed overwhelming. Still, he was prepared to listen, since he admitted to himself that Smith was talking sense. The plan commended itself to him in its broad lines at least. " But how? " he ventured. " Just this way : Rourke's riding a skewbald now, and the cayuse is an uncommon color. He must have sold the last animal he had, and bought this one, or swapped horses somewhere up country. Now he was out from Santola about twelve days, which is six days each way." Smith took a map from his pocket and unfolded it upon his knee, while Mitad came to look over his shoulder. *' Here's the town on this as the center, and here I've a compass. I put the leg on Santola, and make the other swoop round — 8s DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN so. If he did three hundred miles in six days, we scale out three hundred, and make that the radius of our circle " " A man, senor, might take a year to follow the circumference on horseback." " That's so, but he wouldn't want to do the whole thing. See here, Rourke came back the other morning by a road leading from Paralles. From that you may bet he was trying to put us off the scent. You know the place lies east of this, so we may take it that Rourke's silver claim lies in the opposite direction — west. That's a foolish way fellows have of trying to prove an alibi, see? " Mitad brightened. " That is clever." " No, it's common or imusual sense. Well, I mark off a segment of this circle due west of Paralles, and inside that section, within fifty or so miles of the circumference, we'll find the chap who sold or swapped that skewbald." He folded up the map, replaced it with the compass in his pocket, and added, " Which are you going out for — trouble or money? " " Money ! " said Mitad promptly. " Now, you are talking. You will find that Courvois'll take you to his heart when you have the dollars." " So I shall have my revenge as well ? " 86 THE PROPER TOOL " That's right. I am glad you are coming into this. Don't give the show away, though. Keep on the same terms with old Johnny and the girl, and don't let Rourke see that you have got the hump. You have got to search the curve ly- ing between Pierola and Sandores, with Copar about midway. I believe this mine is going to be a big thing, so don't spare expense. Can you go soon? " " Yes, sefior, I can start when the darkness falls." " Bully for you ! Now, I must be moving. I have a bit of business to do at the post office. You know your cue. A gringo, pretty tall, and heavy, mounted on a roan, who bought an odd- looking skewbald a week back. Bye-bye, sonny." Smith mounted and rode back to the town, directing his way to the chief post office in the plaza. On entering he was somewhat surprised to find that his old friend, the official in charge, was not to be seen, but that his place had been taken by a fat young man, with a rather dandi- fied air, and a look of amiable omniscience. Smith walked up, felt in his pockets, and pro- duced a crackling slip of paper, which he held in his hand out of sight. " Good day," he began in Spanish. " Has my old friend Senor Larria gone on holiday ? " 87 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN The young man's face assumed an insolent expression : " No, senor, he has left Santola for good." " Oh, has he? And how's that? " The young man toyed with a promising mus- tache, and shot his immaculate cufifs. " The authorities have removed him," he said simply. '* But what can I do for the sefior ? " Smith took the crackling piece of paper and pushed it across the counter under cover of his fingers. "What d'ye call that, sonny?" he in- quired in a low tone. The young man took it, scanned it closely, and let it droD from his hand. " This, sefior, ap- pears to be a United States banknote for one hundred dollars." " What's it good for? " asked Smith, leaving it where it had fallen, and assuming a jocular tone. " Good for ? To spend, sefior, I presume. No doubt they will cash it for you at the Banco Nacional." Smith bit his lip. This fellow could not be had cheap. He produced another note and passed it across the counter. " Is that good, too? " he inquired. " Quite," said the young man, examining it insolently. 88 THE PROPER TOOL " Say ! " said Smith angrily, but keeping his voice low, " how much do you want? " The young man turned his shoulder. " What can I do for you ? " " Well, there's a big Irishman called Rourke may be coming in here to send off a letter, and as I know the friend he's writing to, but not the address, I shall be glad to have it, see ! " The new official looked calmly over his shoul- der at a man who had just come in through the swing doors. "In what way can I serve you, sefior?" he inquired, ignoring Smith completely. '' Well, if it isn't George H. ! " came Rourke's voice from behind. '' Excuse me anyway, till I send a letter off." Smith smiled wryly. The fat young man was explaining now to the newcomer that he had taken charge of the office that day, owing to the dismissal of his predecessor. " What for? " asked Rourke, with every ap- pearance of enjoyment. " Taking bribes," said the official, staring hard at the American bills on the counter, and laughing a little. Smith set his teeth hard and began to back out of the office, but the young man looked up and extended a hand. " These, sehor, belong to yon. I think," he said, thrusting forward the notes. 89 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Thanks," drawled Smith, as he took them, and withdrew. " You come into a fortune, George? " Rourke threw after him as he went out. " Sure it's care- less you are in the handling of money. You'll be losing it one of these days." Smith went back to his house in a furious temper. This last indiscretion had spoiled his chances of bringing the negotiations he had ini- tiated to a successful termination. Rourke knew now that he had been attempting to tamper with his mails, and was hardly likely to let him take up the thread of the business at the point at which it had been dropped. Smith had not real- ized that the other had no further need of him, having used him only as a figurehead to back his blufif with Courvois. Still, now that straightfor- ward bargaining was out of the question, there remained the plot which he had outlined for Mitad's benefit. He summed up the situation very shortly. Rourke, probably, had discovered a genuine claim, and was anxious to exploit it. But, hav- ing no capital, it was necessary that he should find some one to finance the necessary mining operations. The whip hand lay with the man who could bring in capital, and the prospector's only chance of securing a big price for his claim lay in introducing the element of competition. 90 THE PROPER TOOL So he had tried to play off Smith against Cour- vois. The American hoped to trace Rourke to the locaHty in which the silver had been discov- ered, and, if the claim had not already been legally secured, to open negotiations with the Federal Government for the purchase of the land. His fear was that Courvois should fore- stall him; his hope lay in the fact that the Frenchman was cautious where money was con- cerned. How could he mar Courvois' chance? he asked himself. It struck him that the way might lie more clearly before him if he could ascertain what was the common interest connect- ing Rourke, Courvois, and the late M. Roquille. But the first thing was to trace Rourke's move- ments previous to his arrival in Santola. Every- thing might hinge on that. He felt sure that he had been right in send- ing Mitad to search to the westward. The haciendero might return in a fortnight with use- ful information, and then it would be possible to work out the scheme in detail. This plan was not a benevolent one, but then benevolence had never been Smith's outstanding virtue. In the present instance, the question did not even seem to have a moral side. Rourke would do him if he could, and most certainly he would do Rourke, if that were possible. A la guerre comme a la 7 91 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN guerre. That was the motto for the financier as for the fighting man. These reflections soothed Smith, and the mol- Hfying influence of toast water calmed him and made his thoughts flow into a mood of gentle reminiscence. CHAPTER VII THE LETTER JEANNE had been unconsciously attracted by Rourke. At first this result had been achieved by the contrast he afforded to the other habitues of the cafe; later, it was due to the working of those subtle psychic thought processes which finally reach their highest point in the passion, or emotion, we call Love. Women attached to a popular cafe in a Latin country cannot avoid being brought into contact with degenerates and undesirables, and with others less culpable who imagine that the price of a drink entitles them to a privileged intimacy with the feminine employees. Santola was no worse, and no better, than its neighbors. Most of the officials were corrupt and loose-living ; and the rest of the population paid them the sincer- est flattery. Jeanne, perhaps, was better able to cope with these men, owing to her standing as daughter of the cafe proprietor ; at the same time she could not refuse to touch pitch, although re- maining uncontaminated by it. She had seen 93 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN men at their worst; and Rourke's refreshing honesty of purpose singled him out as a man to be trusted. At least, he did not assault her ears with unpleasant proposals, or irritate her by a show of amorous aggressiveness. That was something in a town where humor and love were mostly seen in their crudest and least agreeable forms ; blunted tastes preferring coarse and cog- nizable flavors to those of a more subtle and deli- cate nature. Jeanne was as yet unaware of the depth of the impression the Irishman had made upon her heart; she knew only that his presence gave her pleasure, and that the day when he did not ap- pear at the cafe seemed longer and more fa- tiguing than usual. Even this partial knowledge made the girl uneasy. Courvois had instructed her to show herself at her best, and to draw Rourke into speaking of his career, antecedent to his arrival in Santola. At first she had ac- cepted these instructions unquestioningly, since they involved nothing more serious than a men- tal effort to keep herself at her highest level. Lately, however, she had begun to feel that her part was an ungrateful one, savoring somewhat of spying, and hardly likely to appeal to an honest and ingenuous nature. So long as she believed her father to be on friendly terms with his customer, the task was not intolerable; but 94 THE LETTER certain expressions let drop by the former, cou- pled with his use of Mitad and the water-seller, made her doubtful whether any friendship ex- isted between the two men. She was speaking the truth when she told Mitad that she knew nothing of her father's affairs. To her, Roquille was but a name, while of the mining claim, and its possibilities, she knew nothing at all. Circumstances combined to make her suspicious of her father's motives, and it occurred to her that it would be unworthy to divulge any confidences Rourke might give to her unless she was perfectly certain that they would not be used to his detriment. Courvois had not allowed for the personal equation, and had made no allowance for this contingency. He had spoken glibly of the influence of love upon a woman's heart, hardly realizing the truth of his own words. Indeed, he praised Jeanne to himself, for of late she had shown unusual ani- mation, and already seemed to be on intimate terms with Rourke. Jeanne was incapable of treachery. Now, when she knew what was expected of her, she asked no more questions. At the same time she was not prepared to warn Rourke of the way the wind was blowing. Such a course would involve her father, and might seem unfilial, if honest. She was perplexed at these new cross- 95 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN currents in her mind. Until now life had been a comparatively simple matter, since the basic problems were solved for her by her position. She had eaten, slept, and lived with a healthy disregard of the problems of existence. Now she had to think for herself, to decide an ethical question, to be loyal to her father and her lover — though she had not yet called Rourke that even to herself. What was the man, the personality, behind Rourke's jovial exterior? That question often presented itself to her. Something told her that he was not altogether a farceur, that beneath a top layer of gayety there must lie a depth of seri- ous and virile thought. That aspect of his na- ture had peeped out sometimes; revealing itself in a look, a grave word, an expression of mo- mentary sadness. How could she be expected to sound the depths of the Celtic temperament, which has puzzled amateur psychologists of all countries? Rourke came into the cafe after he had left the post office, and coming straight across to her, greeted her with his usual gay air. " So there you are, mademoiselle, looking as lovely as ever," he said. He beckoned to a waiter, ordered cofTee, and begged Jeanne's permission to smoke. " It's a busy man I am these days," he went on presently. " It's robbing myself of 96 THE LETTER your society I've been, and sure there's no busi- ness worth it." " No, Monsieur Rourke — " she said, then stopped and smiled confusedly. " Pardon; I did not quite understand what you meant." He bent forward a little, and spoke under his breath: "It sounds stiff like — 'Monsieur.' Couldn't you get up your courage to call me by my name, Jeanne ? " She flushed, and did not meet his eyes. "Monsieur!" " No, Desmond," he said gently. " Monsieur Desmon' then," she ventured. A little light of triumph shone in his eyes. He was wonderfull}^ moved by such a slight con- fession. He lost his customary assurance for a moment, and looked half his years ; ingenuous, glad, and indefinably touched. " Thank you, Jeanne," he said, quite simply. There was an awkward silence. The old Rourke came back quite suddenly. " The business is getting on famously," he said, smiling. " Where's your father, by the way? I lost a letter, and maybe I dropped it here ? " Jeanne looked indifferent once more. " I will fetch him. For myself I have not seen it, your letter." Courvois came out of his office and joined Rourke. Jeanne had not come with him. The 97 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN cafe proprietor held out a letter and offered it to Rourke : " I found this on the floor of the cafe," he said. " There was nothing to indicate the owner, so I kept it in my bureau. Jeanne has just now assured me that monsieur was look- ing for a letter he had lost." Rourke snatched it almost rudely, and, turn- ing it over, began to examine the fastening. Courvois flushed a little, but spoke in a bland voice: "I need hardly assure monsieur that it has not been touched." Rourke looked at him steadily. " I'm sure it hasn't. It's of no consequence, anyway. It was given me to post by someone I know, but I clean forgot about it." Courvois' face showed a trace of amuse- ment. He had seen Rourke's indorsement on the check, and knew that the address was in the same handwriting. Here was proof positive that the claim was genuine, and he almost re- solved to clinch matters at once. Then the caution of his temperament came uppermost. Five thousand pounds was one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs. That was a large sum of money. Before he paid over that sum he must have incontrovertible proofs. The Irishman must soon tire. As time passed and no definite offer for the claim was forthcoming, he would get impatient, and be willing to let the prospec- 98 THE LETTER tive purchaser inspect the claim. It would be better to wait. From this it may be assumed that Courvois had not respected the inviolacy of the envelope. The finding of the letter was a chance in a thousand, and he had not hesitated to make use of it. There was no seal to negotiate, only common gum which yielded to the influence of hot steam, and permitted him to refasten the envelope when he had mastered the contents. Rourke was intending to purchase machinery to work the claim. Then Smith must be out of the affair. There must be something clumsy about the American, for all his reputation. For this Irishman was a very indifferent kind of fool, easily to be turned round a wise man's finger. Rourke's voice broke in upon his train of thought : " Smith's been at me again," he said softly. The name came so pat that Courvois started involuntarily. It almost seemed as if the other had read his thoughts. This gave him a mo- mentarily uncomfortable sensation. " You did not inform me that he had spoken to you of the business, monsieur." " Sure, I thought you'd guessed it." The other shook his head, and turned the subject : " Do you not find this country strange 99 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN after your own country, Ireland?" he inquired in a conversational tone. " Not more than you would think it strange after Paris." Courvois hesitated a moment. " Ah, Paris — but it is not the Paris that used to be. It is now a place of scoundrels and place-hunters, of the bourgeois, and of those incomparable canaille who call themselves republicans." " Sure that's old history," said Rourke, watching him while he sipped his coffee. " That was long after your time — for I don't suppose you call the Napoleon lot royalty, at all. How did you like living among such fellows? " " Me ! I did not like it ; but I have not been in France for a good many years. Not since I came to South America." Courvois answered the question good-hu- moredly. It seemed probable that Roquille had not mentioned Martinique, but that Rourke took him for a Frenchman born. After all, the de- lirium must have been slight. And Roquille had never been a man to talk, which was very for- tunate when all things were considered. It seemed that he must regard the Irishman as an unconscious benefactor. Had he not brought the news of Roquille's death ? Courvois had not strictly adhered to the truth when he led Rourke to infer that he had received a communication lOO THE LETTER from Roquille within the past year or so. As a matter of fact, their last meeting had taken place quite twenty years before, and since that time he had been unable to learn what had become of the fellow. The shadow of Roquille had lain heavy across those twenty years, but now it was lifted, and Courvois rejoiced. " I never saw Paris in my life," said the other, smiling. "What's it like?" ** The most beautiful city in the world, mon- sieur. One cannot imagine such a charming place. Ah, the beautiful buildings, the broad boulevards, the incomparable. C'est une ville de reve. But, ah, my poor Paris! abandoned to the canaille, I assure monsieur. It is enough to make one weep tears of blood." " Well, it's you ought to be glad to be out of it then," said Rourke, surprised to discover genuine emotion in the other's tone. '' I sup- pose you'll never go back." " Never, monsieur. The emotions are not to be controlled. I shall never see France under the ancien regime, and it is not for me to make myself one with the sans-cidottes." " Sure they all wear breeches now," said Rourke. " It's back in the Middle Ages you ought to be, Courvois, your vocabulary's so out- of-date. Never mind me, though, I'm only jok- lOI DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN ing". I've a sneaking kind of respect for royalty m3''self, especially wid their crowns on, when they're togged up in their best." Uncertainty swings a man unwillingly be- tween the opposite poles of hope and disappoint- ment. Influenced by each in turn, he is alter- nately attracted by the one and the other; and cannot come to rest midway in the philosophic attitude of chastened expectation. It is some- thing like the case of the dog with the bone and its reflection; only complicated by the fact that bone and reflection appear exactly alike. This was Courvois' case: At one time he was as sure of the verity of the silver claim as of his own existence; at another he was equally certain that it had no real claim to be considered genuine. How to act under these perplexing circum- stances? If he financed Rourke, he might lose his money; if he did not finance Rourke, he might lose the opportunity of making a fortune. Yet there was always Roquille, whose weight counted only in one side of the balance. Alive, he had been silent, grim, menacing; dead, his silence became an active threat, and the memory of his inflexible resolution was still a menace. Courvois' heart had been lightened by the in- formation he had received. He was assured as a general fact that delirium induced by malaria might be slight; Rourke hinted that, in this par- I02 THE LETTER ticular case, it had been slight. Rourke, again, was under the impression that Courvois had come from Paris, and did not seem to be aware that he had Hved in Martinique. There is no such thing as a simple question, because every question has two meanings, and every man who is asked to judge must take one side while mournfully aware that the one he has chosen may be the incorrect side. Which proves that to be sometimes right you must be often wrong. Rourke perplexed Courvois enormously, be- cause he did not try to make up his mind for him. Tacitly he said : " I put the case before you. It may be true or it may not. Do what you please, but do not blame me if you lose.'* You can conceive his difficulty in the face of such an aggravating statement, and imagine Rourke watching with restrained amusement his restless efforts to decide upon which horn of the dilemma he should impale himself. It is possible to dislike the man who tells you a lie; but inevitable that you should hate a man who will not guarantee to speak the truth. The consistently untruthful person can injure no one ; but the occasional liar is dangerous. All this affair hinged on Rourke's veracity. If that was unimpeachable, then the mine could be worked, and Roquille regarded as a spent force. That was what Courvois said to himself, as he sat at 103 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN the table opposite his companion, and smoked his cigarette: "If " Rourke finished his coffee, and rose: "Well, I must be off. You see, Courvois, I can't afford to waste time over this business. The last look at the place has heartened me a power. I don't think I can leave it undecided much longer, d'ye mind." As he spoke, he knew that what he had said did not represent the real state of his mind. He knew that he had almost screwed Courvois up to the point at which it would be possible to ask him to pay down a lump sum for the claim. His bluff with regard to Smith had worked well. Courvois' cupidity had been aroused first. Then he had been driven to suspect that the Irishman was about to take the matter out of his hands, and open negotiations elsewhere. In effect, he saw a golden opportunity slowly passing out of his grasp, and into the hands of the American speculator. Rourke knew that delay at such moments is often fatal, yet he hesitated to strike. The original situation had been complicated by the introduction of a new factor — Jeanne. Rourke wanted to see her, to speak with her, to enjoy her companionship. Unconsciously, almost in- voluntarily, he had formed a tie which became daily more impossible to break. He now knew 104 THE LETTER that he could count upon Courvois for a regular check; but that state of affairs could not last for ever. Every lingering day would bring doubts into the other's mind. There were the two policies: Strike at once and the business was safely despatched; or delay the stroke and the issue might be in doubt. Where there had been one obsession there were now two. Courvois' was the dead Roquille; Rourke's the living Jeanne. Courvois was looking serious : " Monsieur, is it not possible for you to let me see this claim, to secure some ore from it, and have it as- sayed? " Rourke shook his head : " It's not, I'm afraid." He did not want to hear Courvois; he was afraid that he might make an offer to comply with the imposed conditions. From a common- sense point of view that was preposterous. He had wished to secure the sum of five thousand pounds for the mining rights, and now that lay within his reach. He was wilfully blind to the real motive underlying this procrastinating policy. He would not, as yet, admit to himself that a woman could interfere with his plans, or that his emotions could overmaster his business sense. So he found it necessary to believe that the time was not yet ripe ; and the man who finds 105 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN it a necessity to believe anything, right or wrong, ends by believing it. Courvois saw his hesitation, and considered that it was assumed. The man, in his view, was endeavoring to increase the value of his posses- sion by exhibiting a seeming unwillingness to part with it. What was really an impulse, he misread as an attempt to secure an advantage, and the thought made him the more eager to press the matter. " Do not go yet, monsieur," he said amiably. " We have not yet made any progress. You as- sure me that you will sell the claim for five thou- sand pounds, and I am anxious to deal with you " Rourke started, and made a gesture of an- noyance. " Yes, monsieur, to deal with you. I wish it." Rourke was driven with his back to the wall. " Look here, my brave boy," he said recklessly, ''do you know what you're doing? You're wanting to buy a pig in a poke, that's what you're wanting. Sure you haven't seen the claim even, and I won't promise to show it you either." If Courvois had had Smith's knowledge of mining claims, he might have made the sugges- tion which Smith had knowingly left unmade. So long as Rourke had no legal title to the prop- io6 THE LETTER erty — that is, no other title than that claimed by a prospector — the American would not suggest that the claim should be leased from the Federal Government. But the Frenchman was in a dif- ferent position. He should have insisted on this. Rourke could not object to disclose the locality, once it had been made his own by a legal agree- ment. He took up that attitude because, as he pleaded, an unsecured claim might be seized by anyone fortunate enough to come across it. But Courvois was not a mining expert. The claim had now assumed a glittering shape which hung ever before his eyes, rich in potentialities, and leading to great wealth. Every man is hindered in bargaining by some eccentricity of temperament. It may be that he is too impatient, too circumspect, too en- terprising, or too lethargic. Courvois' fault was that he had economical instincts. He was eager to clinch the matter now, but thought to make more advantageous terms. " Monsieur," he said, with a grandiloquent gesture, " I will give you four thousand pounds ! " Rourke bit his lip; and that action serves to show his changed outlook. A few weeks back he would have jumped at this offer ; now he was annoyed by it. True, his end would be secured, 8 107 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN and his purpose in coming to Santola fuliilled, but It would mean leaving Jeanne. He realized that at once. Until this he had not admitted to himself that she was the preponderating factor; perhaps, because she had only lately grown to be that. Confronted with this knowledge, he was once more driven to mental evasion ; refusing to consider the unreasonableness of his attitude; but jumping readily at the excuse offered to put off the settlement to a more distant date. " I tell you I won't haggle about it ! " he said, with a fair assumption of anger. " Five thou- sand pounds, and not a penny less. The thing goes at that, so you may take it or leave it." He settled himself in his poncho, and took a stride up the cafe. " I'll be in again one day," he added, more amiably. " Patience, and again patience," said Cour- vois under his breath, as he watched the tall fig- ure strolling leisurely from the cafe. " I shall have it for four thousand after all, if that im- becile American does not interfere." At that moment, it occurred to him that since Roquille was dead and Rourke presumably ig- norant of his past life, there would be no further necessity to diminish his bank account for the latter's benefit. So far he had thrown away one hundred pounds without tangible result. In io8 THE LETTER future he would only disburse such amounts as might serve to give him a lien upon the Irish- man. This was one of the economies in which his soul delighted. Rourke, meanwhile, walked out of the town, and reaching a clump of tall grass, drew the letter from his pockets, and tore it into insig- nificant fragments, which he disposed of by scat- tering them among the herbage. This action was not symbolic; it simply meant that the letter had served its purpose, and might now be destroyed. Which was strictly true. CHAPTER VIII LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT HILE George H. Smith made no prog- ress in one branch of inquiry, that regarding the relations of Jean Cour- vois and the late M. Roquille, he was more suc- cessful in the other. Sefior Mitad had scored, as have so many successful commanders, by going outside the strict limit of his instructions. He was lazy by nature, and contemplated the prospect of an extended search with feelings of unmingled annoyance, so, instead of following the curve mapped out for him by his partner, he rode directly west from Santola, and happened to call in at a pulpcria in the village of Rojas, which is situated some fifty miles distant from Copar. Smith received the news from him by letter; with the further information that he had suc- ceeded in discovering the man who had sold the skewbald mare. From this individual, he learned that the animal had been purchased by Sefior Seguien, of Copar. He went to that place as no LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT fast as horseflesh could carry him, interviewed Seguien, and had no difficulty in identifying Rourke as the ultimate purchaser of the mare. Then came a check. Seguien informed him that the stranger had ridden in from the direction of Santola, but where he had come from previous to that he was unable to say. Meager as it might be, this information formed conclusive evidence that Rourke's find lay to this side of Santola, and not, as he had wished them to believe, to the east. Further, the claim must be situated on the mountains, as the lower lying land, and the plains were not metal- liferous. Mitad praised Smith's foresight, and already felt that wealth lay within his grasp. From his letter it appeared that he had ques- tioned Seguien with regard to transport facili- ties across the sierra, and discovered that only three passes traversed it; one ''Mule's Pass," another " The Pass of the Three Rocks," a third " The Pass of the Dog." The first two were commonly used by the arrieros for their mule trains; the third was disused on account of a superstition which was current locally. The su- perstitious mestizo evidently shared the natives' fears, and announced that only the two first passes need be searched, since it was impossible that any sane man should live near the haunt of an apparition. Ill DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN At the moment of writing, he was about to set out on this quest, and hoped to have good news soon. Smith laughed consumedly over the haunted pass. These half-breeds were afraid of their own shadows, he told himself. The proper place to look for traces of Rourke was the very place where the natives were least likely to venture. This " Pass of the Dog " promised well ; indeed the claim itself might lie in or about it. Impatient as he was of all prepossessions which seemed efifete or not sufficiently modern, he knew something of the mestizo temperament, and was well aware that he need not expect Mitad to assist him in this particular. The lat- ter may have been a fire-eater, fond of brag- gadocio and boasting, but he had undoubted courage, using the word in its ordinary sense. Superstition, however, grows in the bones, and cannot be devitalized by appeals to pure reason. Mitad would face a man, but he would not face a possible phantom, be it man or beast. In laying his plans Smith had to make allow- ance for his partner's weak points. If the latter was unsuccessful in his quest, the American him- self must take it up. When that time came he would ride to Copar, and from that point ascend to the pass which had such a sinister reputation. There he would find the claim, reconnoiter the 112 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT ground, and gather sufficient details to enable him to approach the Federal Government with a proposal to lease or purchase. oMitad lacked the plotting mind. He wanted information and got it, but forgot to warn Seguien that no mention should be made of his inquiries regarding the skewbald and its rider. So Leon heard of it, when he next came down the mountain, and promptly warned Rourke that he had been traced to Copar. Rourke was an- noyed, but hopeful. He wrote back a letter of instructions, then cast about to discover the name of the man who had followed the backward track. Courvois had not left Santola ; Smith was still to be seen riding every morning in the Ala- meda, and the water-seller was constantly under observation. There remained Sefior Mitad, who had not appeared in the Cafe Fleur de Lys for a considerable time. A visit to the hacienda assured him that the master was away. Who had sent him? It was hardly likely that the duty had been self-in- spired. Courvois seemed the more likely prin- cipal; though Smith was more enterprising. In any case, Leon must see to it that the secret was kept. At once the thought had struck him that he should start at the first possible moment for Copar; then he remembered Jeanne. She had been kind to him of late; their intimacy was 113 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN growing; her eyes welcomed him when he en- tered the cafe. Unconsciously he cast about for an excuse. One was ready to hand. He could not leave Santola without being observed, pos- sibly followed. Even if he was able to reach Copar, he must inevitably fall foul of Mitad. He had no doubt as to the outcome of that meet- ing. If they clashed, one of them would go out. He did not like violence, and had no wish to take life. That being so, it were best to stay in the town, and leave the business to Leon. The let- ter to the mulatto was the result of that decision. His impatience increased as the days passed. What was happening over there to the west? Still his intimacy with Jeanne increased, and he was unremitting in his visits to the cafe. Cour- vois kept well in the background now, either be- cause that was a part of his new policy, or be- cause the idea with which Smith had credited him had lately found a lodgment in his brain. The girl had played her part well — that was his idea — and even in the event of the fortunate pros- pector taking it into his head to work the claim himself, Jeanne might net him in the securest alliance, and provide her father with a legitimate claim to share in the profits of the enterprise. The Frenchman was out one morning, when Rourke strolled into the cafe and swept oflf his 114 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT sombrero in a parody of the effusive outward politeness so common in Latin countries. " Jeanne, where's your father to-day ? My heart just jumped wid joy when I came across the plaza, for bedad, I thought I saw him leaving in search of a stroll." Jeanne accepted the implied compliment with a faint blush and a smile. " Mon pere walks this morning, Monsieur Desmon','' she said lightly. " He has got another attack of Royalism since he has read of the Republican plots out there in Spain. Ah, what an obsession that is! For a king who has been dead a thousand years per- haps." Rourke shook a grave finger at her. " Your bump of history's as fiat as can well be. The man's not so out-of-date as all that. However, your father's gone out, and he may stay out for me." " Monsieur might be his deadliest enemy." " His deadliest friend, you mean. It's my father-in-law he ought to be, rightly speaking. Now, don't try not to blush, for the color be- comes you. Indeed, you're looking sweet this morning, and touch the heart of me entirely." Jeanne was used to his flattery by now, and received this open compliment with an arching of the eyebrows. " Is monsieur ever serious? " she questioned. 