Jessica Trent: Her Life on a Ranch

CHAPTER V
COUNTER REVOLT

Whereupon the strong ex-sailor thrust the weapon aside and tossed the lad in the air as if he had been a ball. Yet caught him as he lightly descended, and placed him astride his own shoulders.

“Who’ll beat the little master? Three times out o’ seven, with an iron heavy as that, how’s the showing for an eight-year-old?”

But Ned slipped from the ranchman’s back, picked up his own tiny, perfectly finished gun, and swung it over his head.

“Huh! That’s nothing! Huh! This the feller! Huh! Guess ’tis. Shot more’n forty-’leven quails this day ’t ever was. Had ’em for my supper. Had ’em for the man broke his horse’s leg and stole Scruff. Hello, Mister! Had your supper? Wasn’t them good birds? I shot ’em for you. I did.”

“You?” demanded the gentleman, astonished. He had now joined the group surrounding the three children, and his presence caused a lull in the uproar which had preceded his arrival. “You! Why you aren’t big enough to do such a thing.”

“I did! I did! I never told a lie in all my life–never, never, never! So, there!” and unable to endure such an imputation, the child rushed upon his traducer and pounded him well with the butt of his little rifle.

“Ned! Edward Trent! Stop! You–a little gentleman–mother’s son!”

Jessica’s arms were about her brother, restraining his movements and for a moment making him drop his head in shame. The next he had broken from her grasp, caught up another gun and dragged it toward her.

“Your turn, Jess. Hurry up. There’s just an inch of sun left–I mean there was a minute ago–hurry up! Me an’ Luis’s got to go to bed quick as a wink! Hurry–hurry!”

“Hurry up!” echoed Luis, with a yawn, and dropping down where he stood, was instantly asleep.

John Benton crossed to the visitor’s side and remarked:

“Now, I tell you, stranger, you’ll see the sight of your life. If I was a betting man I’d back Our Lady Jess again’ any other girl-shooter on the globe. You just watch out–if the dark holds off a spell.”

There were a dozen, maybe, of the ranchmen standing or lying around in a semi-circle, but now all quiet and intent upon the little girl, as, nodding and smiling upon her guest and her beloved “boys,” she stepped into the open space before them all. “Forty-niner” March, unerring marksman and the children’s instructor, took his place beside her, examined her rifle, handed it to her and also observed to the stranger:

“Now, if nothin’ happens, you’ll see sunthin’. Sorry it’s so dusk, but any gent what doubt’s is free to walk up to the target and look where the ball strikes. You, lady, do me proud.”

“I’ll try,” said Jessica, simply. “Is it the little nail in the center?”

“Just that.”

She sighted and fired; and a ranchman who had run forward to the target, shouted back across the darkening space:

“Hit her plumb!”

A roar of applause greeted this announcement, but the girl accepted this tribute with no comment save another nod and smile, as she waited her teacher’s next direction.

This was given silently by a gesture downward.

Instantly Jessica dropped upon the ground, rested herself upon her elbows, aimed, fired, and–“Hit her again! Hooray for Our Lady! Hooray–hooray–hooray!”

In his excitement big Samson seized Mr. Hale by the sleeve and compelled that gentleman to jog-trot across the open and view at closer range the wonderful skill of the little maid who was so dear to them all.

“Stand aside, Psalm Singer. Your head’s in the way!” cautioned somebody.

Still clutching his companion, Samson obeyed, and they saw Jessica now lying upon her back, sighting upward and backward over her head a small, white object that had been placed in the target where the tack had been. There was no cheering then, nor any movement among the eager watchers who fairly held their breaths lest they disturb their darling in that supreme moment of her success or failure.

“But she’ll not fail!” thought more than one, and would have given a year’s wages that she should not.

There was a swift rush of something through the air, so close to Mr. Hale’s nose that he visibly drew back, and a double report as the bullet hit the toy torpedo which had been the chosen mark.

After that, pandemonium; or so it seemed to Mr. Hale. Those gray and grizzled men–for there were few young among them–shouted themselves hoarse and gave way to the wildest expressions of pride and delight. As for Jessica, the heroine, though her eyes sparkled and a flush rose to her cheeks, she was by far the calmest person present. Even Mr. Hale’s heart was beating rapidly and he caught the girl’s hands and shook them violently, in his congratulations.

“That was marvelous! marvelous! I’ve seen pretty good sharp-shooting done by professionals, but never anything so fine as that last shot of yours. How could you ever learn it, so young as you are?”

“How could I help learning? It is ‘Forty-niner's’ work, a deal more than mine. He’s been teaching me ever since I could hold a tiny bow and arrow. He’s wonderful, if you please; but I––Well, it seems just to do itself, somehow. But I must go in now. Time for the little ones to be in bed. Come, Ned. Come, Luis. Oh, dear! he’s fast asleep.”

“I’ll pack him for you, lady. And say, boys, isn’t this the time?”

Samson had lifted the sleeping Luis, tucked him under one arm and swung Ned to the other, but now paused to glance around among his fellow-workmen.

“Time was ‘moon-up,’” answered Joe, minded to be facetious.

