Home > Authors Index > William MacLeod Raine > Daughter of the Dons; A Story of New Mexico Today > This page
A Daughter of the Dons; A Story of New Mexico Today, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
||
Chapter 1. Don Manuel Introduces Himself |
||
| Table of content |
Next > |
|
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER I. DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF For hours Manuel Pesquiera had been rolling up the roof of the continent in an observation-car of the "Short Line." His train had wound in and out through a maze of bewildering scenery, and was at last dipping down into the basin of the famous gold camp. The alert black eyes of the young New Mexican wandered discontentedly over the raw ugliness of the camp. Towns straggled here and there untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky "strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a network of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the open tunnel mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray Titan dump beards. The magic that had wonderfully brought all these manifold activities into being had its talisman in the word "Gold"; but, since Pesquiera had come neither as a prospector nor investor, he heard with only half-concealed impatience the easy gossip of his fellow travelers about the famous ore producers of the district. It was not until his inattentive ears caught the name of Dick Gordon that he found interest in the conversation. "Pardon, sir! Are you acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon?" he asked, a touch of the gentle Spanish accent in his voice. The man to whom he had spoken, a grizzled, weather-beaten little fellow in a corduroy suit and white, broad-brimmed felt hat, turned his steady blue eyes on his questioner a moment before he answered: "I ought to know him, seeing as I'm his partner." "Then you can tell me where I may find him?" "Yes, sir, I can do that. See that streak of red there on the hill--the one above the big dump. That's the shafthouse of the Last Dollar. Drop down it about nine hundred feet and strike an airline west by north for about a quarter of a mile, and you'd be right close to him. He's down there, tackling a mighty uncertain proposition. The shaft and the workings of the Last Dollar are full of water. He's running a crosscut from an upraise in the Radley drift, so as to tap the west tunnel of the Last Dollar." "It is dangerous, you inform me?" "Dangerous ain't the word. It's suicide, the way I look at it. See here, my friend. His drill goes through and lets loose about 'steen million gallons of water. How is he going to get in out of the rain about that time?" The New Mexican showed a double row of pearly teeth in a bland smile. "Pardon, sir. If you would explain a leetle more fully I would then comprehend." "Sure. Here's the way it is. Dick and his three men are plugging away at the breast of the drift with air-drills. Every day he gits closeter to that lake dammed up there. Right now there can't be more'n a few feet of granite 'twixt him and it. He don't know how many any more'n a rabbit, because he's going by old maps that ain't any too reliable. The question is whether the wall will hold till he dynamites it through, or whether the weight of water will crumple up that granite and come pouring out in a flood." "Your friend, then, is in peril, is it not so?" "You've said it. He's shooting dice with death. That's the way I size it up. If the wall holds till it's blown up, Dick has got to get back along the crosscut, lower himself down the upraise, and travel nearly a mile through tunnelings before he reaches a shaft to git out. That don't leave them any too much time at the best. But if the water breaks through on them, it's Heaven help Dick, and good-by to this world." "Then Mr. Gordon is what you call brave?" "He's the gamest man that ever walked into this camp. There ain't an inch of him that ain't clear grit through and through. Get into a tight place, and he's your one best bet to tie to." "Mr. Gordon is fortunate in his friend," bowed the New Mexican politely. The little miner looked at him with shining eyes. "Nothing like that. Me, I figure the luck's all on my side. Onct you meet Dick you'll see why we boost for him. Hello, here's where we get off at. If you're looking for Dick, stranger, you better follow me. I'm going right up to the mine. Dick had ought to be coming up from below any minute now." Pesquiera checked his suitcase at the depot newsstand and walked up a steep hill trail with his guide. The miner asked no questions of the New Mexican as to his business with Gordon, nor did the latter volunteer any information. They discussed instead the output of the camp for the preceding year, comparing it with that of the other famous gold districts of the world. Just as they entered the shafthouse the cage shot to the surface. From it stepped two men. Several miners crowded toward them with eager greetings, but they moved aside at sight of Pesquiera's companion, who made straight for those from below. "What's new, Tregarth?" he asked of one of them, a huge Cornishman. "The drill have brook into the Last Dollar tunnel. The watter of un do be leaking through, Measter Davis. The boss sent us oop while Tom and him stayed to put the charges in the drill holes