115 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Is it serious you say ! Oh, faith ! Jeanne, it's too serious I am, and only cover my aching heart with a smihng face. I had a serious mo- ment coming over here, indeed." " Truly — and the cause? " " I thought your father was coming back," he said, sitting down, and lighting a cigarette. " But, joking apart, I have a big problem I'd like to be having your advice on." The girl looked at him, intent to discover if this were jest or earnest. '' I, to settle a prob- lem ! " " You'll let me have your advice, anyway ? " '' Such as it may be — ^yes." He still smiled up at her, but spoke gravely. " Supposing you were a man, Jeanne " " I cannot imagine it." " Be easy ! It's a hypothesis, as they call it. Supposing you were a man, mightn't you love a woman? " The color came quickly to her face, but she answered him quietly enough, " It seems pos- sible." " Well, and if you did, wouldn't you guard her against all sorts of things? Of course you would. Then, still supposing, another man comes along and injures that woman, wouldn't you — what's the French for ' beat ' ? " ''Battrer ii6 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT " Batter ! Well, that's a good Irish word, too, but I didn't mean it quite so strong. I mean wouldn't you try to take your revenge? " " If I were a man ? " she asked, knitting her brows. " That's it." " Monsieur, I think I should kill him," she said. He moved restlessly in his chair, and drew down his brows in thought. The hum of voices came to him from the street, the faint tinkle of a glass set down by a waiter at a distant table. He kept his eyes away from Jeanne. " What a bloodthirsty creature you are," he said, gravity still lingering in his tone. " Well, we won't discuss killing. But you think in those circumstances a man would be justified in going pretty far? " " I would kill him, I think," she repeated. She was frankly puzzled by this problem. For a moment the idea came to her that this man referred to was her father. But, then, he and Rourke were not of an age, and it was unlikely that they could have loved the same woman. She had detected the undercurrent of dislike beneath the seeming smoothness of the men's relations, without being able to account for it. Still, grant- ing that this problem was no hypothetical one, it was much more likely that Rourke referred to 117 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Mitad. True, Mitad had done her no harm, but that might be the Irishman's way of anticipating events. Mitad was jealous, and jealous men are like insane men, apt to turn upon those they love best. If he meant Mitad — her heart jumped at the thought. The inference from that was ob- vious. Did Rourke love her? A month ago the thought might have startled her ; now it was not distasteful, or astonishing. Her quick mind con- jured up possibilities, pleasures, romantic day dreams. He was handsome, this Rourke, mas- terful, courteous, gay, a man to depend on. She scanned his face with new curiosity, wondering how it would look when pleading and impas- sioned. The eyes were warm, the mouth firm, but tender and humorous. She wished she could penetrate beneath that mask of careless amuse- ment. For a moment she was a little embar- rassed, feeling as if he had spoken directly to her. But his eyes met hers quite steadily, and he did not seem conscious of her embarrassment. " I didn't quite mean that," he explained. " I wasn't really wanting to know what one would do in a case of the kind, but what he might be morally justified in doing — see ? " "Quelle idee!" said Jeanne, raising her brows. " I should not wait to think of that — me. No, I should follow my impulse." ii8 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT At last he looked serious, and the girl studied him closely, anxious to discover what had caused this sudden change of front. He rolled a fresh cigarette, lighted it, and smoked for a few min- utes without speaking. Jeanne arranged some things on a shelf to bridge the period of silence, and wondered what he was going to say. " I might be going away, Jeanne, one of these days," he observed at length. ''But you wJl come back — no?" she said, more eagerly than she knew. He looked up at her, and there was some- thing in his eyes which made her catch her breath, and look away quickly. Was he going to speak? Oh, but she was not prepared; she would have liked to think it over. " I might, and I might not," he said doubt- fully. " There's things happen, Jeanne — " He stopped momentarily, then went on : " Will you be sorry if I have to go? " " Oh, Monsieur Desmon' ! " She put out her hand, but drew it back confusedly. " Monsieur has been very kind, very amiable. I shall be sorry if monsieur has to go." He did not press his advantage, but seemed to ponder. Her eyes told more than her phrase, and he realized that she knew it. " I'm thinking that the best of me's not good enough for the 119 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN poorest of you, Jeanne," he said, in an absent way. '* The decentest of us make our mistakes, and do devil a little to repair them. There's times when I wonder if the best you do pays for the worst you've done, the bad you may be doing. But that's neither here nor there. If I go, I'd like to think that some one — you, maybe, or an- other, might be saying to yourself now and then that Desmond Rourke wasn't such a bad fellow, by the little light he had." Jeanne understood him now, and her heart beat faster. He was asking a good deal, but not more than she was prepared to grant. The neces- sity for concealment had passed, and she was surprised to find how little the weight and in- tensity of her emotions embarrassed her. The advance of their intimacy had been gradual but sure. She knew the steps each had taken, and that they were taken consciously. She loved this man, she understood him, and he understood her at last. A passionate joy filled her heart, and beat strongly in her pulses. Yet it did not move her outwardly. Her face was quite calm, even indifferent; pale and untroubled. " I shall always believe in monsieur," she said softly. " Yes, always." He smiled a little, and that smile lighted up his eyes in a wonderful way. '' Thank you," he 1 20 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT said, '' it's good to hear that. As for the other thing, well, I ought to go, and don't want to go, and that's the end of it." "You talk of duty?" " That's about the size of it." " But yes, and I also ought to talk of it, but I cannot. Is it not so in the contes, the romansf There is always the good married soldier, and the so impossibly good wife who urges her husband to the war. Vive la Gloirc! Vive la Guerre! Ah, it is a good cry, but it is nonsense all the same. Would you love a wife who would send you to your duty? " " Faith ! I wouldn't, Jeanne dear, but only one who would want me more than glory. I should go all the same." Her eyes shone. " But, of course. So in the present instance. Monsieur Desmon', I would say do not go ; stay here. I want you." Rourke looked about him, then put out his hand. Jeanne's slipped into it, and pressed it for a moment. He dropped it again, and an obsti- nate look came to his eyes. " Tm all for excuses now. The soldier's got something to fight for, or defend; I'm not sure that I have anything to de- fend — yet." " I hope not," she said quite frankly. " But if I do go any time ? " She flushed at last, and her eyes sparkled. 121 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN *' Then I shall be here. I shall wait. For a long time I shall wait." "Para sicmpre?" he asked. " Yes, forever, if it must be." Rourke began to laugh. The seriousness vanished from his face. She laughed, too, out of pure enjoyment. Some men at a table in the cafe turned to look at them, and winked to one an- other. " Yet a man might have imagined that she was ice," one murmured. " Now stand still for a moment or two, Jeanne," Rourke was saying. " Three-quarter face — so." He took a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket, and began to draw a woman's face. When it was finished, he handed it to her. She smiled. ''Quelle caricature! " she cried, under her breath, " you draw very well, but it it is not me. Perhaps there is a trace — a resem- blance. The eyes, the mouth — but I do not look so old as that." He seemed triumphant. " It's only a sketch, and not intended to be true. I was just wonder- ing if you would look like that in twenty years' time." Jeanne dropped her eyes. " It is possible," she said, studying the drawing more attentively. *' You anticipate well." " How long have you been in Santola? " he 122 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT asked, picking up the sketch, and putting it in his pocket. " Oh, a long time, since I had seven years, I think," she answered, perplexed at this change of subject. " And before that, do you remember ? " " Ah, I was so young ; but, sometimes, I think I saw black people — yes, very black. It frightens me even now, though I do not know why. It may be only a dream." His eyes fixed her. " Probably — and what of Madame Courvois, your mother? You remem- ber her?" Jeanne knitted her brows. " No, I think not, but yes — something. It passes. Monsieur Des- mon'. She must have died when I was very young." Rourke nodded. He was immensely inter- ested in something, and puzzled, too. It was as if he tried to reconcile conflicting evidence to fit the pieces in some mental patchwork. Then he put the question aside, and left it for later consid- eration. His glance surveyed the cafe. " Faith, Jeanne, those fellows over there are in the way." She smiled. " I almost agree with monsieur," she said softly. She half expected that he would wish to talk over their affair, perhaps to put it on a firm basis. After all, love involved marriage, and in the mat- 9 123 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN rimonial equation Marriage = Love -|- Means. Jeanne was not mercenary ; but her common sense told her that two normal beings cannot live upon passion alone. Courvois would give her a dot, but there were other things to be settled. Had Rourke a home to which he could take her at a future date? What were they to live upon? Rourke did not enlighten her. He seemed content to know that she loved him, or, perhaps, he left the matter open because means were not yet forthcoming. The thought only troubled Jeanne for a passing moment, but was forced out of her mind by the thought of her present happi- ness. That was undoubted. She belonged to Rourke now, and he belonged to her ; their inter- ests had been fused, their thoughts had a common center. She felt deeply stirred, and the impulses, the instincts so long repressed, poured forth in full flood, stronger possibly from the very fact of their former repression. Sefior Mitad, suitor and jealous man, im- pinged upon her thoughts. He would not take this lightly; behind his threats there was an active reality which might prove dangerous to the man she loved. In Santola you do not hesi- tate to shoot, unless you feel that you may be worsted in the encounter. In that case, you pro- ceed cautiously. If you cannot attack your enemy safely in the open, well — there are trees, 124 LOOPHOLES OF RETREAT houses. In passing, the fellow impudently pre- sents his back, and you very properly resent the insult. The result is the same. Jeanne thought of this, and shivered. " Monsieur Desmon','' she said softly, " you will be careful for my sake. There is that Mitad." He smiled wisely. " I don't want to kill Mitad," he said pleasantly. " I won't do it if I can help it. If he's wise, he'll keep away from me. But he's away from his hacienda just at present." "Away? Where has he gone?" " Your father may have sent him on an er- rand." " I do not think so. He has not been here for some time." Rourke rose leisurely. " Then I'm thinking it's Smith," he said thoughtfully. ** Yes, George H. Smith." CHAPTER IX SMITH DECIDES IT was essential to the success of the plan concerted by Smith, and the haciendero, Jose Mitad, that neither should appear to have any connection with the other. Mitad ob- served this precaution when, on returning to Santola, he visited Smith's house under cover of darkness. He found the speculator sitting in a rocker, smoking a green cigar, and scanning the columns of the New York World. A decanter of brandy stood beside him on a little table, flanked by two glasses, and a tumbler of toast water. He swung gently backward and forward, one foot pushing at the carpet, the other resting on his knee. " Sefior,'' said Mitad, with a gesture which would have been magnificent if it had not been a trifle theatrical, " seiior, I return." Smith looked at him over the top of the paper. " Well, I guess you must have," he said dryly. Mitad placed his hat on the table, and folded 126 I SMITH DECIDES his arms. " I went out with the energy of a man who sees before him unHmited wealth, I prose- cuted my inquiries with great tact and discretion, but, alas! I return without having effected my purpose." Smith grinned. " What's the matter with you, anyway? " he asked very slowly. " Whose funeral do you think this is? You sit down, sonny, and tell your uncle what you've done. It's a pity to waste that energy of yours in playing the goat. Your mouth's dry, that's what ! Take something to suit your complaint." Mitad poured some brandy into a glass, gulped it down, and wiped his mustache. Then he sat down, looking rather subdued. " I suppose it is not necessary to repeat what I told you in my letters ? " " Not a bit. Go ahead with the rest of the yarn." " Well, sefior, when I had discovered the three passes, I decided to make a thorough search," Smith rocked quickly. " A thorough search of the two passes," he corrected. '' As you say — of the two passes, for the other cannot be the home of man or beast " " Push ahead, and we'll take up that point afterwards." '' But, senor " 127 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Oh ! Go on, you make me feel tired." " There is this phantom dog " Smith sat up, and dropped his paper. " Quit ! That's all out of your letters. I don't want to hear it." Mitad came of a race which is emotional rather than practical, and prefers rhetoric and florid phrasing to mere statements of fact. Smith irritated him, by the familiarity of his talk, and its implied superiority. But the bond between them prevented him from expressing re- sentment. He flushed at being so summarily treated, but went on as quietly as he could. " As the sefior wishes, we will not discuss that. However, there were the two passes be- fore me, and I lost no time in setting to work. I searched both thoroughly for traces of this claim, first riding along the track, then returning slowly and carefully examining the land to either side. I found nothing. There was no trace of a claim staked out, nor a house or hut in which the man Rourke could live. Further, many mule trains frequent these passes, and it was the im- pression of the muleteers that no human being could live there without being observed." " That's right. You questioned the mule- teers?" '' I did, sefior, and they all agreed that the man did not live there." 128 SMITH DECIDES " Now, you're talking sense," said Smith, sipping toast water, and selecting another cigar. '' I thought you would sure come to that point in time. George H. Smith is no slouch. He doesn't waste his precious time fooling round empty nests. No, sir, he hit that point some time back, and froze on to it." Mitad had a fair working knowledge of Eng- lish, having lived for some time in Buenos Ayres, where he had come in contact with men of many nations. He was puzzled by Smith's slang, but smiled patiently, as he returned: " You speak of the vacancy of those two passes, sefior. Well, it is so. My time has been wasted in the search for this claim — if indeed there is a claim." " Don't say wasted ! " said Smith quizzical- ly. " A smart man like you doesn't waste his time. Why, sir, as it seems to me, you've got the very information I wanted." Mitad sat up, eying him queerly. The Amer- ican motioned him to fill his glass. " The very information ? Did you think, then, that the man could not have lived on either of the passes? " " I knew it. See here, sonny, just change the gear of that brain-box of yours ; put it on fourth speed, and listen to me. This fellow Rourke is no fool. He wouldn't set up on a pass where a lot of giddy muleteers would be mouching 129 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN around. How long d'ye think he could keep the thing secret that way? No, sir, Rourke has set up on the one place where this pious nation wouldn't put a foot, because of some poppycock relating to a dog. See ! " Mitad's face showed some slight resentment. '* I am not an ignorant peasant, seiior, and I am assured that the story is true. All you Ameri- canos do not believe in spirits, and yet worship spirits. That to me is foolish. If spirits go out of bodies, why may they not go out upon the mountains? This dog has been seen, sefior, it has been heard to howl along the mountains " " In the daytime ? " " Donde no,'' Mitad objected. " At night it prowls." " Then they'd have pretty considerable diffi- culty in seeing it. Well, let's stow this phantom where he belongs. I reckon you can bring a pint of holy water with you, so's to exorcise it, eh ? " '' Do you suggest that I should cross this pass ? " Mitad crossed himself. " I would not cross it for a sack of gold. It is ill work play- ing with the devil." Smith yawned, and cut the end of the cigar, which he had been holding between his fingers. He rocked more rapidly, which was his habit when irritated or excited. Mitad put him out of all patience, with his superstitious fears. It cost 130 SMITH DECIDES him an effort to refrain from telling the mestizo what he thought of his intelligence. But he was used to dealing with blunt tools, and never threw them aside until he had assured himself that they were absolutely useless for his purpose. He knew, too, that the discarded tool may lie in wait for the unwary foot. He humored Mitad by as- suming an expression of gravity. " Well, I don't say such things aren't possi- ble," he said smoothly. " All I do say is that I don't believe in 'em. If you think this dog does walk the airth you've no call to tread on his tail. I reckon this'd better be my funeral. You say this is one of the three passes crossing the moun- tains over to Copar, and that it's called ^ The Pass of the Dog.' Is that right?" " Si, senor, it is correct." ** So if I went from here to Copar, and struck the trail leading to this pass, I might get there in eight or nine days." " Less. It would take six days with a good horse." " Well, that's fixed up. I am sure Rourke's claim is located way up on this pass, and hasn't been discovered by any of the natives owing to this yer dog. Now, I'm not readily skeered by dogs, whether they're furred, feathered, or phan- tom. I simply don't allow that dogs count a cent. That being so, I'll just tote myself to Copar, stay 131 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN overnight there, and start in the next morning exploring this kennel you talk of. You bet I shan't see the animal for dust, when my Smith & Wesson gets going. I always reckoned that bullets was fine medicine for canines." Mitad looked blank amazement. " You will face this monster! You will go upon the pass, sefior ? Ah, you will never return. I beg of you to consider the danger." Smith lit his cigar and sipped toast and water between puffs. He was telling himself that, of all the ignorant and unpractical idiots in this un- practical place, Mitad was the worst. The fellow did not lack courage, and might have helped his case by proving that the mountains were infested by desperadoes; but to hear a man, who would take his part in a fight, talking of, or refusing to face, an imaginary dog, was too ridiculous. " I am indeed that particular brand of hero," he said half mockingly. " I alone will encounter this formidable, fire-breathing, furry son-of-a- gun, and bring home his pelt for a hearth-rug. That's me, every time. I'm the kind of foo! who rushes in where you sooty young angels fear to tread." " You are unwise," said Mitad stifiiy. " Always was, and made money out of it. Well, that lets you out in any case, and all you've got to do is to stay home, and keep your mouth 132 SMITH DECIDES shut. Rourke must not get wind of it, whatever happens. If he should happen to meet you, tell him I've gone off for a holiday. What I want you to do this moment is to make me a rough plan showing where this place lies from Copar, so's I needn't make talk inquiring of the Seiior Seguien, of the pulperia where you put up. Here's a pencil. Just show it roughly." Mitad was not a skilled draughtsman, but he took the pencil, opened a note-book Smith handed to him, and after some deliberation, was able to indicate generally the position of the mountains, and the passes traversing them. It had just oc- curred to him that Rourke was also a foreigner, and had perhaps as little regard for apparitions as the American. In that event, it was quite possible that he might have taken up his residence within the confines of the haunted pass. He could see the argument advanced by Smith, and could appreciate its logic, though he did not pro- fess himself willing to brave a phantom. The speculator's proposal jumped with his own inclinations, and might have a definite result. So long as he was not asked to accompany the explorer, he was quite willing to profit by the exploration. While evading the responsibility he would share in the venture. That was certain; since Smith had explained his plan of campaign, and could not discard his fellow-conspirator with 133 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN impunity. His confidence was in the nature of a hostage given to fortune. The bond of mutual interest alone kept them together, for Mitad's contempt for the pushing and practical American was only equalled by Smith's contempt for one whom he considered a dreamy and inconsequent fool. He handed over the note-book, smiling deprecatingly. " It is not good, but it may serve. Here to the right the trail begins, and winds up through very rugged and rocky ground over the lower foothills until it comes to the base of two larger mountains. Then it turns to the left, and ascends between, I think, though I did not approach near enough to be certain. I should say that from Copar to the divide must be at least two days' travel." "So much as that?" Smith asked, sticking out his legs, and contemplating the toes of his slippers absent-mindedly. " But yes, quite. So if you wish to go there, you must provide yourself with food and water. Naturally, I was unable to ascertain if there were any springs up there." Smith agreed. "What about getting there? Would I need a horse ? " " It might not keep its feet. A mule would be safer." " That's so, if the place is considerable rocky 134 I SMITH DECIDES It strikes me it would be best to get a cheap mule, ride him half way up, and turn him loose. I could get the rest of the way afoot, and keep better out of sight if that galoot happened to get on my track. Or I might take a mule from here, beside my horse, and quarter the horse some- where near Copar. But that needn't worry you any. I can make my own arrangements slick enough. One thing I'm plumb sure of, and that is the claim. I'll find it in that pass, or I'm a Dago — I mean a Dutchman." Mitad was not so certain of this point, but fervently hoped that it might be so. At all events, Smith's attitude was calculated to inspire him with new confidence in the ultimate success of their venture. He looked pleased, and con- gratulated his partner in flowing phrases which were at least half sincere. " We lack in this thing as a nation," he ended, generously. " The planning head is not to us. We can lead men, act, carry out, but you Ameri- cans can organize and arrange. My greatest compliments to you, seiior," Smith looked longingly at his paper. The man talked for talk's sake, a thing which bored him excessively, unless such waste of time served some secret purpose. To one of his compatriots he would have said, "Git, and come again!" but, in Santola, business is not transacted so dis- 135 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN courteously. Every transaction must be wrapped up in words, sweet phrases, honeyed compli- ments. " Thank you, Senor Mitad," he said. " I ap- preciate your compliment, though not deserving it. It is in reality your help which has been in- valuable. Your suggestion that I myself should search this pass is particularly well-timed." '' Oh, it is nothing," said Mitad, smiling, quite willing to believe that he was the inspirer of the idea. " Still, if you wish it, seiior, I my- self will go." " It is not necessary. I need a holiday, and shall be glad of the opportunity to take one. A thousand thanks, nevertheless." Smith spoke in Spanish now, the language of elaborate nothings, the tongue in which one can say less in more words than in any other. " Then that's fixed up," he added, relapsing into his own vernacular. '' You can leave the thing alone for a bit, and see to the work at your hacienda. It's about time I toddled off to roost, anyway." " Good," said Mitad, rising from his chair, and taking up his hat. '' I am satisfied. Buenas noches, sefior ; may your sleep be guarded by all the saints and angels of heaven ! " " It will, sonny, it will." Smith shook hands perfunctorily, and stifled a yawn. " And I shall 136 SMITH DECIDES be off first thing in the morning. You needn't do anything till you hear from me." Mitad put on his hat and went out. Coming to the street, he peered into the darkness up and down, saw no one on the watch, and walked quickly toward the plaza. He had at first in- tended to ride home, but decided to call in at the Cafe Fleur de Lys, have a drink, and see Jeanne. Jealousy still stirred in him, though business forbade any outward ebullition. He had heard of Rourke's frequent visits to the cafe, but unlimited wealth was the prelude to unlimited love, and he was not yet sure that his own physi- cal attractions could be laid aside as an unessen- tial factor in the contest. He did not admire this gringo, and hardly imagined that the fellow could impose upon Jeanne. He halted presently in the splash of light thrown upon the pavement from the pendant electrolier above the cafe entrance, and tugged irritably at his mustache. Suppose the Irishman were with Jeanne, what should be his course? He could not shoulder his rival away, without provoking an assault, and the time was not ripe for that. He must restrain himself, consort with old Courvois, if he could not isolate Jeanne. At least, he and Smith would laugh last. When the claim was theirs, and in full working order, Rourke would feel that he had paid dearly for his 137. DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN pleasure. With this thought jogging his mind triumphantly, he turned into the door of the cafe, and threaded his way between the tables, to where Jeanne stood. Naturally, she was talking to Rourke. The man lived in the place almost. It was very irri- tating. Jeanne was smiling, too, smiling and talking interestedly. She looked different to Mitad's eyes. The change in her was so patent, that he paused for a moment, and stood in the shelter of a pillar to study her. Formerly, im- passivity had been the characteristic of her face; a lack of animation, of expression. She had ap- peared to bear life rather than live it, as if she had passed through successive preceding exist- ences, and found nothing to wonder at, or ad- mire, in this. She had smiled occasionally even then, but woodenly, with a mere mechanical draw- ing back of the lips to express complaisant amuse- ment expected by paying customers. It had been impossible to believe that she was ever amused or stirred by the humor or the pathos of life. What had happened to her? Mitad v/as at sea amid psychological possibilities, unable to give a name to the new factors which had en- tered into the case; unwilling to attribute the change to a definite if unpleasant cause. She looked at Rourke, as she had never looked at him. Her face was lighted up from within: the shad- 138 SMITH DECIDES ows of her moods flitted across her face, were mirrored in her eyes, and expressed themselves in graphic shape upon her Hps. Obviously, she gave attention to what her companion was say- ing, hanging upon his words with what seemed to Mitad almost painful intentness. Her laugh even was disconcerting, newly full of gayety and abandon. Courvois came out from his office, and shot a sharp glance at her. Then his gaze wandered over the cafe, and fell upon the man who stood, scowling, under the pillar. His lips pictured a forcible expression, were drawn tight over his teeth. He made a movement forward, but stopped, and after a moment's thought, returned silently to his office. Mitad did not see him, so intent was he in his study of the couple opposite. Jeanne looked up and observed her former lover. She drew Rourke's attention to him, and the Irishman wheeled slowly. " Oh, I am afraid. Monsieur Desmon' ! " she said, under her breath. Rourke smiled quietly. " Is it his mustache frightens you?" he said softly. "Sure, it's savage looking enough." Mitad moved toward them, his scowl fading. He would not quarrel with this rival just yet. " I tell you what," Rourke observed, bending nearer to Jeanne, '* this is only the jackal — the 10 139 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN lion's nearer home. I'll bet you twenty francs to a stirrup-iron that George H. Smith leaves town to-morrow." " Good evening, mademoiselle." Mitad gave the greeting in an amiable tone. " It is so long since I have seen you. Naturally, I have been unhappy. Does not darkness fall when the sun has been withdrawn from the sky? " " Unless there's a moon, sefior," said Rourke, laughing. " Ah, you are the Sehor Rourke. I have been wishing to meet you for a long time. It is the greatest pleasure in the world to me, I assure the sefior." " Your pleasure is to mine as the lake to a sea," Rourke replied in fluent Spanish, and bowed slightly. " Is there anyone within ten leagues of Santola who does not know the brave and accom- plished haciendero, Sefior Mitad? Assuredly no one. The honor of the sefior's acquaintance per- fectly completes my happiness." *' Sefior, you speak too kindly. Praise from your honor's mouth would make the saints glad. If there is any way in which I can serve you, it is done. My establishment is at your disposition. Say the word, and it is yours." Rourke bowed again, still keeping his smile. " A thousand thanks, but I could not accept of it. Now, I beg the sefior's permission to withdraw, 140 SMITH DECIDES knowing that his amiabihty will find pardon for my detestable rudeness. Good night, senor, and every good fortune." Mitad bowed ceremoniously, showing his ex- cellent teeth in a smile. " To you, senor, good night. The angels guard you." Rourke turned away, after bowing to Jeanne, walked the length of the cafe, and disappeared. Mitad tugged at his mustache, and shot a moody glance at his retiring figure. " Curse the fellow ! " he said sulkily. " What he is doing here no one can tell." " Monsieur," said Jeanne gravely, " you are execrably rude." CHAPTER X THE SHADOW MITH left Santola before sunrise on the following morning, and was far out across the bare plain, when the first light streamed across the backward horizon, to lie in a wide swathe of orange upon the sea of grass. He had abandoned the idea of procuring a mule in the town, and rode a mouse-colored mare which he had imported some twelve months be- fore; an animal which preferred a hand gallop to any other pace, and could keep it up most of the day, without being unduly distressed. He was properly provisioned for a journey, with saddle- bags, and a water-skin ; and carried a large cali- ber Smith & Wesson in his jacket pocket, to " keep out the cold," as he humorously assured himself. That night he put up with a haciendcro some fifty miles out of Santola, and, continuing his way in the early dawn, reached another distant village before the night again fell. As he ap- proached daily nearer Copar he heard faint 142 THE SHADOW echoes of Mitad's story with regard to the pass. They talked of it in the haciendas, as entertain- ment for the stranger. To them it was quite true and indubitable, though none of them had seen the locale of this superstition. But each had met some one who had heard the howhng of the dog upon the pass, or had friends who knew some one who had seen it. From the prosperous and shrewd owner of an estancia to the meanest peon, all gave ready acceptance to the story. Smith was contemptuous at first, and disposed to irri- tation when he heard some one tell him of it for the twentieth time. He did not believe in spirits, or apparitions, nor in psychic manifestations. Later, he became vaguely disturbed. Surely all these people would not invent this tale to frighten strangers ? The pass, too, was the short- est way across the mountains. Yet no muleteer would cross it, going round by a much longer way in order to avoid it. There must be some basis for this talk, some atom of reality beneath the mass of conjecture and idle gossip. Smith's feeling was something just short of uneasiness, a tendency to dwell on the idea, a desire to argue it out with himself, and finally disprove it. As the feeling gained ground, he became more eager to go on, thinking, with some truth, that the mo- ment you turn your shoulder to your enemies, the retreat has begun. At this time the thought H3 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN of the pistol in his pocket began to be an extra comfort to him. On the fifth day he was about thirty miles north of Copar, having made up his mind to skirt that place, and sleep in any available shelter that offered itself. The sun sank behind the mountains without disclosing the proximity of a farmhouse, and he was compelled to blunder on in the darkness, in a rather anxious frame of mind, until after midnight. Then, at last, he stumbled across a vaquero's watch hut, and man- aged to make up a bed with his poncho and some rough grass. His final stop before he ventured on the moun- tain trail was at a tiny huddle of ramshackle houses, pretentiously known as Simon del Pilar, which lay in a hollow of the plain under the loom of the foothills. Here he found shelter with a muleteer, and heard once more the story of the dog. But this time the story was more practical. The muleteer himself had seen it, on a dark night, and had felt it brush against him in pass- ing. Smith assured him that he must have en- countered a leon, but the man negatived the sug- gestion with derisive laughter. He had seen leones, even shot them, but this beast was quite different. It was monstrous ; long, lean, but silent of foot : its howl was like the laughter of fiends. He crossed himself as he spoke, and ex- 144 THE SHADOW hibited real uneasiness during his own recital of what had befallen him. More, two days after his encounter, his second child had sickened and died of some unknown disease. He himself was surprised to have escaped alive. Smith laughed the idea to scorn, but dreamed of it that night, and woke with a headache; which did not conduce to amiability, when cou- pled with the fact that he was unable to procure a mule from his host. The latter had a full team, no more, owing to an accident which had befallen his spare mule on the last journey across the mountains. He regretted the fact that he was unable to assist the senor. Smith was annoyed, but undaunted. If he could not ride to the pass, he would go on foot, and promptly improvised a knapsack to sling over his shoulders. The muleteer shook his head over the affair. He counseled his guest to put the idea out of his mind, remarking gravely that a brave man was always the most cautious. Finding his objections futile, he shrugged, and begged the senor to accept a little charm which might help him to combat the powers of evil. Smith took it, with a polite smile, and bade farewell to his host and family, leaving a little present for the woman, and a gold coin for the arriero. He was on the move with the first gray light of day, and striking due westward, set his H5 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN face toward the ascent. The sun threw a wide arc of Hght upon the serrated horizon, above the highest snow-capped peaks of the distant range, until every pinnacle shone like molten silver ; the mists fled across the plain like wraiths in disor- derly array with the first cockcrow. The lonely spaces of the foothills were monstrously silent, without cr}^ of beast or bird, seeming even to the practical American a fitting setting for that persistent superstition which had lately begun to obsess his thoughts. To dissipate this unpleas- ant feeling, he lighted a cigar, and hummed a rag-time melody with monotonous iteration. As a feeble light makes darkness visible, this lilt seemed to accentuate the silence, to be repulsed, threadlike, by the defiant dumbness of the moun- tains. He stopped humming presently, and went on upward. The sun had swung high, and the heat of the day increased; the garish colors of the sunrise had given place to a uniform, brazen blue, save where dark and heavy clouds were massing slow- ly about the peak of Apotica. The heat added to the difficulty of the ascent, which now lay more steeply before him. Simon del Pilar lay hidden from sight by the intervening foothills; he was in a wilderness of stones. At midday, he sat down, and opening his knapsack, made a hurried meal, took a drink 146 THE SHADOW from his flask, and began to climb anew. The evening drew on, and he was forced to look about him for a shelter among the rocks, where he might sleep during the hours of darkness. He found one readily enough, a cuplike depression under the lee of a little cliff, and improvised a bed. Sleep deserted him for many hours. Once he started to his elbow, and listened. It seemed to him that a shrill wail had floated down from the higher ground. It was not repeated. The silence was profound, measureless, the blackness of the night folded about him like a cloak. The next day he had entered upon the final stage of his journey. The ground was rougher now, and the pitch steeper. He had to walk carefully to avoid stumbles on the slippery rock surfaces. Yet he made progress, and as the hours passed found himself within sight of the pass. All day he had been traveling upward toward the great divide, and now the valley beneath and behind him began to fade in the rapidly gather- ing darkness. He had passed the toilsome day under a blazing sun, and the coming of night found him still trudging on. As he ascended, he had been conscious of a change in the atmos- phere, not only of a change to a rare, colder air, but acutely conscious of some grim and vaguely startling influence that seemed to hang about the 147 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMANi mountain's higher slopes. Exactly what that in- fluence was, he could not define or explain; but that there was such an influence, depressing his spirits, slowing his steps, and weighting all his senses with a prescience of evil, he felt with no common degree of certitude. Presently, he had mounted the narrow, stony track, and reached the mouth of the gloomy de- file. Uneasiness gained upon him. He stopped, glanced from one side to the other, and felt in his pocket for the revolver. Directly in front, the track lost form and contour in the prevailing darkness, but, to either side, he could see the rugged rocks piled high in silhouette against the sky. A ridge of toothed crags, infinitely lonely, they stood up like sinister monuments of a for- gotten time. He made a step forward, stopped, then moved on again. Within a hundred paces, he came upon a cabin, half hidden in a recess among the rocks, and overshadowed by the gaunt, sweeping branches of some mountain pines which had their roots firmly planted in a rift above. It would have been difficult to find a more ill-conceived dwelling for any human creature. Far from the murmur of humanity, eerie, desolate, it was ex- posed to all the icy winds which were trapped in the narrow gorge, and found their vent here in bursts and gusts of almost cyclonic violence. Yet, 148 THE SHADOW Smith was heartened by the sight of it; it spoke for life, assured him that he was not alone under the threat of the night sky. He advanced, and stood Hstening. A rude door, flanked by a ruder window, gave entrance to the hut. For a moment, he debated with himself; then knocked, and, receiving no answer, knocked again. That was more effec- tive. A shuffling footstep began to move about within; and, presently, the silence was further broken by the striking of flint upon steel. Then a tiny flicker of light showed from the interior, sufficiently illuminating it to enable him to dis- cern the bent figure of an old woman, who stood looking at him, a bare pace away. In one hand she carried a lamp, improvised from a ragged tin, filled with oil upon which a wick floated. Smith withdrew his hand from his pocket, with some relief. " Buenas noches, 7nadre mia," he said, summoning at once his courage and his Spanish. " It is cold without. May I enter ? " She nodded, still regarding him curiously from under knitted brows. She was a tall wom- an despite the stoop of age. " Come with God, senor. Regard this house as your own." She said it as if reciting a time-worn formula without a hint of genuine welcome, but Smith accepted the invitation with a bow, and a polite: " Con permiso, senorita." 