“This would be ‘moon-up,’ if the old girl knew her business,” retorted the sailor. “In ten minutes we’ll be with you. Come, on, my lady. I’ve a word to say to you and the mistress.”

The daily evening sport was over and the ranchmen rapidly dispersed, each to his own quarters, and none considering it his especial business to entertain the stranger, who was now strolling slowly houseward mindful of the sudden chill which came with the nightfall and of his own unfitness for exposure.

Proudest of all, “Forty-niner” gathered up the weapons and carried them off, to clean and put in order for the next evening’s practice. He was well satisfied with his pupil’s achievements, though already planning more difficult feats for their performance. The man was eighty; yet, while his abundant hair was white, his back was still straight and his step firm. The joy of his old age was the athletic training of the Sobrante children, and it would have amazed him, even broken his heart, had he been told that by such means he did not well earn his keep. He was eldest of all the elderly workmen that the late master of the ranch had gathered about him, and his appreciation of this good home in which to end his days perhaps, the greatest of all. It was, therefore, a terrible shock which awaited him, as entering his own room, he lighted his lamp and saw lying on his table a white envelope addressed to himself.

He knew what it meant. Dismissal.

One year before, when Cassius Trent died, there had been twenty employees where there were now but thirteen–he the “odd one” of the “baker’s dozen.” Seven times, when least expected or desired, some one of these twenty had found in his room just such an envelope, containing his arrears of wages, and the curt information that, “by the order of Mrs. Trent, his services were no longer required at Sobrante, nor would any wages be forthcoming from that day forward.”

These men had all been friends, rather than servants, and in each case the result had been the same. Cut to the heart by the manner of discharge, and, for the first time it may be, realizing that he was no longer young, and, therefore, valuable, the recipient of the envelope had quietly disappeared, saying farewell to nobody.

“My turn! My turn, at last!” broke from the aged frontiersman’s lips, and a groan followed. “Ten years I’ve lived in this old adobe cell till I’ve come to feel like the monk for whom it was first built. Now––”

The white head drooped forward on the outstretched arms and all the burden of his eighty years seemed suddenly to have descended upon that bowed and shrunken figure.

In the pretty dining-room Antonio Bernal had eaten a hearty supper served by his own mistress, since Wun Lung was not to be found and the house-boy, Pasqual, claimed his usual recreation hour at the rifle practice. But neither thought anything amiss in this, and the manager would, indeed, have asserted that it was quite the proper thing. Was not he a Bernal, and superior to all at Sobrante? Even though he was, for the time being, receiving wage instead of bestowing. Well, it was a long lane that had no turning.

Pushing back from the table, Antonio had murmured the proverb in Spanish, with a smile of satisfaction lighting his dark face, and Mrs. Trent had failed to hear distinctly, though she was familiar enough with the language so often in use about her.

“Beg pardon, I did not understand.”

“Begging pardon, one’s self, senora, it is seldom that you do. It is the business was never made for the small brains of the women, no? ’Tis the senora’s place to be beautiful and let the business rest in the capable hands of I, myself. En verdad.”

Mrs. Trent colored and bit her lip. This man’s insolence was becoming insupportable, and she could scarcely recognize him for the obsequious fellow who had been her husband’s right-hand dependence. His brief authority had turned his head, she reflected, and, again, that she must in no wise offend him. The welfare of her children demanded this, and forcing herself to smile as pleasantly as if his insult were a jest, she remarked:

“The gentleman whom you met, as you came in, is a lawyer. A New York lawyer. I–I would like to consult him about our–this business you mention. I was born and reared in New York and have a feeling that anything which comes from there must be all right. Even a lawyer, though I’m not fond of the profession usually.

“The senor is not wont to waste so many words upon her most humble servant, no. And as for the lawyers, have I not this day been to the consulting of the most eminent, the wisest of his kind, no? But yes; and the truth is, senora–believe me, it breaks my heart so to inform you, but this barren rancho of Sobrante belongs not to the Dona Gabriella and her children, but to one Antonio Bernal, even I, myself.”

“To you! Belongs–to–you?” gasped the astonished woman.

The manager shrugged his shoulders and tossed another Spanish proverb toward her: “What I have said, I have said.”

Mrs. Trent felt her strength leaving her and sank into a chair, still gazing incredulously at the other, who now lounged back in his own chair and began to leisurely pick his teeth. It was a trivial action, but one wholly disgusting to the gentlewoman’s fastidious sense, and it angered her, which was a good thing, for her anger banished her momentary faintness and gave her boldness to demand:

“The proof!”

“It will be forthcoming, senora, at the right time. Yes. Meanwhile, I am content you shall remain, you and your little ones, until–well, say a month. By that date all things should have been arranged and the senora will have found herself another home less lonely than Sobrante. One so beautiful as the Dona Gabriella must have hosts of friends who––”

Senor Bernal paused. There were footsteps approaching, and the merry voices of children, and an instant later Samson was in the room, still carrying the little lads in his arms, and with Jessica clinging affectionately to his ragged sleeve.

One glance showed the faithful ranchman that something was amiss. There was fresh sorrow, even consternation, in the beloved face of Sobrante’s mistress, fresh insolence in that of her chief assistant. He was not one to hesitate when his friends were in trouble, and turned to Antonio with an angry demand:

“What have you been worrying your betters with now, senor?”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, rascal.”

