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 <writer in the country." — New York World. 
 
 Ailsa Paige. Bound in green cloth with gold title. Eight 
 full-page illustrations by F. Vaux Wilson and wrapper 
 in colors and gold. $1.50. 
 
 This book contains not only the striking pictures of fashionable life fo. 
 ■which Mr. Chambers is famous, introducing a hero as strong and as inter- 
 esting as Malcourt in "The Firing Line" and a heroine as fascinating as 
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 a theme of noblest patriotism, animating the vivid, graphic pictures of the 
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 virhole story, the influence of a strong, passionate, uplifting love is shown para- 
 mount in the lives of a virondrous woman and a vigorous man. 
 
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 This new society novel presents another side of the wonderful art of 
 Mr. Chambers. The background is vi^oven of the same delightful casual, 
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 theme is in many respects the most important Mr. Chambers has yet handled. 
 
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 This is unquestionably the best novel Mr. Chambers has ever written. 
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 and the story presents the accomplishment of a great novel which was promised 
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 The hero, forced out of the army by domestic troubles, returns to New York 
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 But new complications intervene and are described with what the New York 
 Sun calls Mr. Chambers' " amazing knack of narrative." 
 
 The Fighting Chance. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 One of the most brilliant pictures of wealthy American society ever painted; 
 one of the most interesting and appealing stories ever written ; one of the 
 most widely read of all American novels. The novel that brought Mr. Cham- 
 bers to the front rank. 
 
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 good not to suffer fearfully by comparison. ' The Fighting Chance ' is very 
 good and it does not snU&r y —Cleveland Plain Dealer. 
 
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 — New York Evening Sun. 
 
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 NOVELS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 
 
 ''The most popular m>rfter in the country." — New York World, 
 
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 those rose-petalled creations turned loose upon New York society and then 
 enjoy the fun of it all in ' lole.' " — Boston Herald. 
 
 Some Ladies in Haste. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 Mr. Chambers has written most delightfully, and in his charming satire 
 depicts the plight of five society girls and five clubmen. It is by far his best 
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 4M 
 
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 The Grain of Dust 
 
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 — New York Times. 
 
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 " One reads it with feverish interest. It seems to demon- 
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