149 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN She withdrew, as he advanced, and indicating a rough bench, with a motion of her sinewy hand, waited till he had seated himself. Then she, too, sat down, upon a bundle of rags in a corner, placing the lamp on a bracket, above which hung a curiously carved crucifix. Smith settled him- self comfortably, took out tobacco and rice paper, and rolling a cigarette, handed it to her. She accepted it, with a word of thanks, and rising, went to light it at the lamp. While she was thus occupied, he glanced round the dimly lit interior, studying it with a view to ascertain- ing the station of life filled by his taciturn hostess. He saw little enough, nothing, indeed, to arouse curiosity or excite comment. It was a bare place. The settle upon which he sat; a rough box that evidently did duty for a table ; and, in one corner, a pallet of sacking, completed the equipment. The walls and the roof were in shadow too deep to be explored by the eye; opposite him, a fire burned in a rude grate, or fireplace, but so slug- gishly, and under such a coat of ashes, that it lent but little heat to the room. He was sitting there silently, wondering what had driven a woman to reside in these solitudes, when she returned, and reseating herself, smoked with visible enjoyment. He could see that she was studying his face closely ; and was not at all surprised when she took the cigarette from her 150 THE SHADOW mouth, to ask, " What does the seiior at night, and alone, in the Pass of the Dog? " He shrugged, searching his mind for scraps of barren Spanish philosophy. " Why not? " he said slowly, emitting a stream of smoke from be- tween his tight lips. *' It is all the same, el mismo, is it not? One place as well as another ; one time as well as another. To-day or to-morrow — what is the difference? " " None, sefior," she replied, and he thought he heard her chuckle. " Who cares what they say in the valley? They are as stupid as sheep all of them, but I warrant that not one of their tales would snatch a moment's sleep from the sefior. They talk of this very pass, below there " She fell silent then, and the ash of the ciga- rette between her lips glowed again. Smith ob- served her furtively. She kept her eyes fixed on him, and he noticed that they were keen, though not unkindly. Her voice was harsh, the voice of an old woman who has lost the melody of speech. " The night is long, mother," he said pres- ently. " You shall tell me a story — no? " She laughed then : " Who knows, sefior. Lx^ng years breed long tongues, and the tales of age are jarring to the ears of youth." " You have lived long," he went on, disre- garding the qualification added to her assent. 151 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " You must have heard much that is interesting. There is that tale of the Dog. I have heard it in the village below, in many villages, but it is ill told, and one does not know how much to be- lieve." She started slightly at his words : " The sehor speaks of El Perro? Of a certainty that tale is known to me as to none else. But it is not a tale to be told near this pass." " Nevertheless, I would hear it," said Smith, rolling another cigarette, and handing it to her. She placed it behind her ear, got up to stir the fire, and returning to her seat, began to speak : " They called him El Perro because he was always accompanied by a dog. And such a dog, sefior! big as a mule, fierce as a mountain Hon, but absolutely devoted to his master. El Perro had come here from Spain. He had been a contrabandist a, a smuggler, and was ever in trouble with the civil guard over there. It was said that he had killed some one, and was forced to fly from his home. What lay open to him here? He might have bought a ranchito, and wasted his years in working on the land, or with cattle. But it does not go so with the man of spirit. Oxen to the plow, but the eagle to the heights above the sierras! That was long ago, at the time of the great revolution. The revo- lutionaries were badly armed at first, and the 152 THE SHADOW Blancos kept them running from pillar to post. But arms can be procured, and they found El Perro the man for that business. Fierce but crafty ; a man of uncommon strength. And then there was the dog " She paused to light a fresh cigarette. The wind was rising without, and a gust, loosened suddenly from the tightened throat of the gorge, burst out with a thunderous rush that shook the timber walls of the hut till they rattled again. The draught under the door sent a light spray of ashes across Smith's feet, and he drew his poncho closer about him. " You were here then ? " he asked hastily. " At hand, sefior, at hand," she said, showing her teeth in a smile. " But, as I tell you, arms were needed, and El Perro procured them. He used to come over this pass with a train of mules, each one carrying a goodly burden. And the dog followed him ever, like a shadow. It was a dangerous errand, and the government party had sworn to stake him out if they caught him at his tricks. A barking dog might ruin all, but his was a fell hound, and ran mute. Master and dog were alike in that, for El Perro was silent by na- ture — They lived in this hut, sefior." Smith looked about him involuntarily. The movement did not pass unnoticed, for the old 153 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN woman saw it, and chuckled, as she took up her tale: " Then there came a time when his enemies pressed closely upon him. Some of the people, below there, they tortured, and a weak-hearted fool told them how El Perro used the pass. So one night, many armed men came up and hid among the rocks. The mule train with the arms was already coming down the pass. They had not long to wait." Smith had not heard this before. The vil- lagers had simply spoken of the dog. He nodded interestedly. " The night was not like this," she went on, *' it was still. The wind did not shout in the pass as it is shouting now. One could hear the tread, the shuffling of the mules. Ah, it was a well- planned ambuscade. El Perro was at the mouth of the gorge before he got warning of his danger. Then it was the dog that told him — it became un- easy; snififed, and refused to go on. The mules, crowding together when the firing began, were shot so that they might not stampede with their burdens. It was like a battle, the shots, the smoke that filled the air — but El Perro went down at the first discharge, and they thought to have had him. Yet he was crafty. It was only a shot wound in the arm, and he was up, and running again, before they could seize him. He 154 THE SHADOW dashed down the pass, senor, and was hidden from them among the rocks ; in a cave which he thought was safe hiding. The dog followed at his heels." The old woman's voice had sunk to a whisper. She swayed a little on her heels as she went on: " The dog had always kept mute, and who knows what suddenly possessed him. As the soldiers searched the rocks, the dog howled, and the noise of it went out to the searchers in that stillness. The hiding place was revealed, and the game was up." 11 CHAPTER XI THE VISITANT THE old woman sat motionless. She swayed no longer; and the anger had died out of her voice. Again the wind, thundering from the mouth of the gorge, swept over the stony downward slopes, and boomed emptily in the rock recesses among the clififs. In the hut, the lamp flickered and smoked; the em- bers of the fire shot up into a little tongue of flame. In the momentary stillness that followed, Smith was conscious of a feeling of almost un- controllable dismay. Before the gust had spent itself he thought he heard a dog howling in the pass. It was a short, shrill note. "What's that?" The old woman was smoking again. She made an uneasy movement, then sat still. Per- haps, she did not hear him, at all events she re- turned no answer to his question. Smith listened awhile, until he had half convinced himself that the sound existed only in his own heated imagina- 156 THE VISITANT tion. When he looked at the lamp it was burn- ing" steadily; the fire smoldered once more under its coat of ashes. He strove to regain his con- trol. " The game was up, you say," he ventured. " At an end, senor," said the old woman, rous- ing herself with a start. " At once, the soldiers rushed into the cave. One can imagine the con- fusion: the shots fired at random in the dark- ness; the cries of the men. When at last they dragged El Perro out he was dead from a dozen wounds. They were about to depart, when some one suggested that the dog still remained. They drew lots to decide who should enter the cave to fetch him — Ojala! they had suffered at El Per- ro's hands, but this was the end. The man upon whom the lot fell came out unhurt. The dog, senor, he dragged with him, sweating under the burden. A dead dog " Smith nervously lit another cigarette. *' It was killed in the fusillade ? " he asked. " Killed, yes. But not by the soldiers. El Perro never forgave a traitor. Was an injury done him of set purpose, it was repaid. Was it done without thought, it would be repaid, also. The dog had betrayed his hiding place, and he stabbed it on the instant. That, sefior, was El Perro." She ended her story there. Her voice had a 157 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN note of finality; and, for all his efforts, he could not induce her to speak further of man or dog. " The villagers below say that the dog still — prowls." He fished for a confirmation or denial of that impossible tale. " Senor, they are stupid. I have said it," she returned. Smith found only a banality for answer. " Of course, of course," he admitted. He sat silently smoking until midnight. He had placed his well-filled pouch at the old wom- an's disposal; and she was turned a little from him; staring, without word or motion, into the dying fire. Every gust that shook the hut, the shouting of the rising storm, gave Smith cause to congratulate himself on his foresight in hav- ing obtained a shelter from the elements. He imagined himself trudging alone along that empty, lonely pass, beaten by the wind, chilled by the intense cold of that rare and penetrating air. Or would he have succeeded in advancing ? That question held terrible suggestions. At last the old woman stirred, took the cig- arette from between her lips, and looked at him over her shoulder. " You have eaten, senor ? " He nodded: "Before dusk fell, mother." *' Good, now it is time to sleep." Without waiting for his answer, she rose, 158 THE VISITANT went to a corner of the hut, and pulling out a rough, matted hammock, said, " The sefior will know how to hang it. I myself have a bed." " Gracias, gracias." Smith busied himself with the hammock, which he extended between two iron hooks driven into the log framing of the walls. The old woman trimmed the wick of the lamp; then crossed to the rag pallet, and flung herself down without further ceremony. He was not a superstitious man, indeed, boasted that he regarded all spiritual manifesta- tions with the completest skepticism. But the story persisted in his thoughts, seeming to gain verisimilitude, reality, and point from his pres- ent dreary surroundings. This was the very hut in which El Perro had lived, and outside lay the pass in which the last scene of his tragedy had been enacted. There was the dog — a fell brute, but silent, until the last moment. He had thought he heard it as the old woman told her tale. At that, common sense tried to pull him up. He tried to feel impatient at his own credulity. What could there be in the story of a dog to give any reasonable man uneasiness? Absolutely nothing. He repeated it: absolutely nothing. He laughed softly, but without comforting him- self. Presently his preparations were completed, and, with a glance at the silent iigure on the 159 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN pallet, he swung himself into the hammock. How to sleep ? He followed uncounted sheep over un- countable fences, started on a long detour of thought, and shuddered, when he found himself at the point from which he had started. The dog The thing was horribly insistent. He fell then to thinking of the storm. It still held full sway; and the noise of its jubilant passage through the gorge beat in his ears with increas- ing force. Each lull found him fearfully wait- ing to hear that shrill note that had once risen above the tumult of the wind. He opened his eyes again on gray gloom. From the wick of the lamp a vagrant stream of smoke eddied and spun. The draught whirled a handful of ashes from the fire and sent them dancing in gray vor- tices across the floor. Half hidden from him in the shadows of the corner, the old woman's couch was placed; and, upon it, she slept immovably but noisily ; still and calm, in sharp contrast with his own invincible wakefulness. His glance was attracted to the moving, dis- torted shadow of the rude crucifix swayed on its hook by the draught, and beating a tattoo on the timber wall. He had an ever-increasing desire to sleep. His lids drooped, closed, and opening again, found the room indistinct and formless. He passed without consciousness from this state 1 60 THE VISITANT of decreasing wakefulness, and, sleeping, fol- lowed the history of the dog in tortuous and un- easy dreams. It was almost two o'clock when he awoke with a start. Looking at his watch, he was able to note the time before the lamp went out. At that hour the wind had lulled, and the place was sunk in utter silence. As he replaced the watch in his waistcoat pocket, the wick of the lamp fell suddenly into the dregs of the oil ; and the offen- sive smell of its smoldering filled him with fierce and unreasoning anger. He felt cold; the chill air penetrated his clothing, and made him shiver again. But, even on awakening, his mind re- verted to the dog. The silence, the absence of wind outside, went to remind him of it. Her phrase lingered vividly in his mind, *' The wind did not shout in the pass as it is shouting now." The feeling of acute depression which had as- sailed him as he ascended the mountain in the gathering dusk had been partially dissipated when he entered the hut, and came in touch with humanity in the person of the woman. Now, it returned with double force. He fell into that nervous state in which a man is particularly re- ceptive of sense impressions of the more morbid sort. Hearing, touch, sight were immensely magnified, as it seemed. He thought he saw somethino- in the shadows, heard strange sounds i6i DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN from the stillness. Raising himself on one arm, he listened intently. No, it was nothing after all, except, perhaps, the old woman's stertorous breathing. Once more he laid his head down, and was fast relapsing into drowsiness, when a strange sound from without — he could have imagined it the soft padding of an animal about the hut — finally drove all thought of sleep from his mind. He sat up in the swaying hammock, his brow wet with moisture, and stared affrightedly into the gloom. To himself he admitted that it was futile to put a prosaic interpretation upon the affair. His common sense, his boasted scorn of all that extended beyond the fringe of practical life, vanished in that instant. He might assure himself that a wild beast was prowling about outside the hut; might argue a thousand times that such things were impossible, ridiculous, mere figments of an excited imagination ; but the fact remained that he now believed he was in the presence of a phenomenon transcending purely human experience. Then, as he listened, the soft padding sound retreated. It seemed to move up the pass and stop. He thought of the revolver that lay in the pocket of his coat, which he had taken off and left beneath the hammock. Yet, if he had it now 162 THE VISITANT in his hand, what good would it be to him, what purpose could it serve in an encounter with a phantom ? He groaned at the utter, the immense futility of it, and lay still again, straining his ears to catch the faintest whisper. The sound came again, and he knew that the creature — whatever it were — was approaching once more. Circling the hut, it seemed to pause at the door, only a few feet away. He was in a state of pitiable fright, yet he could not utter a cry. He looked at the old woman, and thought he could detect a move- ment; he strove to force a sound from his dry lips. Still, she slept, lying there beyond him in the shadows. That was his fear — that she might sleep on, leaving him, conscious and awake, to confronjt the apparition. The sound of faint padding had again died away. There was silence. Yet, so great is the craving of the lonely soul for the comfort of ex- terior influences, he wished something — even that — would break the silence. He had not heard the creature enter. So far as his senses told him it was still outside the hut. But, against the evidence of his senses, was a deadly certainty that it now stood within the four walls. It had seemed to float in with the draught of cold air; and, though he could not touch it or see it, he was as certain of its presence as of his own ex- istence. What of the old woman? Would it 163 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN wake her? Was it, even now, over there by her pallet? There is no terror so great as that which our senses refuse to confirm. Our hands may grip mysteries without a shudder, so long as they are clothed in the material, which is our comfort. That consolation was denied to Smith. He knew; yet he could not tell how he knew. In a word, he was conscious of a presence unknown to his experience, while believing that this con- sciousness had not been conveyed to him by any of the normal channels of human knowledge. His hands burned, while his face was cold and moist. It seemed to him that he waited interminably. Nothing stirred; the hut was wrapped in darkness, sunk in a silence complete and profound. The waiting grew unbearable. Fate might do with him as it wished, if it would only strike quickly. He felt that he might lose all grip on sanity if compelled to lie there, a prey to these tormenting and intolerable thoughts. He laid a hand on the matted string supporting the hammock. Presently, it slipped, and hung limply. He had all the will to withdraw it, but his muscles seemed palsied, inert, useless. That phase lasted a minute, a fragment of time pro- tracted to an age. Hunching up his shoulders, he lay with his face turned half downward. He 164 THE VISITANT ceased to think coherently, lying there, dully re- signed, incapable of speech or action. Then a sound came to him out of the stillness, a low whine, shrill and melancholy. His sensa- tions were for a moment curiously epitomized in a great feeling of relief. Then the fear of the thing came back to him in a rush of disordered thoughts. He started up wildly. He shouted, too, and as he shouted, he sprang from the ham- mock, and flung himself blindly at the door. His voice rang out again, to be lost in the roar of a gust of wind that had gathered in the pass above, and now burst whirling from the narrow vent. To his excited brain it seemed that strange sounds floated down to him, a noise of shuffling, a faint whisper from behind, a whimper from the eternal fastnesses of the rocks. The door gave with him, and he dashed out to the track, and headed downward, running like a madman, swerving and staggering, while the stones clattered under his furious feet. He did not look behind him, but went on, holding his hands before his face as if to ward off some approaching menace. He mumbled to himself as he ran; two words repeated monotonously: "The Dog!" About ten hours later, Leon, the mulatto, brought him into Copar on a mule, and turned into Seguien's pulperia. At that time he was 165 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN raving a good deal, and bleeding slightly through a bandage which was wrapped about his head. The mule was exhausted, and had evidently traveled far and fast, with the wounded man slung in a kind of hammock to one side. Leon sat down on a stone, panting. " Mother of Heaven ! " cried Seguien, staring at him in astonishment, *' what has happened, friend? This Americano came to an arriero's about three days ago, I heard, and was going up to the pass." He crossed himself hurriedly, before he added, " These foreign sefiores will never be- lieve, until the trouble comes upon them." " That is true," said Leon, nodding rapidly. '' One imagines that the dog came upon him, and he fled down the mountain. Then he trips and falls with his head against a stone. He is very bad." Seguien gesticulated hopelessly : " And there is no doctor nearer than Santola. Ay de mi! What is a man to do ? " Leon rose and went over to the mule : " Come and assist me with him. He must be taken into your house, and put to bed. It must be an in- sect which has got into his brain, for he talks wildly. I found him lying near the foot of the mountains." Between them they unslung the hammock, and carried Smith into the house. He had 1 66 THE VISITANT fallen silent now, and his eyes had a glazed, fixed look. Once inside, they called Seguien's wife to their assistance, and presently had the wounded man stripped and put to bed. They did not dare to disturb the bandage for fear of hemorrhage. That duty completed, the two men went out- side to confer. It puzzled them to decide what had best be done. " Santola is impossible ! " said Leon, present- ly. " He might die before the doctor could come. A letter, however, must be sent, and one might address it to the Major-Domo of the Sefior Smith, Calle Huelva No. 4, Santola, with the information that the sefior is ill here. Then there is the town of Pano, that has a station on the railway, and if there is no doctor, at least one could be sent for by rail. That is one day's hard ride, but I shall go there if you lend me a horse. We could procure assistance in three days at most — Ah, I had forgotten, it is impossible that I should go. I must return at once to my home. You must send a peon.'' Seguien wrung his hands : '' What am I to do with this man? They will hold me respon- sible." Leon shrugged, raising sympathetic eye- brows : *' I am sorry, but I must return at once." Seguien watched him approach the mule, and gasped with fury. "I will not allow it!" he 167 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN cried angrily. " You brought the senor here " Leon mounted. " I shall leave him here," he said calmly. " Do as I tell you, and there will be no trouble. I have done my possible. Now I must return. Adios, senor." He jogged off before Seguien could think of a rejoinder. The latter beat his breast, and raised his arms then in appeal to heaven to blast this insolent. He swore for a minute without ceasing, and turning went slowly into his house. ii CHAPTER XII A CLEARED FIELD HEAVY hills are only mounted by con- stant and continuous effort. Every rest, every interruption to the ascent, adds to the moral difficulties, and disposes the climber to postpone the final stage which shall carry him triumphantly to the summit. Rourke still lingered in Santola, held there by Jeanne's spell, and ever more unwilling to hasten the negotiations with Courvois. The mo- ment had, perhaps, passed, when a bold policy would have secured for him a payment in full of the sum he demanded for his claim. He fa- vored the policy of drawing the money in install- ments. Yet the delay had made the Frenchman a trifle suspicious; at all events, bred in him in- difference which was as much genuine as af- fected. Rourke was not quite blind to the possible results of his procrastination. He began to see that each installment would come more and more unwillingly ; yet he strove to forget that essential 169 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN fact, and assumed an optimistic attitude. He was astonished at his own powers of self-deception; disgusted, indeed, that he should consent to lull his fears to sleep, and hazard his fortunes for a woman's smile. But, after all, this was only an undercurrent, and in time ceased actively to disturb him. The passion of love only grudgingly permits consid- eration of alien subjects. He was thrown back, however, upon unpala- table realities by meeting, rather more than a week after Smith's departure, the haciendero, Mitad. This latter approached him with the boldness of a man made reckless by prospective failure. He looked excited, his toothbrush mustache posi- tively bristled, his alert eyes, glowing with the fire of balked greed, were anxious, perturbed, impatient. The extreme and unctuous cordiality of their last meeting spoke to the precarious na- ture of their outwardly friendly relations; and Rourke felt a twinge of uneasiness as he saw the other advance, bowing, to greet him. "Well, sefior?" he said, standing quite still, and switching his leg with the riding whip he carried. Mitad cracked his fingers, and tugged fero- ciously at his mustache. He was obviously full of some exasperating news, and at a loss to impart it without indiscretion. He was concerned, too, 170 A CLEARED FIELD to appear at his ease; an effort of pose which was quite beyond his powers at the moment. " You know the Senor Smith? " he began in a strangled voice, as if swallowing something patently distasteful, then lowered his tone to a whisper, like a man aware suddenly of the pres- ence of an eavesdropper. " You know him? " he repeated. " Slightly,'' said Rourke, quite cool, adding soothingly, " I've met him indeed." Mitad seemed nonplussed by the calmness of his tone, made an awkward movement, and said eagerly, " You have not heard the news ? " Rourke glanced at him good-humoredly, showing no trace of interest or alarm. " Now, how could I know " " Of course not. I had forgotten. It is impossible that you should know, since I only heard it from a cafeteria in the market this morning. He comes from near Pano." Rourke looked at him more attentively. " Something has happened to Smith, eh ? I know by the look of you it's bad news. But I thought some one told me he had gone on a holiday." The expert liar needs a good memory, and Mitad was embarrassed by the necessity for cer- tain concealments. " That, of course," he mur- mured, trawling in the seas of memory. " A 13 171 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN holiday, yes. It is unfortunate that it should have happened on his holiday." " If you'd tell me what has happened." Mitad smiled in a relieved way. " The Sefior Smith is ill." "Serious?" " Seiior " — Mitad drew himself up and re- garded his companion with an air of immense gravity — ** it appears that he is loco — what do you say ? Ah, ' dotty,' that is it. Of the brain, you know." Rourke repressed an expression of annoy- ance, and pursed up his lips : " Do you tell me that ! Sure, I'm heart sorry for the poor fellow. How'd he get a thing like that now ? A touch of sun, perhaps." Mitad considered. That story would do as well as another, he thought, then recollected that Smith was said to have sustained some injury to the skull : " No, it was not that. One under- stands that it might have been caused by a fall — or by a blow." As he spoke, Mitad half turned so that he could sweep Rourke's face with a side glance, while appearing to look across the Ala- meda. " A blow ! Have they then caught the ras- cal?" '' I say, sefior, that it might have been a blow," Mitad replied, with an assumption of care- 172 A CLEARED FIELD lessness. " I hear that he is lying in a pulperia at Copar, and will remain there until he has re- covered sufficiently to be removed to his home here." Rourke was prepared for a trap, and gave no sign of interest or recognition when Copar was mentioned. He was rather surprised that Mitad showed some mental dexterity in placing the significant word midway in a commonplace sentence. " Copar," he said, thoughtfully, " that's over by the mountains. Sure, that's a strange place for a man to spend a holiday and all." Mitad was triumphant. " You know the place then?" Mitad doubtless expected a confused denial, but Rourke took the wind out of his sails by a candid admission, leaving him, to follow the metaphor, becalmed in a sea of conjecture with- out a puff of air to give his thoughts new steer- age way. " Yes, I know the place quite well, having passed through it off and on. As I say, it's a poor place for a holiday. Second-rate entertain- ment for either man or beast — but you know it, perhaps? " His quick cross look turned the tables on the haciendero. He gasped once or twice, as if something held his breath within the walls of his 173 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN chest. " I know it ? Oh, no, senor, I have not been there. One hears of it, of course." " Of course," Rourke agreed. His eyes be- came absent. Mitad returned to the charge, satisfied that the Irishman knew nothing of his recent trip to the mountains. " But there is this Sefior Smith. Is it possible that he has been set upon in the hills? There may be ladrones " " They have a strange story about a dog — " Rourke hinted. Mitad spun on his heels. " You think then — " he began. " I wouldn't believe it," said Rourke quietly. " It's a tale for old wives. I see that you believe this phantom came upon him and made him loco — the fright, eh ? " Mitad crossed himself. " Who knows ? " Rourke turned away impatiently. The fellow was only fishing for information, and nothing could be gained by prolonging the conversation. It was a trifle disquieting that he should know enough to hit upon Rourke as the man who might conceivably know something of Smith, but it did not matter after all. At least, that was what Rourke thought, as he said farewell, and marched ofif to the plaza, leaving Mitad staring after him perplexedly. Courvois, too, had heard of Smith's mishap, 174 A CLEARED FIELD and talked the subject over with Rourke, when the latter visited the cafe. He had no theory to account for the American's accident, but it was easy to see that he suspected that the speculator had gone to the mountains with a view to discov- ering the whereabouts of the mine. His tone hinted at gratification, when he spoke of the acci- dent, though he expressed sympathy for the in- jured man. Obviously, he was glad that Smith had been put out of the way for a little. Perhaps he thought that the negotiations with Rourke would run more smoothly now that a possible competitor had left the field. He came round to that presently, but found the Irishman indisposed to talk the affair over, and soon left him for the seclusion of his office. Rourke went over to Jeanne. '' They're all talking of Smith," he said to her, smiling. " You'd almost think it was a national catas- trophe." "Tiens! " Jeanne smiled brightly in return. " What has happened to this monsieur after all ? It appears that he went on a holiday to the moun- tains, and hurt his head. That is in itself not extraordinary, as I believe." " That's the right line to take, Jeanne," he said, quizzingly. " We men were busy wrapping up the affair in mystery, trying to see something significant if not symbolic in it, when your com- 175 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN mon sense comes to our help and assures us that Smith is nothing more than a hoHday-maker wid a broken head — and what more is he, anyway? " Jeanne set her lips scornfully, and glanced across the cafe to the door of Courvois' office, from which the head of the perturbed cafe pro- prietor was thrust out suddenly, as if in fugitive reconnaissance. " What is there between you and mon pcre? " she asked quietly. Rourke looked down. " You ought to know, I suppose. Well, it's nothing more than a deal over a mining claim. I want to sell it to him, but he won't pay my price. Smith wants — or wanted — to buy from me, and when I wouldn't come to terms, to steal it from me." " Then Monsieur Smith went to the moun- tains " " Softly, Jeanne ! You're right all the same. He went up there to search for my claim. You remember that Mitad went away for a while, and came back here just the day before Smith left." " Then Senor Mitad is in it, too? He played jackal to the other? " " Bedad, he did. And came up to me this morning, directly he heard of Smith's mishap. Tried to pump me, too, thinking that I'd some- thing to do with the accident." 