“Returnin’ the compliment, if you please. All the same, don’t you know that a man–a man–doesn’t go around worrying women as you worry Mrs. Trent? You, that hadn’t a shirt to your back when the boss took you in and made you what you are! I’m anticipatin’ a mite, and I don’t know just how some of the boys’ll take it, but we’d laid out this very night at moon-up–if there’d been a moon sensible enough to get up, which there isn’t–to haul you and a few other matters over the coals and stir up a fresh sort of blaze. Now, I warn you, just you let matters slide, peaceable, and you–just you, yourself, keep that civil tongue you recommend, or you’ll light out of here so quick ye won’t see your heels for dust, dry season though it is. Hear?”

“Hear? Yes, I hear. Now, ’tis your turn. You go tell those malcontents you call ‘the boys’ to take their packs and foot it. Times have changed. Things have changed. There’s another master here now, and not a weak-willed mistress. That is me–I–Antonio Bernal, owner of Sobrante rancho and all that appertains thereto. Now, go. Vamos. Depart. Clear out. Get!”

Samson went–as far as the long, open window, and stepped out upon the porch. He did not see Mr. Hale, who had seated himself in a rocker, an unintentional witness of a scene he would gladly have missed, and putting a whistle to his lips blew a summons which was understood by every fellow-workman on the ranch. Then he quietly re-entered the house, folded his arms, and leaned carelessly against the door frame.

Senor Bernal started up as if he would forcibly eject the herder, but thought better of this and sank back nonchalantly in his great chair. Jessica had placed herself behind her mother, and clasped Mrs. Trent’s shoulders with the protecting tenderness habitual to her. Ned had sprung to his mother’s lap and Luis continued his nap at her feet; while all seemed waiting for some fresh development of the affair.

This came and speedily; for, in answer to Samson’s whistle, there filed over the porch and into the room, Joe, the smith; Marty, the gardener; and Carpenter John. There was missing old “Forty-niner,” commonly the dominant fifth of this odd quintet, but nobody wondered much at that. Doubtless he was polishing his darling’s rifle and making ready for some astonishing display of her skill wherewith to dazzle the stranger upon the morrow. In any case he rarely disagreed with the opinions of his cronies and was sure to be one with them in the matter of that hour.

With a respectful salute to Mrs. Trent, a grin toward the children, and a scowl for Antonio, these stalwart ranchmen lined up against the wall and stood at attention. Mr. Hale, observant through the doorway, again noticed that each of these was well along in years, that each had some slight physical infirmity, and that, despite these facts, each looked a man of unusual strength and most entire devotion. Indeed, the gaze fixed upon the little lady, was one of adoration, and the situation boded ill for anybody who meant harm to her.

“Ahem. What say, mates? Has the hour struck?”

“The hour has struck,” answered John Benton, solemnly, shifting his weight from his lame leg to his sound one.

Samson strode a mighty step forward and pulled his forelock.

“Then I state, madam, that we here, on behalf of ourselves and our whole crew, now, and hereby do, throw off all ’legiance to that there Spanish skunk, a-settin’ in your easiest chair, and appoint Our Lady Jess, captain of the good ship Sobrante. Allowin’ you to be the admiral of that same, madam, but takin’ no more orders from anybody save and excepting her–under you, of course–from this time forth, so help us.”

Then there burst from the trio of throats a cheer that shook the windows, and called a contemptuous laugh from the superintendent so valiantly defied.

The cheer died in an ominous silence which Senor Bernal improved.

“Highly dramatic and most edifying, en verdad. Senor, I kiss your hands in even greater devotion. But the play has one little drawback. To I, me, myself, belongs Sobrante. Already I have had the law of which you spoke. My claim I have proved. From the long back generations the good title from the Mission Padres to my own fathers, yes. Sobrante? Si. More and better. Wide lies the valley of Paraiso d’Oro. Mine, Mine. All–all mine. No?”

He rose to his feet and pompously paced up and down the room, insolently handsome and proud of the fact, while out on the darkened porch Mr. Hale had heard a word which set his own pulses beating faster and the row of ranchmen started forward as if minded to throw the braggart out of the house.

But Jessica stepped forth and cried, triumphantly, though still with an effort toward that courtesy she desired.

“Beg pardon, Senor Antonio Bernal, but surely you are quite mistaken. My father taught me some things. He said I was not too young to learn them. He–he only–has the title deed to dear Sobrante, and I–I only–know the safe place where it is kept!”

Antonio halted in his strutting march and for a moment his face grew pale. The next instant he had regained more than his former confidence, and with a sneering laugh, exclaimed:

“Seeing is believing, no? To the satisfaction of the assembled most honorable company,” here he bowed with mock politeness, “let this most interesting document be produced. Si.”

Jessica flew from the room and in an intolerable anxiety the whole “honorable company” awaited her long-delayed return.

CHAPTER VI
NIGHT VISIONS

The untruth he was about to utter did not pass his lips. There was that in the white face of Gabriella Trent which arrested his words, as, clasping her boy in her arms, she glided into the darkened hall and entered her own rooms beyond.