to blow oot the wall. He wouldna coom and let me stay." Davis thought a moment. "I'll go down the shaft and wait at the foot of it. There'll be something doing soon. Keep your eye peeled for signals, Smith, and when you git the bell to raise, shoot her up sudden. If the water's coming, we'll be in a hurry, and don't you forget it. Want to come down with me, Tregarth?" "I do that, sir." The man stepped into the cage and grinned. "We'll bring the byes back all right. Bet un we do, lads." The cage shot down, and the New Mexican sat on a bench to wait its return. Beside him was a young doctor, who had come prepared for a possible disaster. Such conversation as the men carried on was in low tones, for all felt the strain of the long minutes. The engineer's eye was glued to his machinery, his hand constantly on the lever. It must have been an hour before the bell rang sharply in the silence and the lever swept back instantly. A dozen men started to their feet and waited tensely. Next moment there was a wild, exultant cheer. For Tregarth had stepped from the cage with a limp figure in his arms, and after him Davis, his arm around the shoulder of a drenched, staggering youth, who had a bleeding cut across his cheek. Through all the grime that covered the wounded miner the pallor of exhaustion showed itself. But beaten and buffeted as the man had plainly been in his fight for life, the clean, supple strength and the invincible courage of him still shone in his eye and trod in his bearing. It was even now the salient thing about him, though he had but come, alive and no more, from a wrestle with death itself. He sank to a bench, and looked around on his friends with shining eyes. "'Twas nip and tuck, boys. The water caught us in the tunnel, and I thought we were gone. It swept us right to the cage," he panted. "She didn't sweep Tom there, boss; ye went back after un," corrected the Cornishman. "Anyhow, we made it in the nick o' time. Tom all right, Doctor?" The doctor looked up from his examination. "No bones broken. He seems sound. If there are no internal injuries it will be a matter of only a day or two in bed." "Good. That's the way to talk. You got to make him good as new, Doctor. You ought to have seen the way he stayed by that drill when the water was pouring through the cracks in the granite. Have him taken to the hospital, and send the bill to me." Tregarth boomed out in a heavy bass: "What's the matter with the boss? Both of un? They be all right. Bean't they, lads?" It was just after the answering chorus that Pesquiera came forward and bowed magnificently to the young mine operator. The New Mexican's eyes were blazing with admiration, for he was of Castilian blood and cherished courage as the chief of virtues. "I have the honor to salute a hero, _senor_" he cried enthusiastically. "Your deed is of a most fine bravery. I, Manuel Pesquiera, say it. Have I the right in thinking him of the name of Mr. Richard Gordon?" Something that was almost disgust filmed the gray eyes of the young miner. He had the Anglo-Saxon horror of heroics. What he had done was all in the day's work, and he was the last man in the world to enjoy having a fuss made over it. "My name is Gordon," he said quietly. The Spaniard bowed again. "I have the honor to be your servant to command, Don Manuel Pesquiera. I believe myself to be, sir, a messenger of fortune to you--a Mercury from the favoring gods, with news of good import. I, therefore, ask the honor of an audience at your convenience." Dick flung the wet hat from his curly head and took a look at the card which the Spaniard had presented him. From it his humorous gaze went back to the posturing owner of the pasteboard. Suppressing a grin, he answered with perfect gravity. "If you will happen round to the palace about noon to-morrow, _Senor_ Pesquiera, you will be admitted to the presence by the court flunkies. When you're inquiring for the whereabouts of the palace, better call it room 14, Gold Nugget Rooming-House." He excused himself and stepped lightly across to his companion in the adventure, who had by this time recovered consciousness. "How goes it, Tom? Feel as if you'd been run through a sausage-grinder?" he asked cheerily. The man smiled faintly. "I'm all right, boss. The boys tell me you went back and saved me." "Sho! I just grabbed you and slung you in the cage. No trick at all, Tom. Now, don't you worry, boy. Just lie there in the hospital and rest easy. We're settling the bill, and there's a hundred plunks waiting you when you get well." Tom's hand pressed his feebly. "I always knew you were white, boss." The doctor laughed as he came forward with a basin of water and bandages. "I'm afraid he'll be whiter than he need be if I don't stop that bleeding. I think we're ready for it now, Mr. Gordon." "All right. It's only a scratch," answered Gordon indifferently. Pesquiera, feeling that he was out of the picture, departed in search of a hotel for the night. He was conscious of a strong admiration for this fair brown-faced Anglo-Saxon who faced death so lightly for one of his men. Whatever else he might prove to be, Richard Gordon was a man. The New Mexican had an uneasy prescience that his mission was foredoomed to failure and that it might start currents destined to affect potently the lives of many in the Rio Chama Valley. _ |
||