176 I A CLEARED FIELD Jeanne was silent for a little. As she re- flected, the color rose to her cheeks. Rourke watched her quietly, puzzling for motives, and wondering what had caused her to feel embar- rassed. She spoke presently. " Monsieur Desmon', I have a confession to make. I have often wished to tell you, but I have shame, I feel that I have done wrong. Yet, ' Savoir tout — ' you know." " Let me know then," he said, perplexed. She cast down her eyes, and continued : " It was when you came here first. Mon pere was suspicious of you. He asked me to follow you to see if you went to the house of this American. I did follow you, and was outside in the shade of the house opposite when you came out once more — " She paused. " I'll give you absolution for that right away " — Rourke's eyes were twinkling — " be- cause I saw you. Is that all that vexes your in- nocent heart, my dear? " She colored even more hotly. " It is not all " " Tell me, then." " My father told me to make myself attractive to you, to be gay, coquette. I want — I desire monsieur to believe — ah, il n'y a pas de mots." " You want me to believe — " he helped her gently. 177 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " To believe that I have not been — amiable because it was my father's wish " " Bless your heart for an angel ! " he said softly, and placed his hand over hers. '' Did you think I'd be after telling you all about the claim, if I'd thought you were that sort ? Sure, Jeanne, it's myself is wishing to carry you off out of this, without waiting to say good-by to the rest of them." " Monsieur Desmon'," she said, shyly, " I would go with you willingly, at once, anywhere. We love — and is that not all? You do not think that mon pere would object? " He cast a half-tragical look at her, and bit his lip. *' Where would we go, my dear, and how would we live? " " But you must have a home somewhere ; and there will be the money for this mine." His face reddened. " The money for the claim! Och, Jeanne, and what am I to say to you! You don't understand." She was watching his face anxiously : '' But I wish to. I am not stupid. Between us, per- haps " He shook his head, and when he spoke again, all the gayety had gone out of his voice, his face was as it had been when he left Leon and hurried away from the ill-omened pass. Events were marching quickly now. He must decide soon. 178 A CLEARED FIELD What that decision meant to him might be read in his anxious eyes. He did not raise them to Jeanne's face, but fixed them on some object, quite outside his thoughts, that stood in the distance of the cafe. The voices of the few frequenters of the cafe, sitting at tables near the entrance, seemed penetrating, aggressive, personal. It was almost as if they were talking of him. His ears were prophetic — " That claim of the Irishman, you have heard of it, senor," or " Courvois bought the rights, is that not a good joke?" They seemed to be saying these things, though, in real- ity, discussing their own inconsiderable affairs. He awoke with a start to the consciousness of Jeanne's presence (poor dear!) and knew that she was speaking to him. " If my father knew that you — that we — might he not buy these rights ? " He laughed suddenly, harshly. " He might, Jeanne, he might — " He broke oft' for a moment, then resumed: " Give me time, my dear. Let me think it over. In ten days' time, I may be able to explain everything. It isn't fair to ask you to wait, not knowing, but it has to be. If you can't wait, then I must go — that's all." She was quite puzzled, but assented with a nod. " Of course I will wait," she said softly. He looked immensely relieved. But at the back of his mind was the knowledge that, as 179 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN things were, he and Jeanne might never come together, that their love might be no more than an episode, a broken romance. That thought em- bittered his outlook. " Some of us are born with a load on our back," he said slowly, " and some of us put it there ; but born or put there, it sticks. We have our responsibilities." " Quelle enigme! " said Jeanne, almost de- spairingly. He went on as if speaking to himself. " What is that ould Latin tag I learned at school? * Finis, Finis coronat opus' — Ay, but does it? Is that true?" " I do not understand," said Jeanne. " Is it right to turn back when you've prom- ised to go on? " he asked, seeming to hang upon her lips. " Even when you can't go back and ask the person you promised to release you." She was struggling to understand. " One promises," she said slowly. " I think one keeps a promise, too." He assumed a look of resolution : " Yes, and I'll keep mine. Well, it's au revoir, Jeanne, I'll drop in and see you again to-morrow. But I must be going now." Jeanne bent to him. " Desmon', watch that water-seller. He has been paid to watch you — ' An instinct of loyalty prevented her from saying i8o A CLEARED FIELD by whom the man had been suborned. " Oh, take care ! " " I know all about him. The moment I got back from my last trip he made so many in- quiries, and was so officious that it was easy to see he had been paid to spy. You needn't worry about me at all. I calculated all the chances, and knew what I was running up against when I took this job on first. I've lived out here too long to imagine that business can be done on European lines. 'Tisn't that the country's really lawless — not in the same way as the Panhandle of Texas, or the wilds of Arizona used to be, any- way. But things are not so strict here as at home. To keep perfect order you want perfect policemen, who won't take bribes, and an admin- istration who live by work, not graft. Well, that's of no account. I'll take care, and see that nothing happens to me. Isn't that your father signaling to me? For the present then, my dear." He strolled across the cafe to where Courvois now stood in the doorway of his office. He was surprised to find the latter in excellent temper, and disposed to be very friendly. " Come in, monsieur, come in. I wish to talk a little of our aiTair. Even you will admit that we do not advance. You have your claim, and I wish to negotiate. What hinders us ? " i8i DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Nothing but yourself as far as I can see," observed Rourke, following him into the sanc- tum, and sitting down, with his hat across his knees, " devil a one else." " If monsieur will have it so, well — in effect, time passes, and nothing is done. I wish to have it settled soon. The obstacle is that you will not give me proofs; or rather, that you will not let me see this claim prior to purchasing it." " That's so." " Your reason being that once the situation of the claim is known it might be seized by some stranger." " An outsider, anyway." " An outsider, then." Courvois was unwont- edly patient. " This because you are not the owner of the land upon which the claim is located. Am I correct? " Rourke rubbed his hat brim thoughtfully. " There or thereabouts." Courvois smiled suddenly. " Monsieur, I can arrange that. We were both stupid not to have thought of it before." " What's that ? " asked Rourke interestedly. Courvois held out his open palm. " As clear as that : you must go to the Minister of Mines — or get in communication with him — and register your claim. That will cost in fees perhaps one hundred pounds. After that no one can interfere 182 A CLEARED FIELD with it, and you will be able to show it to me. It is wonderful that I have not thought of that be- fore. Now, I see how easy the affair becomes." " You're a genius," said Rourke, " but you've forgotten something." " Forgotten, me? " Rourke smiled grimly. " Just that. You don't take into account the little idiosyncrasies of the present administration." " Mon ami," said Courvois in a relieved tone, " I have not forgotten it. I have merely con- sidered that one minister among them has a repu- tation for the strictest honesty, and that is the Sefior Doctor Aranjuez, the Minister of Mines." Rourke shrugged impatiently. " Your infor- mation's not complete. Aranjuez is all right, I grant you. He would give you a square deal if you dealt direct with him. But I think you must have been asleep the last half year, or else you don't hear what goes on in Congress. The situ- ation's changed since you got word." "If monsieur will inform me how?" Cour- vois said skeptically. " Just this. In the last sitting there was some talk of ministers being overworked. Old Francino got up — you know he's the head and front of all the graft in the country — yes, he got up, and talked sympathetic. He said that the ministers were not only up to the eyes in impor- 183 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tant business, but also worried every hour of the day with Httle pettifogging details, and routine matter emanating from the provinces. They were clogging the affairs of state, he said, and must make an effort to clear the ground. With that he brought in a kind of devolution scheme, in which every provincial governor, and jcfe po- litico, was to be trusted with wider powers of administration." " How does that affect us? " " Because it involves old Aranjuez with the rest of them. At that time, you had to register mining claims at the central bureau, and work the whole business in the capital. Now that is stopped. If I was to register my claim to-mor- row, I would have to do it here. I would have to disclose the whereabouts of the claim to our incorruptible jefe politico, Sefior Oro. Now do you see what I mean? Do you think we could put him off with anything less than a half share? If you tried to push it through without greasing his greedy palm, he'd find a new flaw in your title every day, if he didn't actually seize the place in the name of the Government." " We could appeal " " Yes, we could — and get arrested on some trumped-up charge. If you've a mind to see the inside of the calabozo, I haven't." 184 A CLEARED FIELD Courvois tore at his hair : " These scoun- drels!" Rourke rose, and turned to the door. " I'll call in again to-morrow, and see what you think of closing the deal," he said quietly. But Courvois only groaned. 1 CHAPTER XIII MITAD COLLABORATES "A HE shock of the news with regard to Smith, received at first by Mitad with a feehng almost of despair, wore off grad- ually when the haciendero began to reflect. He had grown to rely upon the American to provide the brains of the partnership; now thrown back upon himself, he wondered if it might not be possible to carry out the plan dur- ing the enforced absence of his confederate. He pondered new combinations, but without finding, among all his acquaintance, a good substitute for Smith, save and except the cafe proprietor. Courvois was clever. He had impressed that upon Mitad by his patronizing attitude, and sen- tentious way of speaking; easily acquired char- acteristics which have gained many a man a rep- utation for intense mental activity. Yet this prospective partnership would have its disadvantages. Courvois was not so enter- prising as Smith; also less generous in his deal- ings, more parochial in his outlook, lacking in the 1 86 MITAD COLLABORATES quality of decision which had carried the Amer- ican's many enterprises to a successful termina- tion. He looked too long at a thing before decid- ing upon its merits or demerits. He was, in short, less a business man than a man of busi- ness. Still, the decision came to Mitad, sitting sulk- ily under the veranda of his house, to admit Courvois to his counsels, and to volunteer a share in the profits of that dishonorable enterprise. He pondered the method best adapted for the intro- duction of the subject, with chest thrown out, rehearsing a look of concentrated mentality, which might give the self-sufficient Frenchman an idea of the magnificence of the scheme. I, Jose Mitad ! that should be the attitude. It did not occur to him that the afifair might be carried through single-handed, but for his own ignorant credulity. The story of the dog, now backed and confirmed by Smith's mishap, prevented him from venturing on the pass. Confronted by the pow- ers of darkness, his courage failed ; looking round in vain for the support of an avaricious tempera- ment which would inevitably have driven him to face greater perils at the hands of man, He feared only that which lay outside his experience. He got up, and began to pace to and fro. He was thinking that there was no necessity to men- tion Smith's name in connection with the afifair. 13 187 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN After all, the American had been put out of ac- tion. It was possible that the injury might re- sult fatally; failing that, he might never recover his sanity. Mitad, quite dispassionately, and without callous intention, hoped rather that it might be so. He could figure as the discoverer of Rourke's secret, the inspirer of the plan for its arbitrary acquisition. That evening he lounged in the little office of the Cafe Fleur de Lys, sitting well down in a chair, his knees forming a pinnacle upon which his sombrero rocked. Courvois sat before his desk, a stiff figure, beady of eye, scornful of lip, contemplating this swollen frog which thought itself a bull. Mitad had not given out three sen- tences of his scheme before Courvois had it out- lined in his mind. He had already decided to restrain surprise, to assure the simple haciendero that he himself had been considering a similar plan. He was not to be rushed. Mitad would invite him to assist, and suggest sharing the plunder. That was not good enough. Simply not good enough. He did not favor the principle of division, when money was concerned. His gaze began to dissipate Mitad's optimistic mood; it held so much of patient contempt, such a wealth of patronizing pity. It was as if a man of the world watched, with indulgent toleration, the feeble attempts of a child to solve a problem. i88 I MITAD COLLABORATES It had the effect of putting the haciendero in a subordinate position, relegating him to an ob- scurity which was wholly deserved, and from which he had only this moment emerged. Even the furniture of the room seemed to accentuate the contrast between them from a commercial point of view. The desk, with its pigeon-holes suggestive of massed figures ; the tin deed-boxes, used for files of papers, the calendar, even, that hinted at days measured out and accounted for on the strictest business principles. The spirit of braggadocio oozed away from Mitad, as water from an overdistended bag. " I have thought of it all before," said Cour- vois, with an assumed air of intense weariness. " It is a simple idea, one that springs instantly to the mind. One understands, however, that it is not brilliant." " Not brilliant ! " Mitad's sound and fury were laughable in the face of his immovable com- panion, w^ho merely raised his eyebrows, and gave a new cynical turn to his lip. This by-play told with Mitad, who had not the wit to see that it was afifected. " What do you think then? " " I think that it would be foolish to look for this needle among the hay." " Pouf ! but think of it. Is the Sefior Smith a fool ? He went to the pass, and the dog met " 189 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Not to any pass, but to Copar," Courvois corrected. " To the pass, I tell you." " Gently, monsieur ; what pass, and whose dog?" Mitad saw that he had been indiscreet. He bit his lip, and relapsed into sulky silence. The other passed him a box of cigars, and sitting back in his chair, gave himself up to reflection. His weighty and lengthened silence pro- duced the expected effect in Mitad. It suggested that the scheme was not one to be jumped at, or re- ceived with exaggerated joy, but rather a doubt- ful expedient, only to be ventured on as a last resort. It hinted plainly that Courvois was not ready to throw himself into the arms of the in- itiator of the scheme, expressing rather a cer- tain passivity of attitude intensely annoying to a man who was on fire to advance. Courvois smoked on imperturbably, a smile flickering about the corners of his mouth; pro- vocative, mysterious, and chilling. He looked up once or twice, met Mitad's eyes, dropped his own, and drifted into a reverie. The haciendero was at a loss what to make of him. He had expected him to receive him with open arms, to accept gladly such a minor position as might be offered him, along with a fair share in the profits. But the Frenchman exhibited no eagerness. He did 190 MITAD COLLABORATES not seem even to approve of the plan. For all Mitad knew, he might now be thinking of some alien matter, and have relegated the mining busi- ness to the upper attics of his mind. Mitad's sombrero was shot suddenly from the pinnacle of his knees by a convulsive and despair- ing movement. He sat upright, gesticulating with fervor : " Seiior, it is the chance of a life- time! The claim must lie on that pass " " What pass ? " asked Courvois clearly. Mitad almost whimpered. The secret was to be screwed out of him. Courvois no longer pretended that this information was a matter of indifferent interest. His eyes said plainly that he would make no move until he knew all. At the same time he was discreet enough to hide his triumph. " The Pass of the Dog, which lies beyond Copar. It is there we must search for the claim. The Senor Smith " " Ah," said Courvois amusedly, " the Senor Smith discovered it then. I confess I thought he had had his finger in that pie. Muy hien, if the Senor Smith says it is on the pass, I am ready to believe him. You also believe him, yet you come to me " " There is a story — they say a phantom dog haunts the place," said Mitad. 191 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " And it is this dog which you would have me exorcise ? " " Sefior, who would face this evil thing? " Courvois leaned forward on his bureau, and his little eyes contracted to mere pin-points of light. " Smith ! " he said decisively. Mitad started: " Then he must have met this phantom. That would account for his illness, perhaps, his wound." Courvois made a gesture of skepticism : " You can believe it if you wish. Me, I believe nothing — until I see it." Mitad was filled with new hope : " That is splendid. You will go " " You must be mad. Why should I leave my cafe on this wild-goose chase ? No, we must wait until the Senor Smith recovers. Then we can discuss it with him. If we are successful the profits will be shared." " But I shall only have a third share then." Courvois laughed : " A third share ? Oh, no, my friend, you will not have even that. I shall be frank. In this matter you are of no use. You have not the head for business, you are afraid to visit the claim, because of some absurd dog. Smith and I will have three-eighths each, and you shall have two-eighths." 192 MITAD COLLABORATES Mitad grew crimson. " You are a robber ! " he snarled. " And you, monsieur, are an imbecile ! " said Courvois, composedly. The haciendero got up, scowling: "I refuse to deal with you." " Then," said Courvois coldly, " we shall save your share, and it will add to our profits. You play your cards badly, friend, and without discre- tion. In time you will see that it pays best to work in with those of superior address. I am quite candid with you. You have told me where the claim is situated, and, if I wished, I could find it without your assistance. You see? However, I am willing to share with you in the proportion I mentioned." Mitad was too angry to speak. He glared at Courvois for a full minute, in silence, then slammed on his sombrero, and stalked to the door leading out into the cafe. He might have com- promised, in a grumbling spirit, have accepted a proposal, couched in terms less magnificently in- solent. But here it was unthinkable. Phrases hung cloudily in his mind, " No use to anyone," " You have not the head for business," " You are afraid — " Courvois' calmness added to the point and impertinence of these contemptuous words. The fellow wanted to filch his brains. He found himself in the cafe, amid a babble 193 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN of surrounding talk, a clinking of wineglasses, clatter of coffee cups, the gurgling of some man- nerless habitue drawing some drab-colored bev- erage noisily through a straw. He was suffi- ciently angry to show the red flag of temper, and this combined with a stamping tread, and the impatient clatter of spurs, drew upon him a vol- ley of inquisitive glances. Smith had failed him; Courvois had treated him with contempt. A thought of the treasure, almost within his reach, drew his mind presently from the contemplation of his own wrongs. He would have it 3^et. Each one of the trio had de- termined to steal Rourke's claim ; he himself was precluded from taking any active steps by a su- perstitious belief in a demoniac guardian of the pass. Courvois would only treat with him on inequitable terms. He had tried to work upon avarice ; was it too late to appeal to gratitude ? Smith was out of the way ; but Rourke might be warned of the traps which were laid for him ; he might, on the strength of this, offer to give Mitad a share in the profits of the mine. Some hours of cool reflection would inevitably have shown him that Courvois was his best ally. At least there would be a two-eighth's share. The Frenchman's shameless confession had worked him into a passion. He wanted money — money first ; but in hopes of that he was prepared to be- 194 MITAD COLLABORATES tray anything, anyone. Yes, he would go to see Rourke. The sun was dedining, and the shadows from the houses drew out across the roadway, when Mitad turned into the Calle Passado, and made his way to the house of the water-seller, where Rourke lodged. He was admitted at once, and shown into a large, cool room, in which Rourke sat writing. The latter greeted him with a nod, and methodically put away pen and paper. " A thousand pardons for intruding on you, senor. If it were not that I hope to serve your Honor's interests by this visit, I should not be here." " Thanks. That's kind of you. Sit down, senor, and make yourself at ease. Excuse the furniture of this rather miserable room, by the way, and forgive my dishonorable self for neglecting to prepare for your honored appear- ance." Even to Mitad, this seemed like sarcasm. He felt uncomfortable. " I will be brief," he explained, somewhat apologetically, *' for between men like you and me, seiior, there is no need for much talk. I come, then, about the claim " " Wait a bit," cried Rourke, appearing inter- ested. " That'll do to start with. You come 195 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN about the claim — mine, I presume. Are you act- ing as agent, or for yourself? " " For myself, senor, and for you." Rourke bowed. " You burden me with obli- gations. I was not aware that my affairs had been so widely canvassed. Let me hear what you have to say." "It is this: it has become known to a small number that you possess an undeveloped mining claim. The persons in question do not desire to pay you for that. They prefer to seize the claim, register it in their joint names, and work it for their own profit." " Even when they don't know where it lies ? " " They do know, sefior," Rourke appeared to be startled: ''Oh, do they ! I suppose you are referring to the Seiiores Smith and Courvois ? " " To those sefiores indeed." Rourke told himself that Mitad's coming to him could only be the result of a quarrel with Courvois. The haciendero evidently imagined that he had succeeded in locating the claim. Courvois had pumped him, and learned all he knew. But Mitad had failed to secure a partner- ship on equitable terms. It was quite easy to see that ; obvious that Mitad, having lost Smith, and failed with Courvois, hoped to ingratiate himself 196 I MITAD COLLABORATES with the lucky owner of the claim. Rourke smiled secretly, but looked grave. " How did these seiiores discover the situation of the claim? " Mitad showed unexpected cunning. He told a half truth: " Seiior, it was in this way — the Senor Smith came to me. He seemed to have some grudge against you. Knowing that I some- -times have occasion to ride toward the moun- tains, he asked me, when next I went there, to inquire as to the seller of a skewbald mare — rid- den by your Honor, as everyone knows. I made inquiries at Copar, and returned with the infor- mation I sought. You had told the senor Courvois that you first came across the moun- tains. From Copar there are three passes. Two are much frequented, and, therefore, out of the question. The third is the Pass of the Dog. Ow- ing to this latter having been deserted by the arrieros, the Seiior Smith believed that it hid the secret of your claim. You will notice that he was recently found wounded upon the mountains near Copar." Rourke nodded, and looked thoughtful. He did not ask Mitad what connection there was be- tween the inquiries regarding a mare and the discovery of a mining claim ; nor did he ask him why Smith and Courvois were working together, 197 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN nor why they had selected a haciendero for their confidant in such an important affair. He re- flected that he had enough on his hands without mentioning Mitad. Courvois would follow the trail closely; Smith might recover, and again bend his acute mind to the solution of the prob- lem. Mitad must be soothed, conciliated, si- lenced. Money would do it — or the hope of fu- ture gain. He must pretend to be grateful for the unnecessary warning, and alarmed at the prospect of his claim being discovered. Then an inspiration came to him, " Seiior, I am immensely grateful for your visit. Now that I know those scoundrels wish to rob me, I shall be on my guard. In the present instance they have been deluded, but in the future they may guess more truly." Mitad was convulsed with mirth. " Truly that is wonderful ! I laugh again to think of the wise Courvois thinking that he has the silver al- ready within his grasp. I was right. I told the Seiior Smith that no one would venture upon that pass." " The foolish man thinks his two eyes are as a thousand," said Rourke, sententiously. " I have no claim there. If it had been upon those mountains, is it likely that I should have told Courvois which way I had come to Santola? Wait! The Sefior Smith is a clever man." 198 MITAD COLLABORATES " I had thought so," Mitad assented doubt- fully. " He is. A man of great acuteness. It is possible that he threw dust in the eyes of the Frenchman." Mitad's jaw fell: "And knows where the claim is? Mother of Heaven! But then, he is sick." Rourke made an impatient gesture : " Who knows that? What was to prevent him from having the rumor put about that he had been wounded? Even now — " He got up, and began to pace the room with every appearance of agi- tation, muttering to himself, and striking one hand into the palm of the other. Mitad watched him with sympathy, not unmixed with dismay. " It is such a thing as the man would do," he cried. " W hy was he not brought home here ? In Copar there is no place where a sick man could be nursed — no doctor who could attend him. You are right — it is a plot ! " Rourke appeared to pull himself together. " After all, he could not know the exact spot," he said, half aloud. " He could only have gen- eral information." "What to do?" Mitad stared about him helplessly. Rourke walked over and laid a hand on his shoulder. 199 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Sefior Mitad, you have done me a service. I desire that you should do me another." " I am at your disposition." " Good. I want your advice. I cannot go to my claim, lest I might be followed and watched. On the other hand, I cannot let that bribon, Smith, secure it in my absence. I must have some one to help me. Look, if you can safely leave your hacienda, and hasten to this claim, I promise you one half of any silver that comes out of it. I will put that in writing, and give you a rough sketch, showing the surrounding country. Perhaps, however, you cannot go. It is within the borders of Peru." Mitad was absolutely on tiptoe. To be con- sulted, trusted, and taken in partnership by this potential millionaire, after Courvois had assured him that he was good for nothing, that was in- deed balm to his wounded soul, flattering unction to his scarred vanity. He would go, not to Peru only, but to Patagonia if need be. " No es nada, it is nothing," he declared. " A step, perhaps. I am indeed willing to serve you in this matter, if you will give me the writing." Rourke sat down promptly, and wrote the promise to pay Senor Mitad half the value of the silver which might be found, hereafter, on or in that portion of ground indicated on sketch appended to the paper. Then he procured a 200 MITAD COLLABORATES piece of thick paper, and motioned to Mitad to stand and look over his shoulder. He drew rapidly, talking as he worked: " Here, you see, is the town of Copetzl — you have heard of it. From that, you follow this line for sixty miles, till you come to some foothills, facing northwest. Now I draw a half-circle, indicating the rough shape of a valley. You will recognize this by an irregular pile of rocks, something in the shape of a man's head, which stands up at the left hand tip of the half-moon of hills " " Surrounding the valley? " " Yes, the tip of the half-moon, half encircling the valley. Now, I mark these rocks with a cross, for you must climb them, and descend into a slight depression on the other side. Do you fol- low me? In any case I will write directions on this sketch." He worked rapidly, and soon had the rough map completed : " There you are. Here is a pin. Put sketch and paper together, so that you may not lose them. The depression marked is the place I send you to seek." " A thousand thanks," cried Mitad, stowing paper and map away, and folding his poncho tightly above them. " I will go at once " Rourke was unfolding another sheet of paper : " Just a moment. I have given you a promise. Sit down here, and write that you will expect no 20 1 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN more than one half of the silver which may be found." This was businesslike, and appealed to Mitad. He acquiesced with pleasure, and presently con- templated with pride the script he had produced : " Then that is all. I shall start at once." " You must not leave by the street," said Rourke, rising. " Courvois may have spies. The water-seller is away, and I can let you out at the rear. In an affair of this kind one must be cau- tious." Mitad went out. He was a bigger man than an hour ago. He was conscious of acute mental- ity, of businesslike proclivities, of his assured and invincible position in the world. Rourke went back to his room, and, seating himself, laughed consumedly, grew grave again, and frowned. " Desmond dear," he said to himself, " if you sow enough lies, some of them are bound to grow big enough to get in your way. It's a curious thing, too, that I'm an honest man by tempera- ment." CHAPTER XIV A CLEAN SLATE SMITH was suffering from slight concussion of the brain. The doctor, who had been brought by train to see him, explained as much to Seguien; explaining further, in a pomp- ous way, what might have happened if the blow had taken effect a little higher up, or a little lower down, the skull. The pulperia keeper was fasci- nated by the long and scientific words he used, though it must be confessed that he did not un- derstand a tithe of their meaning. He nodded sagely, and agreed that the doctor had spoken words of extreme wisdom. The latter, however, having satisfied himself by a show of knowledge, descended to the vulgar speech. The Americano had fallen upon his head; the said head had come in contact with a rock, not so violently as to damage irretrievably the complex mechanism within. In a few days, therefore, the sefior might have made a partial recovery. If he had a good constitution, as the 14 203 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN doctor saw no reason to doubt, he might be on his legs again in a fortnight. As far as could be seen, the blow in itself was not sufficient to ac- count for Smith's present condition. The man was in a nervous state, probably had been, pre- vious to the accident. At all events, the case was hopeful. Careful nursing and perfect quiet would work wonders. Seguien paid his fee. Smith's pocket had con- tained a sum of three hundred dollars in twenty- dollar bills. From that were abstracted sums due for medical assistance, board, lodging, and at- tendance. All Americanos were liberal. Se- guien did not affront his guest by charging re- duced prices. Smith paid him again, when fully recovered, but this latter sum he took to be a token of gratitude, and accepted with the air of a man not unconscious of having done a good work. The doctor's forecast proved correct. The delirium passed, pulse and temperature became normal, and the weakness of body was van- quished by plentiful and frequent nourishment. Smith was his own man again, paler and thinner, perhaps, but able to eat, sleep, and walk. Only one change was observable. He did not remem- ber what had happened during the twelve hours preceding his fall. He knew that he had been climbing the mountain, and was aware of the 204 I A CLEAN SLATE purpose of his going, but he could not recollect how he had spent the night, or what had brought him down the track toward the foothills. He spent many hours trying to think it over, but without effect. He had climbed up the mountain, and he had fallen down somewhere. That was the extent of his experience. Save for his periodical dyspepsia, Smith was a sound man, with a wiry constitution. Still, he went cautiously. He was, at heart, anxious to be up and doing, but reason told him that he must conserve his strength, and undergo a quiet con- valescence prior to taking up once more the weight of business responsibilities. ** Say, sonny," he said, one morning to Se- guien, who had come out to the corridor to in- quire, " how long now have I been sick? Seems to me a week or about." " A week, seiior ! " Seguien threw up his hands in amazement. It had just occurred to him that nothing was to be gained by telling the truth. " Ah, I understand. The sehor had not his senses for a long time. He could not know.'