The “boys” had not moved, nor Jessica followed, and she now firmly confronted the manager, saying:

“I am sorry to tell you, Antonio Bernal, that you are not acting square. My father did have that title deed, and I believe you know it. Somebody has taken it from the place where his own hands put it, but I will find it. This home is ours, is all my mother’s. Nobody shall ever take it from her. Nobody. You hear me say that, Senor Antonio Bernal, and you, dear ‘boys?’”

“Ay, ay,” echoed her friends, heartily; but the superintendent regarded her as he might have done some amusing little insect.

“Very pretty, senorita. The filial devotion, almost beautiful. But the facts–well, am I not merciful and generous, I? There is no haste. Indeed, no. A month––”

“Before a month is out I will have found that deed and placed it in my darling mother’s hands. I may be too young to understand the ‘business’ you talk about so much, but I am not too young to save my mother’s happiness. I can see that paper now, in my mind, and I remember exactly how it looked inside and out. It seemed such a little thing to be worth a whole, great ranch. I don’t know how nor where, but somehow and somewhere, I shall find that paper. ‘Boys,’ will you help me?”

“To the last drop of our hearts’ blood!” cried John Benton, and the others echoed, “Ay, ay!”

Antonio thought it time to end this scene and walked toward the porch, at the further end of which was another long window opening into his own apartments. But he was not permitted to leave so easily. Great Samson placed himself in the manager’s path and remarked:

“There’s no call to lose sight of the main business ’count o’ this little side-play of yours. We boys come up here to-night to quit your employ and hire out to Our Lady Jess. We’re all agreed, every man jack of us. Your day’s over. Account of Mrs. Trent and the kids, we’d like things done quiet and decent. There’s a good horse of yours in the stable and though there isn’t any moon, you know the roads well. If you tarry for breakfast, likely you won’t have much appetite to eat it. More’n that, the senora, as you call her, has waited on your whelpship for just the last time. Before you start you might as well pay up some of our back wages, and hand over to the mistress the funds you’ve been keeping from her.”

“Insolent! Stand aside. How dare you? Let me pass.”

“I’m not quite through yet. There’s no real call to have talk with such as you, but we ‘boys’ kind of resent being set down as plumb fools. We’ve seen through you, though we’ve kept our mouths shut. Now they’re open; leastways, mine is. This here notion of yours about ownin’ Sobrante is a bird of recent hatchin’. ’Tisn’t full-fledged yet, and ’s likely never to be. Your first idea was to run the ranch down till your mistress had to give it up out of sheer bad luck. Fail, mortgage, or such like. Oranges didn’t sell for what they ought; olives wasn’t worth shucks; some little varmint got to eating the raisin grapes; mine petered out; feathers growing poorer every plucking, though the birds are getting valuabler. Never had accounts quite ready–you, that was a master hand at figures when the boss took you in and made you, You––”

Antonio strode forward, furious, and with uplifted hand.

“You rascal! This to me–I, Antonio Bernal, descendant of–Master of Sobrante and Paraiso, I––”

“Master? Humph! Owner? Fiddlesticks! Why, that little tacker there, asleep on the floor,” pointing to Luis, “is likelier heir to this old ranch than you. The country’s full of Garcias and always has been, Pedro says. Garcia himself, when all’s told. As for Bernals, who ever heard of more’n one o’ them? That’s you, you skunk! Now, usin’ your own fine, highfalutin’ language: ‘Go. Vamos. Depart. Clear out. Get!’”

“I go–because it so suits me, I, myself. But I return. New servants will be with me and your quarters must be empty. Let me pass.”

“Certain. Anything to oblige. But don’t count on them quarters. We couldn’t leave them if we would ’cause we’ve all took root. Been growing so long; become indigenous to the soil, like the boss’ experiments. Thrive so well might have been born here and certainly mean to die on the spot. Going? Well, good-night. Call again. Adios.”

By this time Jessica was laughing, as her old friend had meant she should be. In his contemptuous harangue of the man he disliked and mistrusted, there had been more humor than anger.

“Well, my lady, that did me good. Haven’t had such a thorough housecleaning of my mean thoughts in quite a spell. Feel all ready for a fresh voyage under the new captain. You rest run along and find that long sufferin’ mother of yours and tell her the coast’s clear of that pirate craft. We’ve all shipped men-o’-war, now, and run up the old flag of truth and love. That was the banner your father floated from his masthead, and the colors that’ll never dip to lying or cheating. Wait. I’ll pack this baby Luis to his bed. Poor little castaway, that your good father picked up in the canyon and fetched home in his arms, to share the best with his own. Well, needn’t tell me that the family of a man as good as he was’ll ever come to want. Heave ahead, captain. Show me the track to sail.”

Jessica stopped to bid the other ranchmen good-night, then led the sailor to the little bedroom which the lads shared in common, and where Ned was already asleep, tucked in his white cot by his mother, who let no personal grief interfere with her care for others.

“Good-night, dear Samson. I must find that paper. You must help me. My mother must not, shall not, lose her home.”

“Never. Good-night, captain. You’ve a good crew on deck and we’ll make happy haven yet.”

That was Jessica Trent’s first wakeful night. Though she tried to lie quietly in her own little bed, lest she should disturb her mother whose room she shared, she fancied all sorts of strange sounds, both in-doors and out; and whenever she dropped into a doze, dreamed of the missing paper and of searching for it.