- " Darned if I could ! " said Smith, fretfully. '* Am not I asking you ? How long have I been here?" '" Almost a month, sefior," said Seguien promptly. "Oh, quit! That's fool talk." 205 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " It is true, senor, as I call all the saints to witness." Smith thought it over quietly. It might be true. Of course the fellow would like to run up a long bill, but he had no proof of that. He knew of men who had lain unconscious for weeks. At all events he could not quarrel with the good Samaritan who had taken him in, and nursed him back to health. His memory carried him back, past thai unaccounted gap, to the business on which he had been engaged at the time of his accident. Had he not been on a tour of investigation, en- gaged in a search for the mining claim discovered by Rourke ? Did that not lie amid the mountains, on some pass — what was it? The Pass of — Ah, The Pass of the Dog. That was it. His thoughts were broken for a moment, as if some association of ideas linked up this pass with some experience of his own. " Mitad afraid " — there was a hazy connection; but afraid of what? Some story the fellow had told him — some superstition. What was it? He remembered now. It was a tale of a dog that haunted the pass. Of course He called for Seguien. The man came, smiling, " Senor ? " " Yes, sonny, I want you. Isn't there some yarn to do with the gorge up above there ? " " Of a certainty. A dog, your Honor knows, 206 I A CLEAN SLATE which prowls about there when the dark has fallen " Smith had forgotten his own experience. He remembered only that he had heard something about this before leaving Santola : " Oh, you Seguien ! I shorely believe you think that yarn's all O.K. Now, look here! Wasn't I up there?, I'm a bit hazy about going, but I know I started right enough." " You were at least on the track to it." " Sure, I was there, some time before that rock handed me a clip on the head. That being so, if there was a dog, wouldn't I have seen it or heard it?" " It is possible." " It's dead certain. I don't keep my eyes in a sling when I go out walking. Well, I didn't see it. Nary a hair." He moved irritably. " It's a kid's tale, that's what." " The sefior is doubtless right." Smith turned his face away, and fell to think- ing. Seguien, seeing that his services were no longer required, bowed, and turned into the house. He was frankly disappointed at the shat- tering of this, his most cherished illusion. He had come out, his hair properly prepared to bris- tle, to listen to an account of the Americano's su- pernatural experience. Smith was telling himself that much might 207 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN have happened in the month which was said to have elapsed since his accident. As he grew stronger he had almost decided to pay a second visit to the divide. Now he saw that, in the meantime, Rourke might have registered his claim, or made it over to Courvois who would see that the title to the property was legally se- cured. It would be foolish to take a journey without assuring himself that he would be re- paid for his trouble. To do that, it was neces- sary that he should return to Santola. Three days later, he made arrangements for departure. He was not yet quite strong enough to ride, but Seguien promised to secure a light cart, with a pair of mules, in which he might travel to Pano. At the latter place, he hoped to take train to a town lying some two hundred miles from Santola to the south, and strike the main line which would bring him within twenty leagues of home. He had sent a messenger, in the meantime, to bring his horse from the house of the arriero, with whom he had left it on his outward journey. He left Copar amid a hail of fervent fare- wells, and in the sound of Seguien's valedictory blessings. The mule cart proved uncomfortable enough as it traveled over the rough ground; it would have been intolerable under the glaring sun, but for a canvas hood which the driver 208 A CLEAN SLATE rigged up for him. At the end of the day they were still many miles from Pano, and had to camp out in the cart, under a soft sky aglow with stars. They went on once more when the first light gleamed in the east, and made Pano about midday. Here Smith paid ofif his driver, and made arrangements with the local railway official for the conveyance of his horse to Santola. A few hours later, he was in the train speed- ing eastward, and intent on his new plan of cam- paign. He began to ask himself if it were possi- ble that Rourke had failed with Courvois. Things seemed to point that way. He was anx- ious to sell his claim; to that end he had been negotiating with the Frenchman for some con- siderable time. Courvois was an avaricious man, anxious to make money, and to make it as quickly as possible. How was the delay to be accounted for? Yes, it seemed probable that Courvois had refused to buy. There might be trouble if the claim were jumped. Perhaps, it might be easier in the long run to offer a thousand pounds down, and complete the business in a regular way. Smith was not a man to throw away money, but he thought this idea over seriously. He was self-reliant by nature and training, but it occurred to him that a useful partner should be thought of. Mitad was frankly an imbecile, ignorant, grasping, and self-assertive. 209 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN He must be stalled off. It is a curious fact that, in Santola, one often thinks of Courvois. He is an outstanding figure, shrewd, rich, and obvious- ly capable. Most of the other people in the town are nonentities. Pure Spanish — as they boast rather hastily — or merely half-breed, they have the Southern indolence, and that love for enter- tainment which keeps men and nations in an ob- scure position. Courvois had a reputation for honesty — a comparative virtue. Smith had no illusions as to the man. But he valued his business qualities, and wanted a part- ner, in this affair at least. If Rourke still remained in Santola it would be necessary to proceed with caution. Possibly it w^as Smith's arrogance; perhaps, Rourke's face- tious manner, but the American did not rate his opponent very high. He considered him little more than a lucky prospector, passably easy to manage. But even the blindest of men must sus- pect something afoot if he saw the two men, to whom he had confided his secret, in active col- laboration. Smith had engaged in transactions to which the present one was not to be compared in point of magnitude. But, somehow, his blood was up : he would not let a big thing beat him, much less an affair of this kind. Your successful man knows that defeat lies by way of dropping hot 210 A CLEAN SLATE irons. In the old days, it was possible to bribe the postal officials in Santola, and that system had its advantages. But with the new man in- stalled, such a course was obviously impossible. At least, it prevented either side from taking an undue advantage of its rivals. Smith thought of this, when it became clear to him that he must make some slight change in his plans. Once back in Santola, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to communicate with Courvois without attracting Rourke's attention. He summed up the situation as the train ran east- ward, considering its possibilities, maturing his plans, eliminating such details as he thought unnecessary. The idea of buying the claim might now be set aside. Rourke might stand out for the price first mentioned, and prolong the business indefi- nitely. What he had to do was quite clear. Cour- vois must come into line, and keep the Irishman lingering in Santola under the impression that the purchase of his claim was being seriously considered. Smith himself must pay a second visit to the mountains, ascend to the Pass of the Dog, and finally locate the silver-bearing vein. When that point was settled, the Jefe Politico of Santola must be approached, and the question of registration arranged. Smith did not regard this important person- 211 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN age with the same distrust as did Courvois, or, rather, he distrusted, but did not fear him. They had dealt together in several little matters al- ready, and remained on good terms. As for Mitad, time would show the best way of dealing with him. This plan, which had now taken definite shape in Smith's mind, made it necessary that he should keep clear of Santola for the present. The town from which the branch line ran to Pano, was within easy reach. Instead of changing to the main line, and proceeding home, he must break his journey at Coipo. He smiled at the simplicity of his scheme, and lighting a long, green cigar, settled himself in the corner of the rather uncomfortable compartment. There is something curiously naif in the success- ful business man, which is not to be found in his unsuccessful rival. The latter is armed against all contingencies; rebuffs have hardened him, defeats have made him suspicious, failure has resulted in imbuing him with inconfidence. The former's path has been so flattering to his soul, he has been so often patted on the back for his completed achievements, that he has at last learned to pat himself. He is so assured of his own mental powers, of his superior equipment, his penetrating and immense acuteness, that he 212 A CLEAN SLATE becomes ingenuous, given to boasting, invulner- able in his armor of conceit. Smith was like that. He told people frankly that no living man had got the better of him. He studiously refrained from touching wood as he gave utterance to this pathetic and infantile boast. The man with a pachydermatous sole does not admit of the existence of a stray tin-tack. A cynic might have said that Smith delighted in Santola as in a kingdom of the blind. He loomed large there; something concrete, capable, dominant, in a world of shades. He suggested Wall Street, the Stock Exchange, the Paris Bourse, to the minds of those who found in an obscure financier a monstrous demigod, stalking triumphantly through the world's money mar- kets. The sailor has a great admiration for the tillers of the soil ; the agriculturist for those who go down to the sea in ships; the idealist for the realist. There is something intensely romantic in those things which do not impinge upon our own workaday experience, in the places which we have never seen. Smith drank in every drop of tacit flattery, and still found his thirst unslaked. He wanted people to say : " See that man — Smith ? Yes, that's Smith. The cleverest man in Santola. Yes, sir, that's his reputation. Smith " 213 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN He was dyspeptic because millionaires are dyspeptic ; his affection of the digestive tract was the result of a stern determination to get up an atmosphere. Ice water, and a predilection for American food, had done the rest. He had been an honest man to start with, but he was an ad- mirer of trusts. They bribed, they stole, they used all powers, legitimate and illegitimate, to achieve their ends. And Smith followed them, with the sincerity of a disciple, and the ardor of an atheist following a clerical scandal. The train drew up at last at the station of Coipo. Smith descended, button-holed an official, and imbibed information. Finally, he went into the town, and secured a room at an hotel, after giving instructions that his horse might be sent on to Santola. He made it his first duty to write a letter to Courvois, couched in friendly terms. In it the case was put succinctly, and attractively. There was the claim: Courvois could not deal with it alone; he himself was in similar plight. In the circumstances, it was quite obvious that a part- nership was essential. Then he went on to ex- plain the role for which he had cast Courvois, ending with an explicit statement with regard to division of profits. He did not dwell upon the ethical side of the question. He imitated his models with almost 214 A CLEAN SLATE slavish fidelity. Business is business: it is not philanthropy, altruism, or benevolence ; it is sim- ply business. The blessedness of the phrase always appealed to Smith. The letter was duly drafted, and committed to the post, and the speculator congratulated him- self that a decisive step had been taken. He did not expect to receive a righteous protest from Courvois. CHAPTER XV LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION ROURKE had no longer need to tell him- self that he was in love. The fact was palpable, evident, assured by the changes the passion had worked in his moral outlook, proved by an increasing sense of unworthincss, a growing desire to eliminate all those elements in him which warred with the finer sensibilities. For the first time, he studied his actions from the detached viewpoint of an impartial observer, without seeking to hide or extenuate the nature of the object which had brought him to Santola. In this new light he saw himself stripped of romantic motives, unsupported by the subtle sophistries which had enabled him formerly to convince himself that under certain conditions black might be considered white. He no longer asked if it were true that the end justified the means, if a good motive covered and excused an unworthy action. Every time that he talked with Jeanne, and realized what she had given him, 2x6 LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION he saw more clearly that, from an ethical point of view, his position was untenable. Brutal truths are rarely dispensed to oneself, but Rourke was frank. He had come to Santola with the plain purpose of swindling Courvois. There was no other word for it; no euphemism which fitted the situation. Yet, even now, ashamed as he felt, it was difficult for him not to feel gratified that he had succeeded in bluffing two such competent knaves as Courvois and Smith. He had enjoyed the battle of wits, had been stimulated by the contest. He had no mining claim ; the nuggets he had given Courvois had been picked up by him on the mountains. Roquille, the prospector, had been there before him, and had expressed the opinion that the silver could not be worked at a profit. It was in such a thin and broken vein that min- ing operations would necessitate an equal waste of time and money. It was true that Roquille had at one time possessed a rough sketch, given him by some wandering Indio, showing what professed to be the position of a rich vein of sil- ver. This sketch had come into his hands just before the illness which had terminated fatally. But Rourke had never got possession of it, for the prospector was an intensely suspicious man, and refused even to show it to his partner. After his death, it had vanished strangely. Rourke had 217 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN searched for it everywhere, but without result, Leon had ransacked every box, every article of clothing left by the dead man. Dire as was their necessity, they were compelled to abandon the search for the rough map which would have put the potentialities of wealth within their grasp. He had played out his game with this trump- less hand. Courvois was at first convinced that the mining claim might be only an imaginary one, dangled before his eyes by an astute swin- dler. But gradually he had been led on, con- vinced against his will. That was where Smith had been brought into play. Rourke's visits to the American had been so secretly made as to give color to the supposition that Smith himself had made a bid for the claim. Courvois was spurred by avarice, he saw a chance of fortune slipping from his grasp ; assured himself that the speculator was too close-dealing to be taken in by a fraudulent proposition. At this point, Rourke might have ruined the game by overeagerness. It was his calmness, the inferences to be drawn from his procrastinating attitude, which had finally confirmed Courvois in the belief that the claim was genuine. Smith, too; confident, self-assured Smith had been deceived. He had suffered himself to be made a tool, to be used as a decoy to lure Cour- vois. He had been blufifed into competition with 218 LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION the Frenchman for the possession of a claim which did not exist, for the right to mine min- erals which were sadly to seek. Rourke had not the slightest intention of closing with any offer he might make. Courvois was his game, and he refused to fly at any other. He might enjoy Smith's discomfiture while refusing to profit by it. Now that was all done with. His love for Jeanne had made him see things in a new light. He could not go to her with soiled hands. At first it had been easy to stave off thought with the procrastinating reflection that there was time enough left for serious consideration of his posi- tion ; but the passing of time only brought the evil hour nearer. There would come a moment when he must leave Santola, or accept Courvois' money for the right to mine minerals which existed only in his imagination. Either way, Jeanne was denied to him. He could not ask her to marry him on the proceeds of a swindle, the victim of which had been her father ; he could not take her away, so long as he had no means of keeping her, and no home to which he could invite her. Be- sides, the money was not for him. In a moment he decided to have done with the whole affair. He had wasted time, energy, brains. All that did not matter now. There were only two ways, and he chose the right, as he had formerly chosen the wrong one, because 15 219 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN he thought it his duty. The position was humiU- ating, the only way out of it even more so. He had promised to give Jeanne some explanation as to the state of his affairs, and, however distaste- ful that might be, he meant to carry out his prom- ise. It takes courage to tell the woman you love that your actions have not been above reproach, that your motives have been unworthy ones, your purposes not wholly unselfish. Jeanne would forgive him. What might have been a source of consolation was here an added misery. What would happen to him, to Leon, to Jeanne ? The right way was the way of renunci- ation. Without money he could not marry, with money — Courvois' — he could not bring himself to think of it. His pride refused the suggestion that he should also confess to Courvois. The man was ungenerous. No, he must tell Jeanne alone, say good-by to her as tactfully as possible, and disappear. He knew that Leon would not reproach him. The mulatto had unexpected depths of character, he was a standing proof that black blood does not always mean coarse blood. Rourke did not think of Roquille, who had died of fever, mutter- ing of " Honest Courvois." He tried to forget him, and the promise he had made to him. It lay behind him like a shadow, ready to spring to the eye when he looked back, to reproach him for an 220 LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION uncompleted task. But the thought of Jeanne was hot in him; her beHef, her confidence, her love. The affair was done with. When he had gone, he could see Courvois biting his nails in a fury of avaricious desire, asking himself why he had allowed the chance of a fortune to slip from his hands. He could see Smith, waxing louder in his boasts to cover the sound of sarcastic self- reproach which would sing in his brain. These pictures made him involuntarily chuckle. But he thought most of Jeanne. He could not disguise from himself the fact that his resolve in- volved an act of sacrifice, the last act of sacrifice to which a man will voluntarily assent. It meant cutting himself off from her and bidding farewell to those hopes of united happiness which had late- ly filled his mind and heart. He told himself that they could never be on the same terms again ; not because he looked for hardness in her, but because he had risen above himself, and from an elevated standpoint had seen how little worthy he was of her love. Love involves the apotheosis of the object loved, and the same act which elevates one side of the scale must inevitably depress the other. Yet he had cause to reason that Jeanne had more claim to his respect than he to hers. Bound by a promise he had agreed to carry through an act 221 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN of deception, to swindle — he used the word quite frankly — Monsieur Courvois. He could not come to Jeanne with that knowledge clearly be- fore him. So his resolution was made, and only the fear remained that delay might weaken and emascu- late it. He was aware of his own weakness in this matter; afraid that dwelling upon what he must renounce might lead him to further pro- crastination. With this idea in his mind, he left the water-seller's and made his way to the Cafe Fleur de Lys. He passed out, from the cool of his room, to the hot, glaring light of high noon. There was no shade afforded by the houses to either hand, the roadway was a swathe of vibrating golden dust, the pink, white, cream and drab of the stucco fagades had been mellowed to warm tones, in which barred window openings gaped like thirsty black mouths gasping in the still and sul- try air. Walking slowly up the Calle San Simon, he turned into the Calle Huelva, and went on, past Smith's shuttered house, to the plaza. The Cafe Fleur de Lys stood opposite him, the front bedecked with stiff symbolic flowers, the heavy gilt of each glowing like a star. The pendant electrolier focusing the sunrays gleamed and glistened above the open entrance, through which early visitors disappeared in search of their 222 LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION matutinal liqueur or bock. It was an institution, this cafe ; the native of Santola vanishing into its welcoming portal was, in spirit, a boulevardier, a man of the world, a cosmopolitan, if, by reason of much learning, he could return a stumbling reply to Courvois' smiling bon jour, monsieur. In small towns one easily acquires a reputation for audacity, for chic. The cafe meant more to Rourke. It was his temple, enshrining a divinity; his castle of dreams. Where love is, Romance is never dead. The most prosaic web of life is shot with fancy, interwoven with the golden tissues of imagina- tion. Intuitively, Rourke knew that in Jeanne's mind he stood up as the figure of the ideal lover, without fear or reproach, honest, tender, stain- less. The woman's tendency to idealize an ob- ject must have imbued her with an exaggerated respect for him. His confession would be ren- dered more difficult, more harassing by that knowledge. The clay feet of one's idol may be shown us by accident, they are rarely exhibited by the idol, ashamed by his lack of homogeneity. Rourke straightened his back, stared for a moment across the plaza; then walked over, and entered the Cafe Fleur de Lys. He looked for Jeanne, but saw, instead, Courvois advancing with an eager smile to meet him. 223 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Bon jour, Monsieur Rourke, I hope you find yourself in health. Good. We will talk, then. I am anxious to discuss again that affair of ours. Follow me, monsieur. We shall take coffee in the corridor without. I allow no one there until the evening, and we shall be able to talk without molestment — nan? " " I wanted to see Jeanne," said Rourke, as- suming a stubborn expression. '' I'll talk after, if you don't mind." " Ah, la paiivre petite! " cried Courvois, ex- tending his open palms. " She is malade — ill." " Good Heavens ! " cried Rourke, quite white. "111!" " Not serious, monsieur," Courvois reassured him. *' Ce n'est qu'une migraine. To-morrow she will be well again. These last days have been so hot." Rourke stared at him irritably. Was ever such confounded ill-luck? The procrastination which he had denied himself was now forced on him by circumstances. On this day, of all days, he had resolved to avoid Courvois. The confes- sion once made, his bridges burned behind him, he could not possibly be tempted to carry out his original plan. Since he was only human, there came, with the knowledge that his confession had been postponed, a feeling of relief. He blamed himself for it, but felt it just as strongly, 224 LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION as men do who see and admire the best, but fol- low upon lines of least resistance. " Look here, monsieur," he began, in an un- gracious tone, " I don't want to bother you with talk about our affairs to-day ; and, faith ! I don't want to bother myself. Anyone could tell you this blazing hot weather's no good for business. A siesta, with a good cigar, and something cool to drink would be nearer the mark." Courvois had not yet received Smith's letter, and, after seesawing for days, had at last made up his mind to make Rourke an offer for the claim : " Monsieur, you ask little. A good cigar and a cool drink are easily procured. I will give orders to a gargon; and now, if you will come with me " Rourke shrugged, but followed him. To- gether they passed through the swing door, and went out to the corridor round the patio. Two seats were already placed there, facing the smil- ing effigy of France's last Bourbon. Rourke no- ticed that Courvois did not bow Courvois was rather agitated. He mumbled at his lips, as he sat down, and his small eyes were contracted as if in an eft'ort of intense concentra- tion. His mobile hands were restless, made little involuntary movements, pantomimed un- guarded emotions. He rested on the extreme edge of his chair, in the attitude of a man who 225 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN may feel himself at any moment impelled to spring up, to express some strong feeling by a violent motion. The mere thought that he was about to suggest something which involved the payment of money, was sufficient to disorder his nerves. Rourke lay back in his chair, and contem- plated him with an air of faint disgust. Cour- vois' evident uneasiness put him more at his ease. Still he was not disposed to open the subject, and waited till a waiter had brought iced drinks and a box of cigars, before making an observation. " It's a bother — business." This heresy startled Courvois. It seemed to him like a blow struck at the very foundations of society. " Perhaps, monsieur will not say so when I put my offer before him," he stammered. It was Rourke's turn to feel uneasy. He sat upright, stared awkwardly at his companion, and seeing that the latter was observing him narrow- ly, reached out a hand for his glass. He did not drink, however, but held the glass in his hand, and began to talk rapidly. "Faith! Courvois, I enjoyed the best joke the other day. You know that fool fellow Mitad, of course — the dullest rogue that ever made five out of two and two. Well, somehow, he heard of my claim." Courvois started up, but resumed the edge of his seat quickly. " Yes, he came to hear 226 LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION of it, and thought he ought to have a finger in the pie. Well, he came to me with a cock and bull story about you or Smith, or both of you together, having made up your minds to do me out of the claim " '* Monsieur ! " Courvois was on his feet, ges- ticulating violently. " It is impossible that even such an imbecile should have said " ** Not a bit of it," Rourke said, smiling. " He's fool enough for anything. Of course I knew that you and Smith weren't on good terms, and that, anyway, you weren't likely to let Smith in, if you could help it. But that's neither here nor there. The fellow did come with the yarn I've told you. He wanted to make out that I was in need of a warning. He was to prove my good angel, let me know what you two were up to, and help me to preserve my precious property." Courvois restrained an outcry at this proof of Mitad's treachery. He saw that it would be bet- ter to take the affair as a joke. He did not know that Rourke was only talking to gain time. *' Did ever one imagine such an imbecile ! " he exploded in a harsh cackle of laughter. " Not altogether a fool either," said Rourke, sipping his drink, and feeling more at his ease. " It wasn't pure benevolence on his part. Sure, he thought I'd be so grateful for the help he 227 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN gave me that I'd hand out some good cash in return/' Courvois selected a cigar, and lighted it: " That is good. I trust that you, monsieur, were properly grateful." Rourke leaned back, half closing his eyes: " Bedad ! I was. I took him in as a partner, there and then ; and him as merry as a cricket over his good fortune. Faith! I gave him the half of a mine in Peru; at least half the silver he could take out of a mine that didn't exist. You would have laughed, Courvois, till the tears ran into your collar. I made a sketch for him, of a place that's three weeks off from here; and didn't the brave boy want to start for it before the ink was dry on the map. I'm sore at heart for the omad- haun! when I think of him hurrying along just this moment, and not within telegraphing dis- tance of the place yet." Courvois was frankly delighted : " Ah, la, la ! that imbecile." " Well, he's out of the way anyhow, on the wild-goose chase I sent him," said Rourke, drain- ing his glass, and rising. " I thought you'd like to share the joke. It's been tickling me ever since. Good-by, then, for the present, Courvois. I must be getting back for a siesta, for it's dog- tired I am in every bone of me. Give my sin- cerest compliments to Mademoiselle Jeanne, and 228 II LOVE SHATTERS AN ILLUSION assure her of my sympathy. I hope she'll be all right again to-morrow." Courvois jumped up, and caught him excited- ly by the shoulder of his poncho : " Monsieur, pray be seated. We have not yet spoken of our affair." Rourke rubbed his forehead perplexedly: "Well, what is it?" Courvois almost danced before him in his ex- citement and agitation. " Monsieur, I have de- cided to accept your terms," he stuttered, wring- ing his hands. " The money to be paid to you immediately the contract is signed. It is a large sum, monsieur, but I am willing to pay it — quite willing. The affair can be drawn out immedi- ately " Rourke looked down sullenly. What was he to say to this offer ? Then like a flash the thought came to him that one loophole of retreat still remained open. He had written a letter, ad- dressed to an imaginary company in the United States, asking for an estimate of the cost of in- stalling a mining plant. This letter he had pur- posely dropped in the cafe to confirm Courvois in the belief that his claim was genuine. Pulling himself together he faced Courvois. " Now isn't it like my absent-mindedness ! Sure, I've decided to work the claim myself. I wrote to a company " 22Q DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Courvois was quite white. He stood motion- less, silent. " But ril talk it over with you another time," Rourke said, hurriedly. " Au revoir " He went to the swing door, opened it, and passed through. He walked down the cafe with long strides. The temptation was strong. He had promised Roquille He turned quickly, halted for a moment, then walked slowly back. Opening the door, he came upon Courvois, still sitting on the edge of the chair into which he had sunk a few moments before. " I was just thinking," he stammered. " Monsieur has changed his mind ? " Rourke bit his lip. He hung his head, and for a moment remained silent. He was thinking of Jeanne. " I was just thinking that it's a mortal pity you didn't make up your mind sooner," he said rapidly. " That's all." He swung on his heel, and walked away. The door swung to behind him. i CHAPTER XVI CONFESSION THERE was no going back now. Rourke had made a statement which had made a partnership with Courvois impossible, and, by so doing, had cut off his own source of suppHes. It occurred to him, now that he had time to consider coolly his position in the matter, how necessary it was that he should refund the sums he had already received from the French- man. At the present moment, that was out of the question. He had sent the major portion of the last fifty pounds to Leon, and he had only five pounds in hand. The money must be earned somehow in the future. To clear his conscience, restitution was essential. He put that aside temporarily. It only blackened the outlook, and complicated an already tangled skein. He went back to his lodging to think it over. His spirits had dropped, he felt depressed and uneasy. The light and warmth of the day jarred him, as he went through the streets. He felt out 231 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN of the picture, a somber note, discordant and disquieting, in a gay scheme of harmonies. Storm, darkness, or gloom, would have been more attuned to his mood. There was in his mind some of the unreasoning agitation of a man sinking and drowning in a calm sea beneath a sky of tender blue; a protest against a sordid dying in an atmosphere of serenity and peace. His feelings lay so deep that there was no room for the superficial emotion of self-pity. He did not linger so much upon the humiliation of con- fession as upon the eternal consequences which must inevitably follow upon it. He could not even console himself with the thought that honesty was a paying policy. He stood to lose Jeanne. There was no prize to be gained by acknowledging himself to be in the wrong. His resolution sprang from sentiment — a sentiment inspired and sanctified by love. A repetition to himself of the purity of his motives, of the pain and reproach he had determined to endure, would have vitiated the sacrifice. He did not think of these things, they were outside him, noteworthy only in showing the thorny path he had marked out for himself. He paid of¥ the water-seller that day, a pay- ment which covered a week in advance. He did not intend to spend the week in Santola. When he had seen Jeanne, and explained his position, 232 CONFESSION he would at once leave the town. To that end, he made preparations, paying off sundry small bills, seeing that his saddle bag was packed, and ar- ranging w^ith a man who had undertaken to ride the skewbald some distance out of Santola, and await his coming. Courvois, if he inquired, need only be told that he intended visiting one of the neighboring villages. Smith was out of the way, and l^litad hunting phantom silver heaven only knew where. With luck, he might escape obser- vation. It was late on the following day when he came once more to the Cafe Fleur de Lys, and keeping his eyes straight before him, walked slowly to where Jeanne, a trifle pale and listless, was standing. Her face brightened when she saw him, a delicate color came into her cheeks; her large, fine eyes seemed to gather light, passion, a subtle shade of meaning, when she saw him ap- proach her. " Jeanne," he said, his fingers gripped hers with a firm pressure, " you look pale rather. The migraine, of course — I was frightened yester- day." " I am sorry. It was nothing really." He leaned nearer : " I'm easily scared — now. Since I got you." She nodded, and her color rose. She could understand his feelings. Even the hint of illness 233 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN startles and affrights, when one is in love. She was rather glad of the knowledge, though she had known it all along. It was an admission. " And you " — she searched him with her eyes — " you look distrait. You had something to tell me. I remember that now. It has disturbed you." He made a sign of assent. There were so many things that had disturbed him, but this most of all. He stared over his shoulder down the cafe. " I can't talk here," he said, turning to her again. " This place is distracting." She had felt that, too : " Mon pcrc has gone out for a little. Yes, we must talk elsewhere." She called across the cafe, " Solar! " The head waiter, a thin, weary-looking man, came to her hastily. "Seiiorita?" " See that everything is in order while I am absent. I shall return in half an hour." " Si, senorita," and the man looked covertly at Rourke. Jeanne led the way to the door opening on the patio and her companion followed her slowly. Outside the heat of the day had passed, and the flames of the sunset already smoldered on the horizon. Against their dull glow, the figure of the Bourbon stood up dark and immobile. Rourke looked at the statue very steadily. It had 234 CONFESSION always roused his curiosity until he penetrated its secret. It was an anachronism here; Courvois' worship unreal. Yet, for what it contained, the statue was symbolic. " That thing " — he pointed it out to Jeanne, as she sank into a chair near him — " you see it. I have seen Courvois bow " She shook her head, not in denial, but in in- comprehension : " Me, I do not understand. Mon pere talks of Saint Louis. What does it mean ? Was not that man dead long before I — before even he, was born? Quelle betise!" Rourke considered her words thoughtfully: " I suppose we all worship something. Courvois does " "My father?" " Your — father ? I wonder " She turned a puzzled face upon him : " I don't understand." " Oh, nothing — I was saying that we all wor- ship something. We have all got some kind of god — tin, or clay, or gold, if it's nothing better. What would you say if that figure of a king should prove to be hollow ? " " An allegory? " she asked, smiling. " No, plain fact. I'd like you to think the best of me, Jeanne." She caught at his hand, and held it for a mo- ment. He raised hers and pressed it to his lips : 16 235 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " I mean it, Jeanne. Go over, tap that image, and see. Look at the neck of him, where the edge of the frill comes." Jeanne rose, wonderingly, crossed to the statue, and stood staring up. She tapped on it tentatively with her knuckles, and it gave out a hollow sound. She hurried quickly back to Rourke. " How did you know ? " " Common sense and observation," he said, quietly. " It didn't seem natural somehow for a keen business man like your fa — like Courvois to be after setting up a graven image of some one he'd never seen. Sure there isn't as much senti- ment in him as would set up a matrimonial agency, and that's little enough. Knowing the man, as I've come to lately, and studying that statue, I came to the conclusion that it was nei- ther more nor less than a blind — a bluff. More than that, Jeanne, I went up once and had a close look at the thing. It's my belief that the head of his majesty screws off, and the body of him's used as a savings bank." " Impossible ! " cried Jeanne. " Not a bit of it. Sure Courvois is as scared of letting money out of his sight as a child with a penny for sweets. It's my belief he only keeps a small drawing account at the Banco Nacional. Three or four hundred, perhaps." 236 CONFESSION " You mean that he is a miser ? " she asked, incredulously. '' Something of the kind. And that's why I wanted you to look at the thing, to know that I knew what was in it — or guessed. Just try Courvois with the question : ' What is it you keep in that statue beyond there ? ' — You'll believe me then, and perhaps you won't think so hardly of me, when I've told you the tale that's on my tongue this moment." " I could never think so of you," she pro- tested. He shook his head doubtfully : " Maybe not, maybe not. It's the power of faith in a man you women have that keeps us all from the gutter — or worse. There's just one question, though, I'd like to ask you." " Dites done:' "" Have you anything 3^ou used to have as a child? A locket, a brooch, an ould ring or the like?" Jeanne was puzzled. Then the thought struck her that he might want a keepsake: "No, but why " " Oh, nothing " — his face darkened — " it's just a little theory of mine I'm anxious to prove. You're sure you've nothing?" " Certain." He looked away from her, and kept silence 237 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN for a short time. At last, " Were you ever in Paris, Jeanne ? " he asked. She laughed a little : " That is not one but two questions you have asked me. But Paris — no, I have never been in Europe." " I thought your father " — this time he did not say " Courvois " — " had lived in France in his early days." '' I do not think so," she said doubtfully. '' He has never spoken of it to me." He brightened a little : " Well, never mind that now. It's a confession I have to make to you, and every minute that I put it off, it's more difficult to make it. For I love you, Jeanne; the heart of me is in you. I didn't come to the point of telling you all without trying to shirk it " Jeanne grew pale. What could it be that he was going to say to her? For a moment, she almost resolved to refuse to listen to his confes- sion, to accept him as he was, to forgive him for what he had done. She laughed nervously, and laid her hand on his. " Desmon', is it necessary? I do not wish to hear it, me. I love you, I want you. What could you say that would make me love you less ? Oh, nothing! I do not wish to hear " " No, bless you, nor I to tell you. But it's got to come out. It's just because you've such faith in me, that you've put me in a place where 238 CONFESSION I've no mortal right to stand, that I can't play the hypocrite any longer." Jeanne's eyes sank, her face flushed. " Is it — another woman ? " she stammered. He laughed out : '' There never was another woman for me. If it was that, sure I'd be ashamed to face you. Perhaps, indeed, I'm more of a blackguard in the eyes of the law, but not in yours, Jeanne, dear. And that's the truth." She pressed his fingers happily : " If it is not that, then I do not care what it may be." He was bending over to look into her eyes; her arm touched his, her lips were near his own. She drew his face downward with a gradual, al- most imperceptible, pressure, and her hair flut- tered for a moment on his forehead. He did not speak, but put his arms under her shoulders, and pressed her to him closely. She stayed very quietly in his arms, tranced in the love and long- ing of their first kiss. Her eyes closed, the lids tremulous above them, under the intense yearn- ing of his gaze. They came to themselves again slowly. He stood up, releasing her, and panting a little: "It's taken the heart out of me." She opened her eyes, revealing herself to him: " You need never tell me." That phrase braced him. He had had his moment of weakness, and it had passed : " Ah, 239 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN but I must, ril sail under false colors no longer. What I am you'll know." She leaned back, with a look of weariness: " I listen." He went a little away from her, and leaned against one of the pillars of the corridor : " I came here, Jeanne, on a bad errand. I didn't come here as an honest man, with something to sell. It's fraud I was bent on." She made a little incredulous gesture, but did not speak. " Yes, fraud ! " he went on, in a low voice. " I told Courvois I had discovered a valuable claim, and offered to sell it to him for five thou — for one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs. He was to pay the money, but not to see the claim, or hear where it was till the cash was in my hands. And why — because there was no claim. I had never discovered one." Jeanne raised her eyebrows : " You do not tell me that mon pere was willing to pay you for something he had never seen ? " " Not at first, you may be sure. But I jock- eyed him. I pretended to be in with Smith — who is a real judge of mining property. I pretended that I was offering the claim elsewhere. I didn't tell him that openly, for he wouldn't have believed me. I did it behind his back, knowing that he would have me watched, and knowing that pres- 240 CONFESSION ently, he'd get in a desperate state, thinking the chance was sHpping out of his hands." "He believed then?" " Yes, or nearly. But I had another ace up my sleeve. I wrote a letter to some imaginary mining plant manufacturers, and left it in the cafe, where he would find it. Faith ! he did ; and steamed it open, too. It seemed hardly likely that I would write about a mining plant if I had no claim to work." Jeanne looked at him perplexedly. Obvious- ly, she believed that there was something which he had not told her, some other factor in the situ- ation which he was keeping from her. She did not look shocked, or angry, only puzzled: ''I see. He believed at last." Rourke nodded: " Yesterday, he offered me the amount I had asked. He was willing to pay. He thought I had a claim after all. I think it was Smith's do- ings decided him." '' Ah, the Americain " " The same. He thought he'd found out where the claim was, and started off to jump it — that is, to take possession of it, and register it in his own name. Mitad had the same idea. I think they were working into one another's hands. Then Smith had an accident, and the ar- rangement fell through." 241 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Jeanne bit her lip : " And my father's of- fer " " I didn't accept it — I couldn't. I told him I had decided to carry the business through my- self." " And all this because — because I loved you?" " Because you'd given me so much, that I couldn't give you the little I had." Jeanne clapped her hands: " It is only a jest after all. You have done nothing. You never intended to do anything which was not right." " I wish I could make myself believe that," he said slowly, " but I can't — I can't." She looked at him more anxiously: "Oh, it is impossible. When I asked you a little time since about the money which would come from this mine, and on which we could live, you talked as if there would be no money. And yet you knew then that mon pere would be willing to pay in the end. No cher Desmon', your story doesn't fit in. It is only a plaisanterie. Because if you were to receive all that money from mon pere, we might be married immediately." He smiled dryly : " It's true all the same. Look at me ! d'ye think I'd be after worrying you for nothing; worrying myself for nothing? Is it easy work for me calling myself a swindler? " She was thinking deeply, studying the situa- 242 CONFESSION tion in all its phases, endeavoring, as women will, to mitigate, to minimize the blame which might be attached to her lover. "I do not believe it!" she cried. "You would not take money from anyone, from my father or any other, in this way. If it is true that you have no claim, then I believe that some one sent you to Santola. Come, tell me! was it this mysterious M. Roquille, who was the friend of my father, and yet not his friend? Did my fa- ther owe this monsieur money, which he would not pay ? " She laughed, as she saw Rourke start, and rising from her chair, came to stand beside him. From his manner it was obvious that her chance shot had struck somewhere near the target. He did not refuse to meet her eyes, or attempt to deny that there was something in what she had said; contenting himself with smiling fairly calmly. " That which I have said is, perhaps, not all true, but it is partly true," she went on, more confidently. " But I knew — I would not and could not believe that you would attempt to de- fraud mon pere to put money in your own pocket. But why then ? " " I can't tell you, Jeanne. It wouldn't be fair to tell you as things stand. There's something in the way, but I can't explain that either." 243 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Your theory, perhaps, heinf " she said mis- chievously, and was surprised to see him move involuntarily. " It might be that, or it might be anything," he said, in a noncommittal tone. " One thing hangs by another." She dropped her playful tone, and spoke more seriously: "At least, you will not let me believe that you desired to do this for your own bene- fit?" " I don't think I can let it stay at that. I owe something to you, a little to myself. I told you a while back that I had made a promise, and didn't see my way to back out of it. The money, as you guessed, was not for myself. I am to blame chiefly for making such a promise. After all, morals aren't a question of circumstances, or environment. It isn't because a thing suits you that it's good ; or bad because it doesn't suit you. I've learned that lately — I never thought of these things till I saw you, Jeanne." Jeanne smiled at him : " Then, Desmon', it was this Monsieur Roquille who sent you?" " He's dead, poor fellow." " Still " " I can't tell you, really." " Oh, but I shall find out. A woman always finds out. My poor Desmon', you come to tell me you are a — what do you say — ah, a rogue. You 244 CONFESSION are not so very terrible after all. Certainly, it was not nice to think of playing mon pere such a trick, but then you repent, and, in effect, you were keeping a foolish promise you had once made." Rourke shrugged : " Well, that's done with. But having mixed such a poor cup for myself there's nothing to do but drink up the dregs. Faith! I wish Fd kept out of Santola alto- gether." " Do not say that ! " " Because of you, you mean ? Well, it's that makes me say it. I came here and met you, dear ; just as a man might slip into heaven by accident. And now Fve got to leave, it's all the harder for the happiness Fve known, and the better time Fve dreamed of. There's times when I see us to- gether, Jeanne, in a different place from this. Just our two selves, and never a one to interfere. Sometimes I think it may be possible still, for all that might want to come between us." He was silent for a moment, then went on in a lower tone : " W^ell, as I was telling you, I made a fool- ish promise once, and part of it I won't keep to, because I want not to be ashamed to look at you, Jeanne, if the good time ever comes. But the promise covered more than Fve told you, and the rest can be kept without lying heavy on me." Jeanne slipped her arm through his, and looked up timidly into his face. Some premoni- 245 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tory feeling made her hold closely to him, the while she searched his face with questioning eyes : " You will not go away ? " He put away her arm, almost roughly : " Yes, I'm going away." "When? Why?" '' Now, my dear. I'm going to-day. I know myself better than I did ; the weakness of me, the feeling that happiness comes first, and every- thing else after. Another few meetings like this, a kiss or two as we had this afternoon, and it's sorra a foot of me could I drag away from the place." "Don't leave me! What does it matter?" Jeanne cried. He straightened himself up, and looked down into her face : " We had a bit of a talk over a thing like that before, Jeanne. And you said you would never send me away from you, duty or no duty. I love you for that. The woman who gives up her man for war, or duty, or anything, may be a heroine, but she isn't a proper wife. But sometimes he must go all the same. Keep me if you can, Jeanne. I'm fighting against going." Jeanne had raised her arms. She dropped them again, and looked at him keenly. " Go, if you can," she said softly. "I am here. Who knows what is beyond? Go, if you can." He went nearer, and caught her in his arms. 246 CONFESSION He kissed her many times, pressed her to him, and whispered. It was quite dark all about them now, and in the soft sky only an errant star shone, like a diamond spark on a bed of black velvet. The air was warm and sweet, the sounds of day had hushed to quiet murmurs. " Jeanne ! Jeanne ! " Courvois was calling from somewhere within. Rourke heard him, and released Jeanne. They moved toward the farther wall. " I don't want to meet him to-night," he whispered. " Let me out by the door to the street. Quick ! " They crossed the patio without noise, and Jeanne opened the door under the archway lead- ing to the road. He held her hand for a moment. " It's au revoir then. Soon or late. I won't say good- by. Can you forgive me for going? " Jeanne did not reply, but the quick pressure of her fingers reassured him. Then the door was shut behind him, and Jeanne turned wearily to go into the cafe. CHAPTER XVII RETREAT ROURKE gained the street without hav- ing attracted the attention of the passers- by. He intended to leave Santola as secretly as possible, so that his departure might remain unmarked, and uncommented upon, for a day at least. For this reason, he did not cross the plaza, but emerged at the lower end of the street, bound- ing one side of the Cafe Fleur de Lys, and thrid- ding the narrower ways that lay in the eastern quarter came out presently to the rim of the grassy plain. The town now lay at his back, a mass of irregular black shapes hardly visible against the background of the night sky. He was able only to rely upon his sense of direction to guide him to the place where the man waited with the mare. The moon still hid behind the horizon, and half an hour must pass before it would swing up, and illumine the plain. He walked on steadily, half consciously lis- 248 RETREAT tening to the hum of movement, of voices, sub- dued and softened by distance, which came to his ears ever more faintly as he went westward. That, too, died down, and the place was marvel- ously still. Only the long grasses crisped and crackled under foot. There was no wind, the air lay stagnant; warm, clinging, saturated with the moisture rising up from the heated earth. The going here was uncertain; matted tussocks of grass, little dips, and elevations in the surface, burrows delved out by viscachas, were traps for the unwary foot, invisible in the darkness. Rourke stumbled many times, but managed to keep his feet, and made slow but steady progress toward his goal. Out of sight of the town, he lighted a cigar, smoking meditatively as he tramped on. At length, the moon showed her pale rim, and climbing slowly, sent a broad white beam across the wilderness of grass. Stars leaped into flame, and glowed brightly overhead, the whole heavens were lighted up, as if a mighty fire were percep- tible through the transparency of an immense, milky dome. It showed the gradually altering aspect of the terrain. It was more ridgy here, undulating, interspersed with gnarled bushes, patches of low scrub, like black islets in a sea of tarnished silver. He had been fortunate enough to set his 249 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN course pretty directly for the point he wished to reach. He knew where he was now, recognizing trifling landmarks, with which he had purposely famiharized himself on his morning rides. About a mile farther on, the mare would be waiting for him, and the real journey would begin. Quick- ening his pace, he hurried forward. Presently, some one hailed him: " Que hay? is it the English senor, or another ? " He looked to the side from which the call came, and could see his mare standing in the shadow of a thorn bush, with a dark figure at her head. " It is I," he called softly, " Rourke. I have kept you a trifle late. However, here I am, and ready to start." " Good," said the man, leading the skewbald forward. " The senor will see that his saddle- bag is slung, and also a skin of water. The beast was fed before I brought her out." Rourke produced a handful of small silver, and let it run into his palm : " There's the amount we agreed, and a little over. I couldn't travel very fast till the moon came up." The man counted the coins, biting each in turn. Rourke put his foot in the stirrup, and mounted, gathering up the reins, as he settled himself in the saddle. The mare was fresh, and moved restlessly under him, sidling and curvet- ting, as his heels pressed her sides. 250 RETREAT " Gracias, sefior. The saints travel beside you, and protect you. Adios." Rourke leaned over to him : " Don't talk. Keep this to yourself. If it leaks out, and you are asked, say you saw me riding eastward." " Certainly I shall say so. That is under- stood." Rourke nodded, flung him a word of farewell, and started at a hand gallop. So far everything had gone well. He was clear of Santola, had extricated himself from the net of circumstance, and was his own man once more. Yet this recovered liberty bred in him no mood of ex- aggerated gayety. He felt heavy at heart, de- spondent even, as he thought of the pleasant days that lay behind him, and contemplated the uncer- tain and somber future. When he was with Jeanne, encouraged by her proximity, made con- fident by her faith in him, he had felt that every- thing was possible. Something good would come, something would change the situation, and enable him to face life with cheerfulness and hope. It was impossible, with her at his side, to fall back into the pessimistic mood which had formerly colored and darkened his outlook. Left to himself, however, to face the realities of the situation, the exigencies of his position, he felt like a man awakened from an opium dream to the prosaic and bewildering facts of life. 17 251 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN He had covered some fifty miles by the time the sun had risen, and rode up to the estancia, standing soHtarily on the plain. A couple of peons had just roused themselves from sleep, and came out to the corridor, yawning, and rubbing their eyes. They interrupted the rolling of ma- tutinal cigarettes, for a moment, to hail the stranger. " It's a gringo," said one. " No, it is not a gringo. See how he rides. Those others are for all the world like water- skins upon a saddle. Hola! good day to you, senor. You ride fast and early." Rourke wheeled in a semicircle, and drew his mare up with a flourish before the estancia. " Good day, amigos mios. Is the patron with- in?" " No, sefior, he has gone to visit a neighbor. Nevertheless, do you come in, and rest. I shall see to the mare, while Jose here will make your Honor some breakfast." " Thank you. I shall be glad, too, if you could sling me a hammock in the shade of the corridor there. I have ridden all night, and could sleep like the seven saints of Ephesus." He clambered down, rather stiffly, and flung the reins to the peon who had spoken. The other lighted his cigarette, glanced curiously at him, and strolled into the house. Coffee and frijoles 252 RETREAT were soon placed before him, and almost as quick- ly disappeared. The hammock he had asked for, was slung between the wooden pillars support- ing the veranda. Rourke lit a cigar, settled him- self comfortably, and went promptly to sleep, with the unsmoked cigar between his fingers. He did not awaken until the sun had begun to decline. In this way, sleeping by day, and pushing on when evening was beginning to close in, he made his way to a point an hour's ride distant from Copar. He did not call at any of the villages on the route, since, in these lonely spots, the arrival of a stranger, and that a gringo, w^ould be a topic of conversation for days. Not that he believed he would be followed from Santola. He thought that hardly likely. But, in his position, it was wiser to take every precaution. He trusted to the never-failing hospitality of the estancicros across whose lands he rode, and was entertained with all the resources at their disposal. Copar he avoided advisedly, for Seguien had talked before, and might talk again, and the skewbald was too characteristically marked to be easily forgotten. He had not had time to advise Leon of his intended arrival. That, however, would not matter much in the present circum- stances. The last stage was quickly covered, and once 253 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN more he found himself traversing the line of hills that lay like green footstools beneath the frown- ing sierra. He did not attempt the ascent until it was full day; then proceeded cautiously, be- cause the track was slippery and uneven, unsafe going for any beast less sure-footed than a mule. Once, it occurred to him that Smith's reported accident might be merely a blind to lull him into false security. He kept close watch after that, searching every slope of the mountain as he as- cended, but without result. Leon was at hand, after all, and not likely to let anyone slip by un- observed. He was halfway up the incline, before it be- came necessary for him to dismount, and lead his mare. From that point onward, the track climbed more steeply, fissures crossed it, boul- ders and ragged stones lay upon it, the debris of trifling landslips. Some little distance below the mouth of the pass, the track curved elbow-wise, and there was a little platform of rock, with a clear view of the valley on favorable days, where Leon used to sit and smoke, and amuse himself by throwing dice, the left against the right hand. Rourke could see the place obscurely now, and watched it con- stantly, to see if the mulatto sat there. Evidently he did. As he ascended, the upper part of a man's figure could be discerned, above 254 RETREAT the ridge of rock which formed a natural parapet to the platform. It remained there, motionless, rigid, for a short time, then disappeared. The figure was no longer visible, and Rourke con- cluded that Leon had seen him, and was now coming down the track to greet him. He met him a mile farther up, hurrying at his best pace, his poncho flapping in the strong breeze that played about the mountain's slopes. " You have returned, amigo mio," he said delightedly. "Ay de mi! It is lonely here. A man might be less lonely in his grave. Well, what news ? " Rourke gripped him by the hand, swung the mare round, and backed her against a gnarled root, to which he fastened the reins. Leon squatted down on a boulder, lit a cigarette, and rolled another for his companion. " It is not such good news then," he went on, shrugging philo- sophically. " I can see so much by your face." " No, it is not good news." Rourke sat down beside him, and stared at his dusty boots. The prospect seemed to him more dismal than ever. That feeling grew upon him, as he contemplated the rugged scenery to either hand, when lengthened observation of his extremities told him that nothing was to be gained by absent introspection. Frankly, he was at the end of his tether. 255 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " I'll explain it all to you, Leon, as well as I'm able," he said, after a prolonged silence. " You mayn't think I was right, or again you may — it's done, anyhow, and can't be undone." Leon made a wry face, pulping his unfinished cigarette between his fingers : " We shall see, compadreJ' Rourke told him all. He kept nothing back which was necessary to explain the attitude he had taken up. Some things he did not tell, but those were none the less irrelevant because so sacred to him. Leon listened with immovable face, he did not appear displeased, nor show out- wardly how he regarded the matter. Loyalty was one of his strongest qualities. Loyalty does not always lead one to think one's leader infalli- ble; it recognizes his fallibility, but discounts it, as a defect common to all men. The highest form of loyalty is that which can forgive. So he smoked, and nodded, and listened. When the story was ended, he smiled wisely, and patted his companion's knee. " Did I not tell you that a woman would mix herself up in the afifair?" he asked, quizzically. " If there were no women in the world, every- thing would go on wheels." " Go, yes; but where? " Rourke asked, recov- ering his good humor. " Who knows ? At all events, the woman has 256 RETREAT come, and the affair is at an end. Amigo, you will forgive me if I say you were a fool to leave Santola. Your heart is there, and a man without his heart is bad company. You should have stayed there, married this love of yours, got a dowry with her from this Courvois, and lived very happily ever after." "Well, why didn't I?" " Because you are the kind of fool whom every man wishes to have for a friend." He stopped, and gravely put out his hand: ''Well, there it stands. If we live, we live; if we starve, we starve. There is enough to last us a fort- night — more, perhaps, if we take care. After that, the saints must do their best for us." Rourke drew his poncho closer about him. " Sometimes I think it may end soon," he said, reflectively. Leon pursed his lips: "Do you know that, sometimes, I myself have resolved to end it? That is strange, no ? " " Tut ! I suppose things are the same as usual. No trouble lately?" " She is well. Quiet, too. I have not been worried of late. That is something in itself." ** It's a cheerful situation altogether." " Amigo, if she would only die. I look at her often, and ask myself how long this can go on. She is frail, thin as a skeleton; she has been on 257 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN the verge of the grave these four years — If she would only die soon ! " " The watched pot never boils, and the watched invalid never dies — bad luck to me for a heartless creature to say the like of that ! But it's all so natural to be feeling that way. She's a tether on us, Leon; the best part of our lives will be spent on her. If you feel it sore, think of me!" " I was thinking of you, my friend," Leon said quietly. '' Really, it is not your affair " " I promised Roquille, poor fellow. What I said then, I'll stick to. Whatever she is, it isn't any of her doing. It's a visitation of God." He paused, then resumed in a more cheerful tone: *' By the way, I suppose you didn't receive a visit from my American friend, Mr. Smith? He was thinking of calling this way, as I told you in my letter." Leon laughed uproariously: "He was here. It was a terrible night; the wind raged, and the cold was intense. He slept part of the night in the hut, and took me to be an old woman. I had borrowed some of Madame Roquille's clothes, and kept my head covered. He sat up near the fire until it was late, smoking, and listening to the tale we invented, you remember." " You frightened him thoroughly then. I heard he'd had an accident, but did not hear how 258 RETREAT it had been caused. I suppose he fell when bolt- ing down the mountain ? " *' I think so. I followed him at a little dis- tance, thinking he might fall over some danger- ous place. He kept to the track, as it happened, and tripped over a large root farther down. I picked him up, and carried him down to Copar on the mule. I left him there with Seguien of the pulperia." " I heard he was at Copar." " Yes, but he has left there since that. The injury was not so severe as it seemed at first, and he took mule cart to Pano ; so I was told by Se- guien yesterday. From there he would go by train home." " But the trunk line doesn't touch Santola." " True, but there is another town not so far away. So far as I could hear, the sefior was in fair health, and able to undertake a journey." Rourke stared straight before him : " How long was that ago? I mean, when did he leave Copar?" " There are perhaps ten days " " He left Copar ten days ago," Rourke re- peated slowly, " and he traveled most of the way home by rail. Then he ought to have arrived in Santola some time back. That's funny ! I know he hadn't turned up when I left. Then what's been keeping him? " 259 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " I do not quite follow you." " Why, think of it ! Smith left ten days ago. The journey to Santola shouldn't occupy more than six. Obviously, he has stayed somewhere in the meanwhile. Don't you see my drift? He thinks I have a claim, or he wouldn't have set out to jump it. He still thinks so. But, surely, he wouldn't come back here after the fright he got." Leon knitted his brow : " He might. I was talking to Seguien about him. The oddest thing. You know, all the people in Copar believe in the phantom dog. Seguien believed that the senor had met it on the mountains. But the sefior denied it altogether to him. He did not seem to have remembered how he spent the night in the hut above. How do you explain that ? " '' If that is so, it is an unfortunate thing for us. I've heard of such cases, though. Men who got a blow on the head, and promptly forgot who gave it to them, and all about the incident." " Strange." " It is, but that doesn't make matters any bet- ter. Ten to one. Smith's only forgot the part we wanted him to remember. He may intend to have another try for the claim. That would ex- plain why he didn't go straight back to Santola. I wonder if he wrote to Mitad? " " Might he not write to Courvois ? " " Faith ! he might. I sent Mitad off on a 260 RETREAT wild-goose chase, but the Frenchman was there to his hand, and a cleverer rogue, anyway. The other fellow wouldn't venture on the pass for a fortune. I shouldn't be surprised if Courvois and Smith made up their minds to come here to- gether." Leon made a gesture of alarm : " What are we to do with them, if they come ? Short of dis- posing of them completely " " Come, we're not assassins ! At the worst, we can cross the mountain, and live on the other side till they've given up the search. Anyway, that will keep till to-morrow. We'll talk it over more fully then, and decide what is to be done. I'm dog tired, and just dying for a sleep." Leon rose, adjusted his poncho, and unloosed the mare : " You do not wish to see her, of course? " " Not to-night, Leon. I have enough to think of without that. Let's be moving on." They walked on, side by side, Leon leading the mare, and talking rapidly. And presently they turned a corner of the track, and entered the pass. CHAPTER XVIII IN CONCERT SMITH'S letter only reached Courvois on the evening of Rourke's departure, either owing to some neglect on the part of the servant to whom he had intrusted it to post, or to some delay on the part of the local postal au- thorities, notorious for the poor service they maintained. Courvois had it in his pocket, when he re- turned to the cafe, and called Jeanne away from that momentous and final interview with Rourke. He had already called at the water-seller's, and, learning that the latter had gone out, and that the mare had been saddled and led away earlier in the day, hurried back to inquire of his daugh- ter if she knew Rourke's whereabouts. There was something in his tone which warned her that the situation had entered on a new phase. He could not restrain his perturbation and anxiety. She temporized, therefore, compounding with her conscience as seemed wisest in an affair of such urgent importance. 262 IN CONCERT " He has gone, perhaps," Coiirvois said sharply. " Did you not see him to-day? " " But certainly," she rephed cahnly. " He was here a few minutes ago. Did you wish to see him? " Courvois looked relieved, though still some- what puzzled: "Yes — or, rather, I was anxious to know if he contemplated leaving Santola." Jeanne knew now that she must be prepared to suppress the exact truth. " Leave here ? " she said slowly. " But why ? " He shrugged: '' That I do not know. I heard that his mare was gone, and thought — " He paused, frowning irritably. He was consider- ably hampered by the necessity of keeping the true state of afifairs from Jeanne. " Et puisf It is not the first time, I suppose, that he has gone for a ride." '* So late?" Courvois was asking himself the question, though he spoke aloud. Then, see- ing that Jeanne was watching him closely, he became calm, smoothed his brow, and smiled: " We have an afifair on hand, he and I. Natu- rally, I should not like him to depart without ad- vising me of his intention. Bien, I shall, no doubt, see him again to-morrow." He left her, and entered his office, closing the door behind him. He sat down at his bureau, and absently lit a cigarette. He had decided to 263 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN join Smith in the venture, but it appeared to him that his own duty in the matter would prove more difficult than Smith imagined. Take the present instance: how was he to know if Rourke was still in Santola? He might be out riding, for pleasure, but, again, he might not. It was quite possible that he had deceived even Jeanne as to his intentions. That idea disquieted him, and he half made up his mind to revisit the house of the water-seller and inquire if Rourke had re- turned. He fidgeted with some papers on his bureau, arranging them into neat little heaps, and scattering them again with a nervous hand. He hardly knew what to do next. Should he write to Smith, assuring him of his cooperation, or first ascertain if the Irishman had left the town? The latter seemed the wiser plan. If he let Rourke escape him, the whole scheme fell to the ground. The success of the plan depended upon Rourke remaining in Santola. Despite these complications, he thought with relief that it was very fortunate Rourke had not accepted his ofifer for the claim. One hundred and twenty-five thousand francs had been abso- lutely saved to him by the fellow's inexplicable refusal. Such a sum! He shuddered to think how nearly he had lost it. Smith would have thought him a fool. 264 IN CONCERT This train of thought was interrupted by a tap at the door. " Enter ! " he called, looking up angrily. Solar, the head waiter, turned the handle, and entered, smiling deprecatingly : " A thou- sand pardons, but the water-seller has come into the cafe, and desires to see you, sefior." Courvois started. Had he guessed aright? " Show him in at once. Tell him I shall see him with pleasure." Solar bowed, and withdrew, to return in a few moments accompanied by the water-seller. The latter nodded significantly to Courvois, who signed to Solar to leave them. Then he closed the door softly, and came to stand beside the bureau. "Well?" " You called at my house this evening, sefior ? " " Certainly, I inquired if your lodger, Sefior Rourke, was at home. I was assured that he had gone out; also, that his mare had been taken away earlier in the day." " It is quite true. He paid me for a week in advance. When I was out on my business, he left the house. A peon, whom I do not know, brought his written instructions that the mare was to be delivered to him. My wife followed these instructions, giving him also the saddle- 265 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN bag, which, it appears, Sefior Rourke left ready packed. It was done without my knowledge." Courvois rose, and began to pace up and down the room. He was mortified and angry, darting sharp glances at the water-seller, as he passed and repassed him, as if disposed to hold him responsible for the happening. " Do you think he has left Santola then ? " he asked, vehemently. The man raised his eyebrows : " Who knows. It seems as if he had. That is why I have come to you, since you promised to pay me for all the information I might bring with respect to this sefior's movements. I believe he has left the town secretly, else why should he pay me for a week in advance ? " " Why should he pay you at all ! " snapped Courvois, pausing to stare at him. " Because he is honest, I suppose," said the water-seller frankly. " I do not complain. I come here to inform you, that is all." Courvois nodded sullenly, and, opening a drawer in his bureau, took out some silver coins, which he gave to his informant. As the man was counting them, he sat down, and scribbled a message on a scrap of paper, telling Smith that Rourke had left Santola, and asking for instruc- tions as to their next move. He was in a mood bordering on despair, as he thought of the way 266 IN CONCERT he had been tricked, and the opportunity he had thrown away. At this critical juncture, he rehed upon the American's reputation for resource. He himself was quite at a loss how to proceed. " Oblige me," he said, handing the paper to the water-seller, who waited silently. " I want this message to be telegraphed to the Seiior Smith. You will find the address here. Run with it instantly to the office, and you shall re- ceive five pesos. Do not linger, but go at once." The man grasped at the paper, flung on his sombrero, and hurried out. While he was ab- sent, Courvois lighted three cigarettes, one after another, and left them smoldering on top of the bureau. He could not settle to anything, left his seat and resumed it several times, stared ab- sently about him. In this depressed mood, he lost faith even in the American. He had lost the chance of making a fortune, that was the truth of the matter. He repeated that to himself, with a countenance of blank and immeasurable despair. The water-seller returned at the end of fif- teen minutes; he still carried the paper, and looked apologetically at his principal. " Unfortunately, the place is closed," he an- nounced slowly. " The time has passed for the sending of telegrams. I am afraid it is neces- sary to wait until the morning." 