One dream was so vivid that she woke, exclaiming:

“Oh, mother! I’ve found it. The black tin box under the three sharp rocks!”

But her eyes opened upon vacancy, and there was no response from the larger bed where her anxious parent had, at last, fallen asleep. Yet the vision remained, painted upon the darkness, as it were, a sun-lighted glowing spot, with three pyramidal rocks and a clump of scraggly live oaks. A spot she had never seen, indeed, but felt that she should instantly recognize, should she come upon it anywhere.

Then she curled back upon her pillows and again shut her eyes.

Could it be possible that she, a healthy little girl, was growing fidgety, like Aunt Sally Benton, who sometimes came to visit her son and help with the sewing? For she surely was hearing things. Movements, hushed footfalls, softly closing doors, creaking floors, at an hour when all the household should be at rest.

“How silly! It may be somebody is ill! Wun Lung’s hand may hurt him, though it seemed so nearly well, and nobody else would have minded it. That stranger! Yes, I fancy it’s he. He may need something that I can get him, and I’ll go inquire.”

Slipping a little wrapper over her gown, but in her bare feet, the girl noiselessly left the room and followed the sound she had heard. These led her to a small apartment which her father had used as an office and where stood the desk in whose secret drawer she had expected to find the title deed. A small fireproof safe was in this office. It was an old-fashioned affair, with a simple, but heavy key, which the Sobrante children had played with in their infancy. She remembered her father remarking, with a laugh, that a safe was the most useless thing he possessed, for he never had anything worth putting in it; but it had been a belonging of old “Forty-niner” Marsh, a gift to his employer, and therefore accorded a place of honor.

Before this safe now bent a man whom Jessica recognized with surprise and relief.

“Why, Mr. Marsh! Is it you? What in the world are you doing here at this hour? Are you ill? Do you want something?”

“No, dearie. I’m not ill; and I’m not robbing you. And I’ve got all I want. That’s one more look at your bonny face, God bless it!”

It was close to his shoulder now, that face he loved, and he kissed it tenderly; though with equal tenderness, if less emotion, the little maid returned his caress and clasped his neck with those strong, young arms that so yearned to protect and comfort everybody.

“That’s funny. Should think you’d be tired of it, sometimes, I disappoint you so. But never mind. I’m getting handier with my new rifle every day, I think, and I mean to do yet what Samson claims I should–just beat the world. Have you finished looking at your things?” For it was Mr. Marsh himself who had always used the safe, even after giving it away. “Can’t I get you something to eat, so you can sleep better?”

“No, dearie, no, just one more good kiss–to remember. Good-by. Good-by. It–it might have been done kinder, maybe, but–her heart is sad, I know, and her first thought is for you. She must save for you. Here, Lady, take the key. Some time you–you might want to look in that safe for yourself. Good-night.”

Jessica went with him to the outer door, wondering much at this oddly-timed visit. Yet the ranchman walked erect, still carrying his lighted candle quite openly, as one who had done nothing of which to be ashamed; and when he had departed the girl returned to her own bed still more wakeful because of this queer incident.

Ten minutes later, it may have been, she heard the limping footfall of a slowly-moving horse, the echoes growing fainter continually.

Again she sat up and listened.

“That’s Mr. Marsh’s ‘Stiffleg!’ What should send him off riding now? Oh! I do wish mother was awake, things seem so queer. Yet I don’t really wish it. She has so many wakeful nights and just this one is more than I want. Now, Jessica Trent, don’t be foolish any longer. Go straight to sleep or you’ll be late in the morning.”

Nature acted upon this good advice, and Our Lady knew no more till a pair of chubby hands were pulling her curls and Ned’s voice was screeching in her ear:

“Wake up, Jessie Trent. We had our breakfast hours ago, and the ‘boys’ is all out-doors, can’t go to work ’ithout their captain. That’s me, Jessie Trent, ’cause I’m the ‘heir.’ Samson said so.”

“I’s the heir, Samson said so!” echoed Luis from the floor where he was trying the fit of Jessica’s new “buckskins”–the comfortable moccasin-like footgear which Pedro made for her–upon his own stubby toes.

“He, he! What’s the heir Samson said? You’re a stupid, Luis Garcia.”

“Stupid Garcia!” laughed the little mimic, not in the least offended.

“Well, run away then, laddies, and I’ll be ready in a jiffy. Poor mother. To think that I should have left her to do so much alone.”

As she threw open the sash of the rear window, Jessica started back, surprised; for there, reined close to the porch, was Nero’s black form, with the dark face of his master bending low over the saddle.

“Good-morning, senorita, and good fortune. Those who hid may find. I kiss your hand in farewell, and may it rule in peace till I return, I myself, the master. One month hence I come, bringing my servants with me. Adios. Ah! but what did you and the old sharpshooter at the office safe at midnight? When the senora would seek her title, seek him. It is farewell.”

CHAPTER VII
CAPTAIN JESS

From a shaded corner of the porch, from behind his book, Mr. Hale watched the scene with an amusement that soon gave place to wonder and admiration. They were all profoundly in earnest. The fair young girl with folded arms and serene composure, poised at the head of the steps and the group of sunburned workmen standing respectfully before her.