18 267 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Another delay. Courvois slammed his open hand upon the bureau, and swore venomously. " Diantre! there is always something to mock me. Well, here are your five pesos. Go now, but return to inform me if, by any chance, the fellow should come back." '' Most certainly, seiior. I will come at once." Courvois was up early on the following morning, and himself went to the post office to despatch the telegram. Then he returned to the cafe to wait. The hours passed slowly, there- after, and he was in a state of extreme nervous tension when noon had passed without the ar- rival of a wire in reply. At two o'clock, how- ever, he went to the post office again, and was handed a wire which had just come in. He re- turned to his office to read it. It ran thus: " Unfortunate, but not fatal. Man probably riding, and will lose time. Come to me here at once, preparing for long absence. We go by train to Pano, and shorten journey. Do not fail. " Smith." Courvois felt more hopeful. He had not thought of this alternative policy. There was a diligence going to Coipo that afternoon, or, rather, in the early evening. He could catch that. It only remained to see Jeanne, and ex- 268 IN CONCERT plain that he might be away from home for an indefinite period. She could run the cafe, with the assistance of Solar, who knew his business thoroughly. All was not lost yet. He called Jeanne in to him, and explained matters. She listened quietly, concealing her alarm at the turn afifairs had taken. She jumped at once to the conclusion that this sudden deci- sion had been come to as a result of Rourke's departure. But how had her father discovered it, and what did he mean to do? " It is very sudden," she said quietly. "Where are you going?" " To Coipo," he said, looking away from her, and fingering a paper-weight nervously. " I have just had a wire calling me there on busi- ness. A former colleague of mine, who has lately come from France, you understand. See that a bag is packed, and everything that I shall need put into it. I shall leave in an hour and a half." Jeanne left him, half relieved, half doubtful. She did not know that Smith was at Coipo. Courvois went to the office where seats for the diligence could be booked. That done, he re- turned to the cafe, and made his final prepara- tions. At six o'clock he left Santola, in the mule-drawn conveyance, and began the journey to Coipo. 269 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Fortunately for him, this was not the clih- gence which ran fortnightly between the two towns, carrying specie, and an armed escort. That did not travel by night, and would have delayed Courvois. As it was, he reached Coipo at seven o'clock on the following evening, and found Smith waiting for him in a private room at the principal hotel. " Well, monsieur," was the latter's greeting. " You've decided to hitch our two teams on to the same wagon after all. That's bully! Sit down right here, and tell me what's been happen- ing over at Santola while I've been away. You'll find a smoke of the right kind on the box at your elbow, so get a fire on it, and let her hum." Courvois bowed, and sat down. He selected a cigar very deliberatel}^ cut, and lit it: "Yes, that is it. We combine in this affair. But we must hurry, for Rourke left Santola yesterday, and we do not want to arrive after the fair. Nothing has happened of importance since I sent the telegram. The essence was in that. A few days ago I offered him the sum he asked for the mining rights. He refused, saying that he was going to work the claim himself. He has still some money of mine to account for. I lent it him from time to time." Smith looked at him curiously: "Say, he touched you for a few then? For all that, I 270 IN CONCERT reckon he didn't stay in Santola so long for the sake of a few dollars. Perhaps, he heard some- thing and got scared. Anyhow I believe he could deliver the goods if he wanted to." " In your opinion then, the claim is genu- ine?" '^ Dead cinch. I thought he was foolin' me to start with ; but I guess now that he held some trumps after all. Probably when you offered him the cash right away, he concluded the thing was good enough to freeze on to." Courvois dropped his deliberate manner, which he had assumed to cover the excitement which devoured him. " At any rate, we must start at once," he said rapidly. " At once." " Now you leave that to me," said Smith, with a yawn. " I was born in a state where they ran the clocks by my infant habits, sure. George H. never missed a train in his life. I've figured the whole thing out. There's a train leaves here in two hours, linking up with the branch line to Pano. That leaves us time for a feed and a smoke or so — are you ' heeled,' may I ask? " Courvois shrugged : " What is that word ? " " Oh, slang, argot. I mean to carry a gun ? " " Me, no. That will not be necessary, eh ? '' Smith showed his teeth grimly: '* ^^^ell, I don't hold with promisc'us shooting as a general thing, and I never like to draw on a man who 271 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN keeps good and quiet. Still, up in the moun- tains, there's no knowing what we may run up against." As he spoke, he crossed the room, and took a pistol from the coat he had discarded: " Take this, Courvois. Just hang on to this friend in need, in case some one wants to shoot you up." Courvois took it, and examined it in a way that showed he was, at least, familiar with the mechanism: "Thank you, it is loaded, I see." Smith smiled again, and put his heel on the smoldering end of his cigar : " Well, that's fixed, anyhow. What do you say to a bite now? I ordered something to be served here about this time. I guess I'll just run down, and get a move on the fellows below, if you'll excuse me." All things considered, Courvois dined very comfortably, while Smith drank toast water, and ate some predigested food with an appearance of weary indifference, which was more than half affected. Then he settled the bill, and Courvois with him, set off to the railway station. They caught the train with something to spare, and settling themselves in a compartment which made up in roominess what it lacked in comfort, fell to discussing their plans. The train sped on through the darkness, jolting and rat- tling over the uneven road. They smoked and talked steadily. Smith's exuberant faith in him- 272 IN CONCERT self, his extreme self-confidence, affected Cour- vois, and made him take a more optimistic view of the affair than he had yet done. The Ameri- can talked in the future tense. " We shall do this," and " we shall do that," and so on. He did not seem to think it possible that their plans could fail. If Rourke traveled across country, they were bound to get there before him. Then they would find the claim, take possession of it, and keep Rourke ofT, by force, if persuasion failed. Smith was of the opinion that Rourke would not visit Copar, and his experiences had showed him that through the village lay the nearest route to the Pass of the Dog. There was some- thing, too, which he had forgotten to ask Seguien while he stayed at the pulperia. Now and again, since his convalescence, he had been troubled with vague recollections, half hints, and un- formed suggestions which flitted through his mind, and were gone before he could shape them into a definite mental picture. The hiatus, yawn- ing between the moment of his return to con- sciousness, and his last remembered moment on the pass, was yet unfilled; but bit by bit he seemed to bridge it, to remember small details, petty incidents. He found the idea of a dog more and more prominent in his mind, associated not only with 273 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN the superstition to which he had often Hstened, but also, in some way, with a past experience of his own. Seguien had seemed to beHeve that he, Smith, had encountered this apparition. Was that encounter a part of his forgotten experi- ence? With these questions in his mind, he had determined to ask Seguien, when the legend had originated, and on what grounds it was accepted as a fact. At Pano they met with some difficulties. At first they could not secure a conveyance; when they did, the journey was broken and delayed by a mishap to an axle. The episode ended by their returning to the town. Here they had to char- ter another vehicle, which brought them to Co- par on the morning of the fifth day after Cour- vois had left Santola. Seguien welcomed Smith with effusion, and while they were taking a meal he had hastily served for them, answered the American's ques- tions readily enough. For himself, he had not the slightest doubt that a phantom dog prowled about the pass. He had only heard of it about four years ago, it was true; but many had heard it howling as they skirted the lower slopes of the mountain, and one muleteer, who was foolhardy enough to attempt to traverse the pass at night, swore that a great hound had brushed against him in passing, and 274 IN CONCERT promptly vanished into thin air. After that, no wayfarers had attempted to cross the mountain by night or day. The story of the dog, he ex- plained, had been first recounted to him by a half-breed, indeed the very fellow who had car- ried Smith down from the place where he had fallen. This information made Smith start. It seemed significant, though precisely in what way it was significant, he could not tell. "What's his name, Seguien?" he asked. " I do not know, sefior. He calls here some- times for letters." Courvois and Smith exchanged swift glances. " Letters ? " asked Smith, signing to his com- panion to keep silence. " So you're his poste restante. I shouldn't be surprised if it isn't the very fellow my Irish friend sends letters to." Seguien's officiousness outran his discretion. "A tall gringo, very strong?" he said prompt- ly. " Why there was a stranger inquiring about him some time ago. I bought a skewbald mare for that man, and the other asked where he pur- chased it." " Quite so," said Smith eagerly. " That was Sefior Mitad, another friend of mine. So the half-breed calls here, then." " Do you know where he lives ? " asked Cour- vois, quickly. 275 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " No, I do not. Sometimes he rides here, sometimes he has come on foot. I know nothing more." " All right, sonny," said Smith. " I won't worry you any more. I guess my friend here has rounded his victuals up, and'll want to have a smoke outside." When they were alone together, Courvois' face was beaming. " We are on the right track. That talkative fool would tell one anything. We know now that Rourke has a friend living near here." " We know a sight more than that. We know this fellow has been putting a tall story about the district, with the idea of scaring folks off the pass above. He's done it, too. What d'ye make of that ? " Courvois considered : " I think one might say " " Shoo ! It makes me plumb certain that Rourke has his claim there. I said it before to Mitad, and now I'm sure of it." Courvois clapped softly. His eyes were sparkling with greed. " Then we must start at once. We must not waste one minute. It is the chance of a life- time." Smith agreed. " I reckon we'll make a move right away," he said. 276 CHAPTER XIX THE CONTACT IT was essential that, from the very outset, the partners should combine haste with caution. Now that they knew Rourke had a friend living in the neighborhood of the pass, they were aware that the object of their expedition had be- come more difficult of attainment, and involved a certain amount of risk. It was improbable, they argued, that the mulatto lived on the lower slope of the sierra. There he might be observed by chance travelers, skirting the mountain on their way to the open passes which were unshadowed by the presence of that mythical phantom. Smith, too, on his former expedition, had searched the lower levels pretty thoroughly. Reasoning on these grounds, they felt that at least half of their journey might be accomplished safely, and without fear of ob- servation. Leaving Copar an hour after their arrival, they climbed the foothills, and found themselves, as night came on, at the beginning of the track 277 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN which wound up to the pass. The day had been hot and still; the evening promised well. The temperature at this height was, of course, not so equable as on the plain; but the season had ad- vanced since Smith's visit, and the air was quite comfortably warm. Courvois was of opinion that it would be bet- ter to camp out among the rocks at this point, and continue their way after daybreak. Smith was decidedly against that course, and in the end carried his point. " Won't do, sonny," he said, shaking his head ; '' now's the time to cover a bit of the road. We can't see much after dark, but neither can the other fellow. We don't want to walk up to his doorstep in broad daylight, and, perhaps, have him pick us ofif with a popgun. No, sir ; I guess we'll push along, while this holds, and by morn- ing we ought to be most of the way." "And then?" " Well, then we can go on, or keep under cover a bit; whichever suits us best. Get the grub bag out, anyhow, and stoke up." Upward progression was naturally slow. Moonrise was timed for three o'clock, and gloom swathed the sierra like a thick cloak. The lower portion of the track, however, was fairly straight, compared with the tortuous zigzagging of the higher section, and the two men climbed 278 I THE CONTACT on slowly but without mishap. Courvois' lack of training began to tell sadly on him; he panted and breathed heavily as the night wore on. Only his invincible greed spurred him forward, and triumphed over physical fatigue. Nothing could have made him turn back now, short of an actual breakdown. The moon rose as they reached a sharp turn of the track, where, to one side, a scrap of rock rose for a hundred feet; on the other side the ground fell away sharply, a slope formed of small stones, broken fragments from the bowlders, and coarse copper-colored earth. Courvois had ven- tured too near the edge of the track, and now missed his footing, stumbling against a rock bal- anced upon a precarious bed of shale. The weight of his body disturbed the mass, it moved a little, shifted, and rolled over. Smith was a man who acted as rapidly as he thought. He was at the other's shoulder before the rock turned over, and, grasping his arms tightly, dragged him back to safety. Courvois' face was perfectly bloodless, his lips worked con- vulsively, and the perspiration slid from his fore- head in great drops. He sat down on the edge of the track, and watched, with startling eyes, the rock bounding down the slope, carrying with it stones, bowlders, and debris, in a miniature avalanche. 279 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN The sound was like the clashing of great wa- ters, reverberating on the still air, gathering echoes, grating, roaring, and rumbling. It died away presently, and Smith laughed mirthlessly. " Sonny, I reckon you were as near hustling into Kingdom Come as ever was," he said grim- ly. " That was an almighty fine slide, I can tell you. I bet you'd have been a boneless wonder if you'd gone a-riding on that rock. I'd admire to see a baseball catcher stop that, I would sure." " My foot slipped," Courvois said, in a small voice. *' You darned near slipped altogether," said Smith. " Well, I do hope that mulatto is used to hearing the stones cavorting about that way, or he'll be wakened pretty slick." Courvois got up unsteadily, and opened the bag in which they carried their provisions. He got out a brandy bottle, gulped at it twice, and began to recover his color. He was not really a cowardly man, and, now that the danger was passed, he quickly regained control of his nerves. " It might have been a terrible thing for me," he said, " but, since I have escaped it, we may go on. The day will not break for two hours yet." " Bully for you ! " said Smith, patting his back. " I was beginning to think you had got 280 THE CONTACT cold feet. Come along then ! If you feel fit for it, you may bet George H. won't be long behind." He took up the bag as he spoke, threw away the cigar he had been smoking, and walked on. When the light came they must move more cau- tiously; in the meantime, he thought they were fairly safe. In ordinary circumstances, that was perfectly true. However, the sound of the rock slide which had terrified Courvois startled Leon, sleeping in the hut above. He awoke with the echoes of the fall ringing in his ears. In that air, sound car- ried far, one peak after another took it up. Leon knew what the sound meant. He had heard these noises before, and always after a landslide. But the sound, which normally would not have worried him, now took on a new signifi- cance. Smith had visited the mountain before, and from what Seguien had said, had forgotten the episode in the hut. Undeterred by that recol- lection, he might come again; this time to find them unprepared. The mountain landslides were to be attributed to certain definite causes ; heavy rains percolating through the upper strata, hur- ricanes of a force sufficient to set insecure bowl- ders in motion, the loosening of frost upon the shaly rocks, after the warmer weather of sum- mer had set in. These causes operated fre- quently, to-night they were absent. 2S1 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN He sat up in his hammock, and touched Rourke who was sleeping very heavily near him. The latter sprang up, and seized his hand, but released it again. " I thought it was Smith," he explained, with a half laugh. " What is it? " " There has been a slide lower down the mountain," said Leon, in a breathless whisper. " I do not understand it. I should not have ex- pected it on a night like this. Is it possible that some one has been climbing the track, and slipped on one of the loose inclines ? " " I'm afraid it looks like that," Rourke agreed gloomily. " I don't think it has happened natu- rally. Sure, that beggar. Smith, may have made up his mind to call here again. I don't like to think so, but there it is." Leon left his hammock, and busied himself with the lamp. He lighted it presently, and rolled hasty cigarettes for himself and Rourke. " What is to be done then ? " he asked rap- idly. " Do you think Madame Roquille will have been disturbed by the noise ? " " Not she. When the jfit's on her, she sleeps like a top. We need not think of getting her away to the other side of the mountain, if Smith is really near. It's too late. Besides, ten to one, she'd refuse to go, and scream the place down." He smoked steadily for a moment., and went on: " No, we'll have to go down and meet this fel- 282 THE CONTACT low. Take the pistol you got from me. I don't want anyone hurt, but if Smith asks for it he'll get it. I hope, indeed, there'll be a quieter way of doing it." Leon shrugged : " What you please. It is all one to me. For my part, I think we might wait for him at that little platform near the bend. I shall aim at the middle of the track, and pull first if he shows fight." " That's a good idea. You stay there, and I'll hide in the clump of brushwood just below. I may get a chance to collar him before he can get his hand to his gun." Leon pulled out his pistol, saw that it was loaded, and held up the lamp: " Bueno, I open the door. Are you out? Well, I shall extin- guish the lamp. We must go down quietly." He followed Rourke into the darkness. Both knew the track, and could follow it with their eyes shut. The moonlight helped them now, and they stole down almost noiselessly. Half an hour's swift progress brought them to the rock platform at the bend in the track. Here, Leon ensconced himself, stamped on his cigarette, and grasped his pistol. A few yards below, a clump of bushes had their roots in a fissure, and branched out to the verge of the path. In the uncertain light, they formed an ideal place of con- cealment, an excellent ambush. 19 283 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Rourke thrust aside the thick twigs, and crouched down. He waited attentively. A new sound came to his ears. He heard soft footsteps, the movement of loose pebbles. The climbers were still some distance away, but coming stead- ily nearer. Smith was somewhat in advance, the moon- light fell upon his face. Courvois was a few paces behind him, panting a good deal, unsteady in his movements, but keeping stubbornly to his task, Rourke saw them now, and recognized Courvois, with surprise. Smith was not alone then! But what did the cafe proprietor in this galere? Evidently he had joined forces with Smith. How had they managed to travel so rap- idly? These questions, fruitless and unnecessary as they were, flashed through his mind. But, one or two, the situation was unaltered. They must be met. He trusted to Leon to hold Courvois in check, and determined to devote his attention to Smith. With this idea, he quietly slipped off his poncho, and moved nearer to the path. He bent forward, his hands ready for a grip, his elbows slightly crooked outward. A leaden-footed minute passed before Smith had come opposite his place of concealment. Luck favored him, the American turned slight- ly to the right, to address some whispered remark 284 THE CONTACT to his follower. Rourke thrust aside the screen of twigs, and sprang upon him. His hands wound round Smith's wrists, pinioning them to his sides. Smith shouted to Courvois, kicked at Rourke, and struggled with all the adroitness of which he was capable. But his strength was quite disproportionate to his zeal. Rourke threw him heavily, and twisted his arms behind his back, while Courvois danced nervously round them, anxious to shoot, but afraid to wound his partner. In the end it is probable he would have shot one or the other, in a frenzy of excite- ment, but Leon hurried down from the platform above, and, placing the muzzle of his pistol to the Frenchman's throat, forced him to relinquish his weapon. " There, sefior, you are better w^ithout that." he said, as he threw it from him. " A pistol is a dangerous weapon to trust to a child." Rourke was kneeling on Smith, w4iile he fastened his hands behind him with a belt; he pulled him to his feet now, and laughed. " Well, George H.," he said banteringly. " So you thought you'd be after catching me asleep, did you? Oh, you star-spangled double eagle! Is it your night to howl or is it mine? " " It's yours, d — n you ! " Smith said savagely. " I've just one word for you, Mister Paddy 285 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Rourke; you've not done me yet. If you'd let me get my gun out, I'd have made cold meat of you, I would sure." " Faith! then, I'm not partial to cowld meat, George EL Ed just as soon put you down with my hands. There's a little cure for a headache in my pocket, too, and glad you should be that I didn't see my way to crack your skull with it — Hi, Eeon ! Rope up that other fellow, and bring him along. Now then, George, get a move on you, or I may be moving you on without discre- tion." Leon complied, and between them they drove Smith and Courvois before them up the track. The moon was still up, but beginning to pale in the first gray light of day. One by one, the mountain peaks sprang into prominence, the sky rapidly lightened, grew rosy and golden from horizon to horizon. The plain far away below them was hidden by the ascending mist, until they seemed to be standing on an islet among gray seas. The sierra had a less spectral look by day, the strangely shaped masses of rock, the toothed ridges lost their menace ; the very mouth of the pass itself, now visible above, carried no suggestion of the terrible. The ghosts with which a high-strung fancy might people it at midnight vanished with the beginning of prosaic day. It seemed impossible 286 THE CONTACT that this very place was the reputed haunt of a phantom dog; unbeHevable and preposterous. Smith, walking sullenly between his captors, won- dered that he had ever given even the faintest attention to such a monstrous idea. He puzzled his brains anew to remember what it was that had prevented him from carrying his former expedi- tion to a successful termination. He looked at Leon attentively. Somehow, he imagined that the face was familiar to him. Where had he seen it before? Somewhere, he was sure. His look was so obviously puzzled that the mulatto turned to him with a smile. " You look at me very curiously, sefior ? " " Because I've seen you before somewhere, my friend," said Smith sulkily. " You know that, too, I think." " Certainly, sefior," responded Leon, with an amused glance at Rourke. " You and I have spent an evening together on this very moun- tain." Smith stopped, with an oath on his lips: "When was that?" Rourke nodded to Leon, who said laughingly : " That was about a month ago. You came up this track, and spent the early part of one night in my hut in the pass. I had the pleasure of nar- rating to you an extraordinary story, with re- gard to a phantom dog. The seiior must accept 287 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN my apologies for having disturbed his nerves on that occasion." Smith remembered the incident suddenly. It had come back to him at last, and he ground his teeth with rage when he reflected how he had been duped. " That's a lie ! " he said hotly. " There was only an old woman in the hut.'' Leon waved his hand airily : " I am not often called an old woman without resenting it. On the present occasion, I permit the seilor to say so. I assure him that, with the help of some woman's garments, and in a bad light, I was able to de- ceive him." " What did I tell you, Courvois ? " said Smith to his companion, who stood silently, staring at the ground. " I told you the fellow had made up the story to scare folks off the mountain." " He certainly frightened you, monsieur," said Courvois acidly, for he was in a mood to blame his partner for leading him into this hole. " I'm not denying it," said Smith sharply. " What I do say is this : I remember now that a dog, or some big beast, did come into the hut." " That is true," said Leon, again looking at Rourke, who continued to smile placidly. " It was necessary to heighten the illusion, and we were wise enough to prepare everything before- hand. The sefior shall see the dog presently, if he wishes. Late on the night of the senor's visit, 288 THE CONTACT the hound was let out of the place where it sleeps, and entered the hut through a sliding door in the wall near my pallet. A string pulled sharply will open this door, for it is a very simple contrivance. Surely the sefior does not think that we should spread a story for a certain purpose, and do noth- ing to confirm it? Ay! the dog often ran loose on the mountain at night, and his howls have been heard by the people of the plain below, who were brave enough to venture up the track." Smith's sense of humor saved him. Even though the joke told against himself, he saw the amusing side of the episode. To Leon's surprise, his face cleared, and he laughed dryly. Cour- vois, too, was amazed. " Well, sonny, I admit that you gave me cold feet with that yarn of yours, and the joke is on me. But if any man had told me before that I'd have been taken in so easy, I'd have handed that fellow a friendly punch, I would sure. So you tell me you were only lying doggo on that pallet of yours, pulling the string of your rabbit-hutch to let in the phantom. Well, I call that right smart ! " Rourke walked up to Smith, and, putting a hand in his pocket, produced a heavy caliber Smith & Wesson : " I see you came ' heeled,' George, so I'm after thinking you came on busi- ness. You, and Courvois here, thought you 289 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN would come and jump the claim I told you about. What do you think they would do to a man in the Western States if they caught him at that ? " " Shoot him up," Smith admitted. Rourke nodded, and motioned to Leon: " Bring your man up the track to the next bend. I'll see to Smith." They brought their prisoners presently to a place where, from the edge of the path, the ground fell away sheer for a distance of two hundred feet. Smith stood silent; Courvois struggled to free himself, and shouted despair- ingly for help. Rourke surveyed both grimly. " Listen, both of you," he said, sternly. " You thought I had a claim up here, and you came with arms in your hands to seize it. That is the plain fact. Now, what am I to do with you? If I let you go, how am I to know but you'll turn on me, and play me some nasty trick. If I have the pair of you dropped quietly down here, you wouldn't worry me any more. What have you got to say about it ? " " It's on to you, sir," said Smith, with a tight mouth. Rourke looked steadily at Courvois, then signed to Leon. He himself cut the belt binding Smith's hands behind his back, and presented the revolver to him, butt first. - " Smith," he said quietly, " whatever you may 290 THE CONTACT be, you're no coward. It would be a pity to waste you on the vultures. Here's your gun back to you. Leon, let Courvois free, if you please." Smith looked at the revolver, and smiled odd- ly. He chafed his wrists to restore the circula- tion, and finally put out his hand for the weapon. Leon, meanwhile, was untying Courvois, and staring perplexedly at his friend. " Rourke," said Smith softly, " I thank you for this little tool. I've had it a good while, and was considerable set on it, I admit. But " — he dropped the pistol and kicked it over on the rocks below — " I have no further use for it." Rourke nodded, and turned again to Leon: " I suppose there's something in the larder we could invite these gentlemen to share ? " " Oh, certainly," Leon replied, in a courteous tone. " Will you follow me, then ? " said Rourke, addressing the others. " It isn't a long walk to the hut." Smith went without a word. Courvois looked about him, shrugged, and followed the others. They reached the hut presently, and Rourke took them round to the rear. " You didn't see this little kennel, Smith," he said, pointing to a small pent shed built against the timber wall of the cabin. " Your friend, the 291 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN phantom, lives there by day, being a wolfhound, and rather massive, not to say elephantine, for a lap dog. He's quite quiet till you give the word, and then he'd face man or beast, of any size or shape. Unless you would like to see him, I should be glad to have you listen to a tale of mine. You tried to play me a nasty trick, but I own that it was me started the lying. I owe you an explanation." " We'll hear it, sonny, we'll hear it," said Smith. CHAPTER XX THE LEGACY SMITH settled himself comfortably on a flat bowlder, Courvois, after a moment's hesi- tation, leaned against the wall of the hut. He seemed unusually perturbed, looking from one to the other with an expression of gloomy suspicion. His beady eyes were shifty, constant- ly wavering. It was evident that he did not welcome Rourke's coming explanation, but rather feared that it might contain details which would prejudice his own position. Rourke ignored him pointedly, and addressed himself to Smith. " To make a long story short," he said, " I bluffed you. I am not a prospector. All I know about mines I learned from a man called Ro- quille, and he was more crazy about mining than any man I ever knew. It wasn't much knowledge he had about it, either, but he was not quite right in the head, you know. He wanted to get rich quick, to carry out some scheme of revenge he had in his mind." 293 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN Courvois put a trembling- hand to his mouth, and coughed sHghtly. Rourke had turned shght- ly so as to face him, and observed that the color was gradually fading from his face. Smith had not noticed that. He nodded for Rourke to pro- ceed. " When I first came to Santola," Rourke went on quietly, " I called on Monsieur Courvois, and mentioned Roquille. He was agitated, and anx- ious to discover if Roquille had spoken to me of him. He tried to pump me, indeed, and never knew I saw through his questions. I could see that he was afraid I had learned something to his disadvantage. He may have thought I was bent on blackmail " Rourke stopped to light a cigarette; he con- tinued slowly : " It was this way, you see. I met Roquille a little more than four years ago. He picked me up near Salar, to the other side of the mountains. I had had a rumpus with a fellow there, and got knifed coming home one evening. It wasn't much — a deep cut in the shoulder. He took me to his house, and ntirsed me — I was grateful. You see, I had lost a lot of blood when he came upon me, and I might have died in the road there. He had a strange household " Courvois opened his lips as if to speak, but sighed deeply and watched Rourke's face. 294 THE LEGACY " His wife was mad," said Rourke, bitterly. *' An awful case. At times she had fits of homi- cidal mania. As I told you, poor Roquille was not quite right himself. They'd had trouble enough — " He held the cigarette between his fin- gers, and stared at it for a moment. " Anyway, Courvois here was uneasy, when he heard that I knew Roquille. I did not want to frighten him ofif, so I told him that I had only met Roquille some months back, and pretended that I didn't know anything of the poor fellow's story. He asked me how Roquille had died. I told him the truth. He had contracted malaria before I knew him, living in some marshy place. Of course, it was recurrent, and seemed to come back stronger every time. I told Courvois that he was delirious at the last, and that put the fear of death in our friend here, thinking that perhaps he had blabbed, when he was not responsible for himself. It wasn't so, for I'd heard the story years back." Smith intervened : " What's this to do with the claim? " " Everything. I can only tell the story in my own way." " It is all one lie ! " Courvois said suddenly, savagely. " Smith, keep your eye on that fellow there. You can judge between us," Rourke remarked, ignoring him. " Roquille came first from Mar- 295 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tinique. He was a planter there, had a nice little estate, a good living, and the prettiest wife in the Islands. Courvois here, if you ask him, will tell you that he himself is a Frenchman, and used to live in Paris. That is not true. He had an estate next to Roquille's " " Jamais de la vie — never ! " Courvois said distinctly. " The next plantation," Rourke repeated. " And he pretended to be a friend of Roquille's. He met the pretty wife, and, from the first, perse- cuted her with his attentions. She kept silence about that, for it wasn't the kind of thing a mod- est young wife likes to talk over with her hus- band. Besides, he was a friend. He got no encouragement, for she was devoted to her hus- band, and a good woman. Did that stop him? — No, faith! it made him the more eager. He never relaxed his efforts, but seized every oppor- tunity to make proposals, that were a shame to him, and an affront to her. Look at him now! You've seen a rat in a trap " Smith looked sharply at Courvois : " Go on." *' Well, he couldn't have her for love or money, so he went another way about it. He tried to decoy her on board a ship; the captain being a friend of his. It was the Trois Jolies Femmes, out of Havre. That attempt failed, and he turned to ideas of revenge. Roquille and 296 THE LEGACY his wife had a baby girl, about two I should say she was at that time. The father and mother just lived in the light of her." "And Courvois?" Smith was frowning. " Courvois had a weapon ready to his hand. If you know the Islands, you know that the plan- tations are mostly worked by niggers. They're excitable people, and easily worked up. Courvois went among them quietly : he found them griev- ances where none existed. He told them that Roquille was a hard master, and a bad master. And he gave them rum. The rest's easily told. The niggers rose one night, burned down the plantation buildings, and attacked the house. Roquille was away at the time, but his wife was there, and was roughly treated, while trying to save the baby girl from the rioters. They found her next morning near the house, wandering up and down distracted. She was looking for the child " He broke off suddenly, and gripped Smith's arm : " Easy. Fm responsible for him. Don't touch him ! " Smith had advanced suddenly upon Courvois, his hands twitching. He resumed his seat now, and looked at Rourke. " She never saw the child again. Her hus- band came back to find her — mad. He looked for Courvois then, but could not find him. He had 297 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN disappeared, and it turned out afterwards that his estate was mortgaged to the hilt. I heard all that from Roquille himself." Courvois protested wildly: "It is not true. Do not believe him, Monsieur Smith, he is anx- ious to deceive you again." " He won't," Smith observed contemptuously. " When Roquille discovered that his enemy had left Martinique, he made inquiries to find out where he had gone. The French steamer had called again and had left for Monte Video. So Roquille packed bag and baggage, took his wife with him, and sailed for South America. He wasn't in the same state as his wife, but he was certainly not mentally normal. He had only two ideas: one that he could find a silver mine, which would provide him with funds to prosecute his search all over the world; the other, that he would find Courvois, and kill him — murder's murder, and I don't justify it, but Roquille had provocation, if any man ever had. Anyway, his two ideas never came to anything. The silver mine did not come his way, and he did not find Courvois. He lived in Salar for a while, until, one day, his wife took one of her bad turns, and attacked a peaceable half-breed who was walking past the house. They put her in the calabozo for that, having no asylum handy, and there they 298 THE LEGACY kept her. That was a while before Roquille picked me up." He puffed at his cigarette for a moment, then threw it from him: " I'm coming to the end now. We concerted a plan, the husband and I, to re- lease the unfortunate woman. The calabozo was timber built, we broke in one night, and carried her off. Leon, who's in the hut now, was Ro- quille's servant, and the three of us made tracks for the mountains. We've stayed here, ever since ; Roquille prospecting, finding an odd bit of silver now and again, but nothing that would pay to work. We had a hard time to live, but we managed till about a month before I came to San- tola. Then the poor fellow died." " He never knew that Courvois was living near at hand? " " Never. The silver prospecting had become a kind of mania with him. When he was gone, I came across country to Santola in search of a job, so that I could get a bit of money to send up here for Leon. I heard of the Cafe Fleur de Lys from a peon on the outskirts of the town." Leon had come to the door of the hut, and stood watching them silently. Rourke continued : " When Roquille was in his last delirium, he kept muttering and talking of * Honest Courvois.' If you'd heard the bitterness, the contempt of his voice, you would never forget it. Before he 20 299 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN went, he made me promise that I would search out Courvois, and revenge him. I never thought to come upon the fellow, and promised readily enough. When I did come on him, by accident, I was in a fix. I never favored killing people in cold blood, as some of them do here. It wasn't really my quarrel either. But a scheme came into my head at once. The woman was with Leon up here ; they had no way of living, and I was afraid to bring her down to the plains for fear she might break out again. She does sometimes still. Leon there, has a scar on his arm he could show you. Well, I summed up Courvois. I knew he would lose blood rather than money. So I bluffed him with the story of a claim. I meant to sell it him, take his money, and get back to the hut. I got at you only that he might think the claim was genu- ine. I wasn't after your money " " But you refused his offer," said Smith. Both ignored Courvois, who remained motion- less and silent, leaning against the wall of the hut. Rourke spoke softly : " I did. You see, I fell in love with Jeanne, and, not knowing that he might not be her father, I couldn't make up my mind to go on with my plan " Courvois started. Smith got up quickly. "Isn't he her father?" " I don't know. Sometimes, I am sure he is 300 THE LEGACY not. She's not like him ; but she is hke what Ma- dame Roquille might have been in her young days. I sketched her once, side by side with madame, and Jeanne thought one was a carica- ture of herself. Still I wasn't sure; I could not be sure. So I came away." Leon came out from the doorway, and bal- anced his pistol in an open palm. Rourke's eyes lit up, he cocked the weapon, and advanced upon Courvois. " I'll give you a minute ! " he said, very quietly. " Is Jeanne the daughter of the woman you wronged ? Yes or no ? " Courvois shrank away, and cried out : " Spare me.'^ " I will," said Rourke slowly. " I'll leave you to torment yourself with the thought of what you've done. But you must answer my question. Yes, or no? I shall count." Courvois had already realized that it would be useless for him to attempt to escape. Even without arms, they outnumbered him, and where could he fly, in any case? The only way lay by the open track. He endeavored to temporize. " Monsieur, I assure you — What is this about Jeanne ? I do not understand." " Then you had better make an effort," Rourke went on counting calmly, " half your time has gone." Courvois gave one wild glance about him, 301 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN then stammered out his confession : " Monsieur, you are right. Jeanne is not my daughter." Rourke smiled grimly : " You acknowledge that, before these witnesses ? Whose daughter is she? Quick now! " " She — she is the daughter of Monsieur Ro- quille." Rourke threw down the pistol, and laughed out of sheer joy: "Smith, you hear that; and you, Leon. Just a couple more questions, Cour- vois, and then I am done: Isn't it true that you kept most of your money in that statue of the late lamented King Louis? " Courvois trembled with new anxiety : " It is mine — mine. I made it by my own work. Do not tell me that it has been taken ! " "It hasn't!" said Rourke shortly. "I guessed what was in that image some time ago. Do you think I would steal your miserable sav- ings? Though, indeed, you deserve to lose more than that, for you ruined poor Roquille. Come! did you not carry the child away from Marti- nique ? " Courvois tried a desperate bluff : " Monsieur, as to that you are mistaken. You have said that Roquille was not quite in his right mind. That is true. It was his obsession to think that I " 302 THE LEGACY " Hold your lying tongue ! " cried Smith, step- ping up to him menacingly. But Rourke drew him aside. " We shall see, Courvois," he said contemptuously, and turned to Leon. " Go! fetch Madame Roquille." " I will not see her ! " Courvois looked about him anxiously. '' You are all in a conspiracy to ruin me. What could this mad woman tell you but lies — what else ? " Rourke held Smith by the arm. '' Here comes madame," he whispered. Leon had gone a short distance up the pass, and now returned, leading a woman by the hand. She was exceedingly frail, thin, and delicate- looking. But, despite her paleness, her gaunt- ness, one could see that she had once been a wom- an of great beauty. She walked passively beside the mulatto, her eyes bent absently on the ground, her hand clasped Leon's loosely. She did not look up, even when she found herself in the center of the little group. Rourke touched her gently on the arm. " Madame, do you recognize this man? " He pointed to Courvois. The latter was ashy pale. Lie tried to con- ceal himself beside Smith, who stepped away from him. Leon also retreated, leaving him standing alone. The woman raised her eyes slowly. She did 303 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN not seem very agitated ; but her expression, every line of her face, showed that she knew who he was, that she remembered her old enemy. Smith and Courvois marveled at her restraint. They did not notice the cunning look which had crept into her eyes. She walked straight up to Cour- yois, and stared at him silently. Then, at last, " What have you done with my baby? " she asked slowly. Courvois backed away, whimpering: "It is some mistake " " You took her away, you know," Madame Roquille continued softly. " Tell me what you have done with her ? " He wrung his hands : " I — I know nothing of her." It happened in a moment. Madame Roquille dropped her eyes, and stared down at her feet. Rourke's pistol lay there, just where he had thrown it down. The others were too interested in the little scene to observe the intent look she bent upon the weapon. Courvois, too, stared at it, as if fascinated. His hands were raised to the level of his waist, the palms stiff, the fingers hanging limp. The woman bent with extraordi- nary rapidity. Smith, Rourke, and Leon sprang to seize her almost simultaneously. A thin wreath of smoke floated up ; the sound of a sharp 304 THE LEGACY explosion rang out, and was carried from peak to peak. " My heavens ! he's gone ! " said Rourke, bending over Courvois, who lay against the wall of the hut, where he had fallen. He tore aside the poncho, and laid a questioning hand upon the man's breast. Leon had no difficulty in securing the weapon. Madame Roquille gave it up readily, and smiled into his face quite childishly. " Did he tell you what he did with my baby? " she asked. Smith released the arm he held, and, turning away, moved off a little, where he stood with his back to them, staring out across the hills. Rourke called to him, " Smith! will you have a look at him? I don't think anything can be done." He returned then, and examined the prostrate man. " No, sonny," he said gently. " Courvois has slipped us this time. He got it just over the heart." Leon was already leading Madame Roquille up the track. She leaned heavily upon him, and her feet strayed unsteadily. He conveyed her with difficulty to a second cabin, which lay hidden behind a bend farther up the pass, and, pushing- open the door, took her within. " She's cut the knot, anyway," said Smith to 305 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN his companion. " But who'd have thought a woman could be so quick ! " " What's done can't be undone." Rourke was looking down at Courvois. " I would never have brought her down here, if I had known this would happen. You believe me? " " I do sure ! Without seeming particularly callous, I don't see that it matters much. He mayn't have been fit to die, but he was surely not fit to live. We must get him buried offhand, and leave this darned place as soon as can be." ''But Madame Roquille?" " She must come, too. There's no other way for it. Anyhow, I am not going to camp out in this location a moment longer than I can help. It surely gives me the creeps." Between them, they lifted Courvois, and car- ried him down the track to a place where the stones lay thickly scattered in a little cuplike de- pression. " We'll put him here," said Smith, " and pile the stones on him. We haven't got anything to dig with, and those bits of rock will keep him from fellows like that." As he spoke, he laid the body down, and pointed to a couple of vultures that circled high up above them. They finished their task as rapidly as possi- ble, and went back to the hut, without exchanging 306 THE LEGACY a word. Leon met them there, and beckoned them to follow him. " She is going, sefiores," he said, crossing himself reverently, and doffing his sombrero. '' It has come at last. She was frail always of late. The shock of this has finished the work." They went with him to the door of the second hut, and Smith stopped. " I'll wait for you here," he said quietly. " I don't want to see her." They came out to him again before half an hour had passed, and Rourke shook hands with him silently. Leon left them together, and went down to the lower cabin to release the dog. " We'll not talk of this, sonny," Smith ob- served, sympathetically. " It's over now, and all the palaver in the world won't mend it. What about your plans? There's this girl of yours at Santola. I wish you happiness. You're white right through, and if any man says otherwise, he'll have to say it to George H. Come ! Cour- vois must have left a deal of money, and that will fall to mademoiselle. There's that in the statue, you were talking about, and the cafe itself is a valuable property. There's no bar to your mar- riage that I can see." Rourke looked thoughtful. " I wouldn't take that money if it was the last in the world," he 307 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN said. " It can stay where it was put. I am sure Jeanne wouldn't have me touch it." Smith clapped him on the back : " I said you were white, and you are ! Between you and me, I'd have thought little of you, if you had taken it. Well, I've a proposition for you. This busi- ness of the claim was only a small affair to me. I took it up because I never let anything beat me. I've got investments of all kinds — railroad scrip, industrials in Pennsylvania, real estate in Rhode Island. There is a big ranch I was negotiating about when you came on the scene, and I want you to do me a favor. I'll be real affronted if you won't." "What's that?" " Well, I want you to manage it for me. YouVe got a proper headpiece, and you've got nerve, and you're a straight man. I won't offer you a fancy salary, but just the market value of the work, and a small commission on the profits. Will you take it ? Don't hand me out any Quix- otic poppycock, but just consider it from a busi- ness point of view." He left Rourke alone, and went down to meet Leon, who was leading the wolfhound on a- raw hide thong. " Say, is this your tame bear? " he asked, smiling. " Well, he don't trouble the den- tists a cent, I'll be bound. He's a mighty fine 308 THE LEGACY specimen of the genus cano. Good dog! You seem to have cottoned to George H. right away." " Smith," said Rourke, when he returned, " I have been thinking your proposition over. It's kind of you. More than I expected, and more than I deserve. But I can do it. I'll make the place pay, and earn my money every day Fm at it. You're a good sort, Smith." They shook hands again, and Smith turned the subject modestly: " Well, we're finished here. We must just fasten the door on poor madame, and move back to Santola. Where's that skew- bald of yours ? " " Tethered farther up the pass. There's a mule, too. Bring them along, Leon, will you? We shall start at once." " Certainly, senor mio. I am with you in that," said Leon. CHAPTER XXI THE BETTERED TIME THE return to Santola was accomplished without mishap. The mule they had cheaply disposed of to the owner of the pulperia at Copar, but Rourke retained the skew- bald mare for his own use upon the ranch which Smith had arranged for him to manage. Leon was to go with him as foreman. That was part of the bargain, to which the American readily acceded. The matter had been thor- oughly talked out while they were returning ; the questions of stock, agricultural plant, and the troublesome problem of local labor effectively settled. Rourke was quick to see to the heart of a matter, and fitted by temperament to control men. He had that happy knack of saying hard things in a soft voice, which every efficient com- mander of men must possess. He had not thought it necessary to advise Jeanne of his coming. Lovers are strange crea- tures, and arrange their exits and their entrances in a manner puzzling to those uninitiated into 310 THE BETTERED TIME the great mystery of love. He did not even call upon Jeanne immediately he had arrived in San- tola. Perhaps, like a gastronome, he reserved this supremest pleasure for the last. Meanwhile, he and Leon stayed with Smith at the big house in the Calle Huelva. The position of ranch manager had not been offered him as a sinecure. He took his prospective duties serious- ly, and, with his host, settled down to put upon paper the details they had already threshed out. A mass of figures, and arrangements, kept them busy until near midnight. Smith intended to carry the thing out on a large scale. He contem- plated the importing of pedigree cattle, the estab- lishment of a refrigerating plant, the erection of workshops and bakehouses, for the cheaper work- ing of the estate. He thought in large sums, and Rourke found himself wondering what had brought such a man to Santola. Smith seemed to divine his thoughts, and explained briefly the reasons for his residence in the sleepy town. He had the option to purchase a controlling interest in a company which had been formed to extend the railways of the province; linking up the smaller towns to the trunk line. A short residence in the capital had shown him that a thousand hangers- on of the Government overflowed his house at all hours, expecting favors or bribes, and threaten- .^11 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN ing obstruction if these were not forthcoming. So he had moved to Santola, and carried on nego- tiations quietly through the local Jefe Politico. He found it much cheaper to subsidize one man than a multitude. This explanation satisfied Rourke's natural curiosity. At last Smith rose, yawning largely. " Time to roost, sonny," he observed in his easy drawL '' I own I am considerable surprised that you haven't yet thought of calling on mademoiselle, ril bet there's some true lover's knot at the back of that ; but, not being of a curious disposition, I shan't inquire." Rourke took a final puff at his cigar, and tossed it into an ash-tray. He did not reply, but nodded good-humoredly, and went over to speak to Leon, who sat in a corner of the room, doz- ing over a cigarette. " Vamos, Leon. Time for bed. For myself, I could do with a sleep that'd last till next week." Smith rang one of his many electric bells to summon his major-domo. The man came quick- ly, and was told to show Rourke and Leon to their rooms. " It shall be done at once. Sefiores, will you be pleased to follow me ? Everything is in readi- ness for your Honors." They said good night then to their host, who 312 THE BETTERED TIME affected late hours, and seemed to thrive on the habit. Leon had a small room on the second floor; Rourke a spacious apartment, well lighted by windows facing the street. He was greatly fatigued, but not in the least inclined for sleep. His brightening prospects, the fact that there was no longer any necessity to conceal his plans, together with the thoughts of Jeanne, formed subjects about which his mind played pleasantly. He had to assure himself again that it was all true. The barrier which had separated him from Jeanne was now removed, the burden of a vicari- ous vendetta had been taken from his shoulders. He felt light of heart, immensely optimistic for the future. The terrible scene upon the pass lingered only fragmentarily in his mind. The affair was over, the chief protagonists removed, and no purpose was to be served by dwelling on the trag- edy. Thoughts of the girl who loved and waited for him crowded out, at last, all minor interests. He remembered their last interview in the warm gloom of the cafe patio; the touch of her lips on his, the remembered pressure of her arms, im- pressed themselves on his senses, almost as deep- ly as they had done when he had taken her into his embrace, and felt the light caress of her hair upon his forehead. Did she know that he had returned to San- 313 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN tola? Would she misconstrue the motives which had led him to postpone his hour of joy? He asked himself these questions, well knowing that Jeanne both knew of his arrival and would un- derstand why he had delayed the meeting. He took a curious pleasure in these thoughts, be- cause they wove themselves about Jeanne. It was amazing to think that happiness, undiluted, unalloyed, was at length within his reach. It was a truth outvieing the strangest fiction. " Look as if you'd had a mighty fine sleep, Rourke," Smith said to him at breakfast. " Not a wink," Rourke laughed. "Say, is that so? Oh, you're in love. It takes that to make a man dine ofif thin air, and sleep with his eyes open. Well, I congratulate you, sir. George H. hands you the glad pat, and wishes you all the joy you can corral into three score and ten. Yes, sir. The congratulations are on to me, and I ante up freely." " Thank you ! " said Rourke, holding out his hand. " I'll be after going round to the cafe this minute. See you later." " I reckon," said Smith, winking. He went out to the door with Rourke, and stood looking after him until he had turned the corner and disappeared. He laughed a little, at first, then grew sober, and seemed to be think- ing. 314 THE BETTERED TIME His schemes and plans, the combinations in which his soul delighted; the joy of battle in the commercial arena, seemed to recede into the dim background of his mind. He wondered if the game were worth the candle. There was some- thing lacking, some essential factor in life which he recognized as having missed. The mood passed. He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. If there were fewer joys in his life, there certain- ly were fewer responsibilities of a really serious kind. He went indoors, humming cheerfully. Rourke walked rapidly in the direction of the Cafe Fleur de Lys, his pulses beating with a new force, in the bewildering consciousness that his faint hopes and hazy dreams were at last to be realized, and made haste to cross the plaza. He was a trifle nervous, more so, perhaps, than he had ever been since that day when, reeling into the cafe, he had stood at the counter staring at Jeanne. He had no idea that it would prove so difficult to speak when the right moment came. Their intimacy was close, he had told her that he loved her, yet an undefinable perturbation seized him now as he went forward to the capture of that elusive spirit we call happiness. What would Jeanne say to him? A momentary doubt seized him ; natural yet unjustified. It occurred to him that he had a long tale to tell, a complicated ex- 21 315 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN planation to make, before he could speak of his love, and listen to her brave confession. This stood up like a scepter between him and his hopes. Jeanne was not in the cafe. He approached the head waiter. Solar, with a question, and was met by the reply that mademoiselle was expect- ing him, and had asked that he should join her in the patio. Rourke wondered what this might portend. Jeanne evidently knew that he had re- turned to Santola. " I see ! " He looked tentatively at Solar. " I will go to her immediately. How has the cafe been getting on since Monsieur Courvois went away ? " Solar shrugged: "Very well, senor. But now, it appears that it is to be disposed of, or, at least, given up. I hope that the senor will speak for me to the senorita. I have been here ten years." Rourke nodded: ''That will be all right, Solar. I'll see to it that you are recommended to the new proprietor, whoever he may be." " A thousand thanks, sefior. You have, of course, heard of the death of the patron?" " Yes, I know about it." Rourke looked puz- zled. How had the news traveled here? Did Jeanne know ? " The sefiorita, then, has also heard?" "It is so. A mulat — a certain Senor Leon 316 THE BETTERED TIME called here yesterday afternoon, and had an in- terview with her." Rourke restrained an exclamation of surprise : " Thank you ! I will go now to the sefiorita." He walked quickly to the door, swung it open, and emerged in the full sunlight of the patio. Jeanne was seated there, in the shade of the cor- ridor, her head slightly bent, her hands crossed lightly in her lap. She sprang up, and came to meet him. " Desmon', I was waiting for you." " My dear — " He put out his hand and took both of hers. Their eyes glowed. He did not kiss her, but, drawing her gently back to her seat, stood leaning against one of the trellised pillars. " You've heard about him — Courvois, I mean? " " Yes, I have heard." He was silent for a moment, considering the statue beaming beneficently at them in the sun- light. " What are you going to do about that? " he asked, irrelevantly. '' Mon cher, I shall let it remain. The money was his. Let it stay. I should not touch it. As for the cafe, that must be sold. I think the pro- ceeds of the sale had better be given to some good object. But certainly ! " " That's right." Rourke was regarding her 3^7 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN with a whimsical smile : " This alters your posi- tion a bit, though, doesn't it ? You will be penni- less; without a home. Sure! you'll want some one to look after you, Jeanne." She smiled a little: "Monsieur Courvois is dead then. I heard it yesterday from your friend, M. Leon. My mother also. Ah! I never knew her, but it was sad, so sad. I feel triste to-day, Desmon'." " No doubt ! " he said, gravely. " Well, dear, it's a burden off my mind. I'd come to tell you that story, and it was too long and too unhappy to make the telling of it pleasant. I'm glad you know. I am staying with Smith, you see, in the Calle Huelva. I expect he knew how I'd feel about it, and sent Leon to explain it all. He's a curious man that, Jeanne. I don't know that I understand him." " He is amiable at least." She leaned for- ward, and looked at him questioningly. " You knew my father — my mother. You helped them in their troubles. You are a good man, Des- mon'." " Now don't ! " he protested, fidgeting, and looking uneasy. " Your father was the decent- est man on this continent, and your mother, poor lady, one of the sweetest women, in her quiet moods. They did a lot for me, when I was 318 I THE BETTERED TIME stabbed over there beyond. I'd have bled to death if it wasn't for the nursing I got." Jeanne smiled again: ''I said to you once that women always found out what they wished to find out. So, you see, it is true. You would have had me believe that you were a monster. But I never believed it. I knew there must be something which you had never disclosed to me. To believe that you wished to rob Monsieur Courvois — ah! C'etait vraiment impossible! I knew that in time I should come to understand your motive, and to know that you remained my preux chevalier." He stared at her for a moment, and colored slightly. " You're giving me more credit than I ever honestly earned in my life," he said slowly. '' Sure, there was Leon had far the hardest time of it! When I was down here enjoying myself, wasn't he cooped up there on the mountain? Och! Jeanne, there's a man for you. Dark as he is, there isn't a whiter man between this and Patagonia. It's him you ought to be thanking." Jeanne turned her head away to hide a smile. " As I understand it, then, you have done lit- tle, and this Monsieur Leon a great deal ? " " That's about the size of it," he said bluffly. " You were, in effect, of very little use in that menage up there?" " Not so bad as that," he said seriously. '* I 319 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN did something, and I had some hardships. But Leon did the most, and suffered the most," Jeanne came to stand beside him, and her eyes were twinkhng with pretty mahce: "Oh, my poor Desmon', what a miserable man there is to me, after all ! A rogue, an idler, what were you not?" Rourke opened his eyes wide : " I believe you were laughing at me, you witch. Were you now? " " Ah, I laugh, and I cry ! You think you can tell the woman who loves you that you are al- most worthless. You think that you can make her place you second to another man whom she knows not at all. One sees that you have not made a study of my sex. Monsieur Desmon'. I am glad for that, too." " Are you now? " said he, smiling. " Well, I think you're right. Faith! I never got close enough to any of them to study them closely. Well, let's drop that for the moment, till I tell you of my good luck." " Continues! " She slipped her arm through his, and leaned upon him a little, for the sheer pleasure of the contact. " Well, I've no excuse for being an idler any longer, Jeanne," he said, dropping into her light- hearted tone. " I held to it as long as I could, knowing that any excuse is good enough to keep 320 I THE BETTERED TIME a man from his work. But, sure, a misfortune's fallen on me. I've got to manage a big place for Smith — for old George H. A ranch it is, and going to be on up-to-date lines." " Oh, that is very good ! " Jeanne pressed his arm tightly. '' But, as you say, it will mean the hard work." They played with their joy, as a cat may play with a mouse, letting it slip a little from them, seeming to look away from it, then grasping it again, and holding it closely. " There's another bother to it," said Rourke, looking tragic. " Sure, it'll mean leaving San- tola, and going to live by myself in a lonely des- ert, so it will." " Perhaps Monsieur will enjoy the solitude ? " Jeanne questioned. " Oh, splendidly," he said. " He will admire Nature." " He'll never be done admiring it, bedad ! " " Desmon' ! " she said, softly. "Jeanne?" She made no reply, but withdrew his arm, and stood a pace away from him. Tenderness lurked in the depths of her fine eyes. She looked at him steadily. " What makes you do it, Jeanne? " he asked. "Do— what?" 321 DESMOND ROURKE, IRISHMAN " Plague me so," he said, advancing, and possessing himself of her hand. " Sure, you're the cruelest little woman that ever lived. What with drawing the heart out of me with your dear ways, and making me forget me dignity, and the fine position I have, I hardly know which way to turn." Her eyes were alight : " Do you love me, then?" " No," he said, with a pretense of indiffer- ence. " You do not love me? " " No, I worship you ! " " Those are fine words, but what do they mean ? " she fenced. " I suppose they mean that I'm willing to add another to my responsibilities," he said, with a twinkle. They stood silent for a little while: perfectly happy, wrapt in quiet content. Then Rourke took her in his arms, and drew her head to his shoulder. " Darling," he said, " will you have me go away to that lonely place without you? Won't you ask me to stay? " " Desmon', I will not ask you to stay here," she said, laughing up in his face. " What's to be done, then ? " he asked, press- ing her closer. 322 THE BETTERED TIME Jeanne considered for a moment. He bent his head down to listen. " If you must go to this place, Desmon'/' she whispered, " and I do not ask you to stay here, I think — I think I must go — with you'' (1) THE END NOVELS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS "The most popuUr rfter in the country." — New York World, The Green Mouse. Illustrated in Colors by Edmund Frederick. Cloth, $1.50. A novel founded on a most whimsically entertaining notion of a wireless machine that catches and brings into contact the psychic waves of persons of opfMJsite sex. Special Messenger. Illustrated, Colored Inlay on Cover. Cloth, $1.50. The romantic love story of a woman spy in the Civil War. lole. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25. "Think of eight pretty girls in pink silk pajamas and sunbonnets, brought >'p in innocence in a scientific Eden, with a ' House Beautiful ' in the back^^ound, and a poetical father in the foreground. 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Wholesome, sweet-spirited, well planned, absorbing." — Chicago Record-Herald. " Admirably constructed. Interesting episodes succeed each other and the frothy and clever dialogue of the fashionable butterflies of the New York smart set is wittily flippant and amusing. It is a capital novel. The real depths of human feeling are treated with fine emo- tional power." — Philadelphia Public Ledger. "The most distinguished society novel for a long time and one of the most dramatic." — Hartford Courant. "As up-to-date as the steam yacht. More than ordinarily pleas- ing." — Brooklyn Eagle. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK NOVELS BY HALL CAINE. Uniform Edition. Each l2tao, doth. The Prodigal Son. $1.50. " In ' The Prodigal Son ' Hall Caine has produced his greatest work." — Boston Herald. "Since 'The Manxman' Hall Caine has written nothing so moving in its elements of pathos and tragedy, so plainly marked with the power to search the human heart and reveal its secret springs of strength and weakness, its passion and strife, so sincere and satisfying as 'The Prodigal Son.'" — A'ew York Times, The Eternal City. $1.50. *' The novel is wonderful in its power, its wealth of dramatic incident, and its richness of diction." — Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. The Christian. $1.50. " Its strength grasps you at the beginning and holds you to the end. There is in it something of the fervor of true prophecy." — Chicago Journal. The Manxman. $1.50. " Hall Caine has the art of being human and humane, and his characters have the strength of elemental things. In ' The Manxman ' he handles large human questions — the questions of lawful and lawless love." — New York Commercial Advertiser. The Deemster. $1.50. New copyright edition, revised by the author. "Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and ' The Deemster ' is a story of unusual power. . . . Certain passages and chap- ters have an intensely dramatic grasp and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited nowadays in literature." — The Critic. The Scapegoat. $1.50. New copyright edition, revised by the author. "This new edition presents itself as practically a new book. It will be found to differ materially from the edition heretofore published, which was issued some years since without the benefit of the author's revision. This powerful romance and expressive ' parable ' is likely to obtain a greatly enlarged meed of popularity." — Washington Post. The Bondman. $1.50. New copyright edition, revised by the author. The Little Manx Nation. Si. 00. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK, BY THE AUTHOR OF **THE HGHTING CHANCE.' The Younger Set. A Novel by Robert W. Chambers. Illus- trated by G. C. Wilmshurst. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. This is a famous novel of New York society ; a brilliant picture of American wealth in its romance, its sins, its splendors, its divorces and its sports ; a love story such as only Robert W. Chambers can write. It is stronger, tenser, better than the same author's greatest success, " The Fighting Chance." Richly illustrated by G. C. Wilmshurst. " It is brightly told, replete with the wit and sparkle and charm that invests everything Mr. Chambers writes. It is a delightful sojourn among people one could wish to know." — Kansas City Star. " It is written with a freshness and vigor that cannot be too much appreciated and praised." — Salt Lake Tribune. "It is the best story Mr. Chambers has ever written." — Cleveland LeasUr. " The most popular writer in the country has improved upon his own very popular ' Fighting Chance.' " — New York World. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. loH3 \j4n THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. scrips a482 98 3 1205 02125 8247 hhi.nS^"^ regional library FACILITY "" " ilifiiiiifr'Tiirr'iriii A A 'J'J1 431 015 niiipilill: ilf" m m I nil! iliiiiiii wm