By tacit consent Samson was spokesman for the company and his words had their usual nautical tinge.

“We’re ready to set sail, captain, and here’s wishing good luck to the v’yge! Old ‘Forty-niner’ hasn’t showed up on deck yet, but he’ll likely soon heave to, and the rest the crew’ll vouch for his being a good hand in any sort o’ storm we’re apt to strike. We’ve overhauled this chart. Each of us solemnly promise to abide and obey no orders but yours, captain, or the admiral’s through you. And would respectfully suggest–each man sticks to the post he’s always filled, till ordered off it by his superior officer. Right, mates?”

“Ay, ay.”

“How’s that suit you, commodore?”

“That suits me, Samson. It will suit my mother.”

“As for pay–being as we’ve got along without any these five months back, and Senor Top-Lofty’s rode off, forgettin’ to leave them arrears we mentioned, we wash the slate clean and start all over again. For five months to come we’ll serve you and the admiral for mess and berth, no more, no less.”

“Samson, do you mean that? Haven’t you boys been paid your wages regularly, just as in my father’s time?”

“Come, now, captain, that’s all right. Give us the word of dismissal and let that slide. You missed your own mess this morning––”

“But that will break my mother’s heart. I know! I know! I’ve often heard her ask him, and Antonio tell her–he said that your wages were always taken out before he brought what little money he could to her. I know you said something about ‘arrears’ last night, but I didn’t understand. What are ‘arrears,’ Samson?”

“Blow me, for an old numskull. Why couldn’t I keep my long tongue still! I only meant that we are willing, we want, we must work for you and all the Trents for nothing till we’ve made up part to ’em of what that sweet ‘senor’ cheated ’em of. That’s all. We’ve settled it. No use for anybody to try change our minds, even if there was spot cash lying around loose, waiting to be picked up and you havin’ no call for it. Not one of which conditions hits the case.”

“You are a good talker, dear old Samson, and a long one. I can talk, too, sometimes. Maybe you’ve heard me! You’ve read me your chart. Hear mine. It’s my father’s own–that he always meant, but was never able to follow. That I know my mother wants to follow for his sake, though she does know so little of business. Now, if we’re starting fresh, with the clean slates you like, we’ll put this at the top: ‘share and share alike.’ There was another long name dear father used to call it–I––”

“Co-operation,” suggested John Benton.

“Yes, yes. That’s it. As soon as he was out of debt and had a right to do what he would with Sobrante, he meant to run it that way. But you know, you know. It was only that last day when he came home so late from that far-off town that he had his own ‘title’ and was all ready to do as he wished. Let us do that now. I know how. He told me. He was to make you, Samson, responsible for all the cattle on the ranch. You were to hire as many of the other boys as you needed and were to have a just share for your own money. The more you made out of the cattle the better it would be for yourself. Isn’t that right?”

“Right to a dot. Atlantic! but you’ve a head for business, captain!”

“I’ve a head must learn business, if I’m to be your captain. That is true enough. It isn’t my father’s fault if I don’t know some simple things. He was always teaching me, because Ned was too little and my mother–well, business always worried her and he’d do anything to save her worry, even talk to a little girl like me. And as Samson was to do with the cattle, so George Cromarty was to do with the raisins and oranges. The ostriches–Oh! but they were to be Antonio’s charge. And now––”

“They’re yours, captain, with any one or lot of us you choose for helpers.”

“Ferd knew much about them, and they minded him. But––”

“Ferd’ll trouble Sobrante none while the senor is away. Joe is a good hand at all live stock, and I’ll pledge you’ll get every feather that’s plucked when he does the counting. He won’t let any eggs get cooked in hatchin’, neither. You can trust Joseph–if you watch him a mite.”

A laugh at honest Joe’s expense, in which he heartily joined, followed this and Lady Jess stepped down among her friends, holding out her hands to first one, then another. Her blue eyes were filled with happy moisture, for she was not too young to feel their devotion to be as unselfish as it was sincere, and her smile was full of confidence in them and in herself.

“Eleven years old is pretty early to be a captain, I guess, but I’ll be a good one–just as good and true as you are! What I don’t know you’ll teach me, and if I make mistakes you’ll be patient, I know. One thing I can do, I can copy bills and papers. I can put down figures and add them up. It was good practice for me, my father said. So I’ll put down your names and all your business in these new books he bought and was going to use in his co–co-operation–is that right, John?”

“Right as a trivet.”

“And our admiral, that’s the dear mother, will not have to fret so any longer. Between us we’ll make Sobrante all my father meant it should be and–as soon as I have my breakfast–I will find that title. I must find it. I will. Sobrante is yours and ours forever. Oh, boys, I love you! I’m all choked up–I love you so and I feel like that my father used to read in Dickens: ‘God bless you every one!’”

With her hands clasped close against her breast, and her beloved face luminous with her deep affection, their little maid stood before her hardy henchmen, a symbol to them of all that was best and purest in life. Their own eyes were moist, and even Mr. Hale had to take off his glasses and wipe them as, looking around upon his comrades, great Samson swung his hat and cried:

“And may God bless Our Lady Jess! And may every man who seeks to injure her be–stricken with numb palsy! And may every crop be doubled, prices likewise! Peace, prosperity and happiness to Sobrante–destruction to her enemies!”

“Forgiveness for her enemies, Samson, dear, if there really are. That will be nobler, more like father’s rule. Make it peace, prosperity and happiness to all the world! Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

Mr. Hale clapped his hands to his ears, then hastily moved forward and joined in the cheer, that was deafening enough to have come from many more throats than uttered it. Yet he had an uncomfortable feeling that he might be classed among those “enemies” whom Samson wished afflicted with numb palsy and that, at that moment, he was, by no fault of his own, playing a double part.

But he gave himself the benefit of the doubt until he should learn, as he meant to do at once, the whole history of Sobrante with its strange hodge-podge of industries, its veteran employees, and its childish “captain.” So, while the ranchmen dispersed to their business and Jessica sought her long-delayed breakfast, he turned towards the kitchen where he hoped to find the mistress of the ranch.

But he was disappointed. There was visible only the broad, purple-covered back and black pig-tail of a Chinaman, pounding away at the snowy loaves of his kneading-board, as if they were “enemies” of his own and deserving something much worse than “numb palsy.”

“Wun Lung!”

No answer, save the whack, whack, whack of the tormented dough.

“Ahem. I say, John!”

Whack, whack.

“Wun Lung, where’s your mistress?”

“Dlaily.”

“Indeed? I fancy your hand is better. I’m glad of it. That bread ought to be fine. At your leisure, kindly point the direction of the ‘dlaily,’ will you?”

One yellow, floury hand was lifted and extended eastward, but as this signified nothing definite to the stranger he continued his inquiries.

“Where’s Pasqual?”

“Sclub.”

“And the little boys?”

“Alle glone.”

“I congratulate you on your English, though I’m uncertainly whether you mean me to ‘go on’ or assert that somebody else has gone on. I don’t like to disturb Miss Jessica at breakfast, but––”

“Back polchee,” suggested Wun Lung, anxious to be rid of the intruder, whose irony he suspected if he did not understand.

Mr. Hale betook himself around the house, and, fortunately, in the right direction; for just issuing from her dairy, which was in a cellar under the cottage, was Mrs. Trent, bearing a wooden bowl of freshly made butter.

The guest’s heart smote him as he saw her sad face brighten at meeting him, for he knew she trusted him for help he was in duty bound to give elsewhere. But it was not a lawyer’s habit to anticipate evil, and he was thankful for her suggestion.

“You should have a ride this fine morning, Mr. Hale, before the sun is too high. I’ve ordered a horse brought round for you at nine o’clock, and Jessica shall act your guide, on Scruff. That is–if the laddies haven’t already disappeared with him. Ah! here comes my girl, herself. You are to show our friend as much of Sobrante as he cares to see, in one morning, daughter. If the children have ridden the burro off you may have Buster saddled.”

“Shan’t you need me, mother? One of the men––”

“No, dear. Wun Lung is at his post again and Pasqual will do the milk and things. But as you go, I’d like you to take this butter to John’s. It’s the weekly portion for the men, who mess for themselves,” she explained to the stranger.

“Lucky men to fare on such golden balls as those!”

“Come and see my dairy. I’m very proud of it. You know, I suppose, that cellars are rarities in California. Everything is built above ground, in ordinary homes; but I needed a cooler place for the milk, and my husband had this planned for me. See the water, our greatest luxury; piped from an artesian well to the tank above, and then down through these cooling pipes around the shelves. After such use supplying the garden, for whatever else may be wasted here it is never a drop of water. Will you taste the buttermilk? I can’t give you ice, but we cool it in earthen crocks sunk in the floor.”

More and more did the lawyer’s admiration for his hostess increase. She displayed the prosaic details of her dairy with the same ease and pride with which she would have exhibited the choicest bric-a-brac of a sumptuous drawing-room, and her manner impelled him to an interest in the place which he would have found impossible under other circumstances. But above all he wondered at the unselfishness with which she set aside her own anxieties and gave herself wholly to the entertainment of her guest.

“The loss of that title deed means ruin for her and her family–even if I were not also compelled to bring distress upon her. But she does not whine nor complain, and that’s going to make my task all the harder. Well, first to see this ranch, and then–I wish I’d never come upon this business! Better suffer nervous dyspepsia all the rest of my life than break such a woman’s heart. Her husband may have been a scamp of the first water, but she’s a lady and a Christian. So is that beautiful little girl, and it’s from her I mean to get all my needed information.”

Absorbed in thoughts that were far from pleasant, the gentleman walked beside Mrs. Trent to the horseblock, and mounted the horse which a gray-haired stable “boy” was holding for him, all without rousing from the preoccupation that held him. It was not till he heard Jessica’s excited call coming over the space between the cottage and the “quarters” that he realized where he was and looked up, expectant.

The little girl who had left them for a few moments, was galloping toward them on the back of a rough-coated broncho, waving a paper in her hand and with distressed indignation, crying out as she came:

“‘Forty-niner’ has gone. Dear old ‘Forty-niner!’ I found this letter in his room and it’s forever–forever! Oh, mother! And he says you discharged him–or it means that–without show of chance! Mother, mother, how could you? That dear old man that everybody loved!”

“Discharged him–I? I should as soon have thought of discharging myself! What fresh distress is this?”

Catching the paper from Jessica’s hand Mrs. Trent read it, then turned and without a word walked slowly into the house. But her head was giddy and her limbs trembled, and she had a strange feeling as if she were being swiftly inclosed in a net from which she could not escape.

CHAPTER VIII
IN THE MINER’S CABIN

“Suppose we ride first to the mines, while it is coolest. Then come around by the olive and orange orchards. We can rest at the lemon house awhile. It’s interesting to see how they are cared for, or so most strangers think.”

“Anything and anywhere suits me, for I’m full of curiosity about Sobrante. How did your father happen to take up so many different lines of industry?”

“Oh, they were all his ‘experiments.’ You see he wanted to do good to some sorts of people that nobody else seemed much interested in. Men that were getting old and were not rich or well. He was born in California, and he always thought it the land where everybody could find a place if he only had a chance. He went to New York and lived a long time, and he and mother were married there. He’d once ridden over this valley, on a horseback trip–just like yours, maybe–and after that he always meant to buy it if he could. So, when he began to lose his own health he came right away. He hadn’t much money himself, but he worked and mother helped, and he’d paid for it all before he died. It was the title deed which proved it, that he had just brought home and I could not find last night. Though, of course, I shall find it yet,” she added confidently.

“I hope so, my child. I devotedly hope so. Yet if it was duly recorded the matter should easily be set right.”

Jessica’s face fell.

“I don’t believe it was. He said something about that, I didn’t understand it quite, but I know he said ‘recorded’ and that he meant to have it done the next time he went to Los Angeles. But–he didn’t ever go.”

The lawyer’s face grew still more serious. Something of the love with which she inspired everybody was already in his heart for this little maid, and thoughts of his own young daughters, threatened with the misfortune which menaced her, stirred him to fresh regret for the mission he had undertaken.

They had now turned their horses’ heads toward the foothills on the north and he asked:

“What are these ‘mines’ of which you speak?”

“For coal. It was an old man from Pennsylvania first thought there might be such stuff in the mountains near, and it’s worth so much here. Father had found him in one of the towns, with his wife and sick son. They’d spent all they had, to come West to try to cure the son, and were very poor. So, of course, father brought them to Sobrante, and the boy got better at once. They didn’t understand any sort of work except mining, and old Wolfgang couldn’t rest without trying to do something back for father. So he and Otto dug and picked around till they found a ‘vein’ and then they put up a little cabin near and there they live. Their name is Winkler, and Elsa, the mother, is the quaintest little Dutchwoman. Of course, there’s never been money enough to work the mine right. All they can do is to get out enough coal for us to use. That’s why we always have such lovely grate fires in the winter time, that make the house so cosy. You’ll like the Winklers, and you’ll like Elsa’s coffee. Go there what time of day you will she always makes you drink some, sweetened with the wild honey she gets in the hills and with her goat’s milk in it.”

Mr. Hale made a wry face.

“Oh! you’re sure to like it. It is delicious, drank with a slice of her hard, sweetened bread. And their little cabin is as clean as can be. Elsa is a great knitter. She has knitted covers for everything, her beds, chairs, table, everything. All the furniture is made out of wood they found in the hills, and when they’re not mining Otto carves it beautifully.”

“Are all the people who work for you unfortunate? I mean, was some misfortune that which made your father engage them?”

“Yes, just that. They are his ‘experiments.’ He said this valley was made for every sort of work there was to be done. All men can’t be the same thing, and every man was happiest at his own trade. Young men can get work anywhere, but dear Sobrante is a Home with a capital H, for anybody who needs one. My father said the more he trusted people the less they ever disappointed him. He’d proved his plan was right on his own single ranch and he was trying to make others do the same on theirs. Paraiso d’Oro–oh! you’re from that same New York. Do you know a–a Mr. Syndicate, I think he was, who owns Paraiso. Of course, I know in such a big city you might not, though maybe––”

The listener started, then looked keenly into the innocent face bending toward him from the broncho’s back.

“Suppose I do know a syndicate–a company–not an individual, which is interested in Paraiso? Can you tell me anything about such a place? Until last night I had no idea that I had come anywhere near to it, and then by accident, hearing Antonio Bernal mention it as his. Is it hereabouts?”

Jessica turned her horse about in a circle, rapidly swinging her pointing arm to indicate every direction of the compass.

“Know it? It is there, and there, and there–everywhere. The very richest tract of land in all the country, my father believed. Sobrante is the heart of it, he said, but the rest of the valley is even better than Sobrante. It is so big one can hardly believe. He said there was room in it, and a little ranch apiece, for every poor down-trodden man–not bad men, but poor gentlemen, like worn-out lawyers and doctors and–and nice folks–and make a new home in which to live at peace. He said there were plenty of people always ready to help the very poor and ignorant, but nobody so willing to help gentlefolks without money. That’s why he asked a lot of rich people he used to know in New York to buy Paraiso. He gave it its name, himself, and he believed that there might be really gold somewhere in it. There’s everything else, you see. But it was a name of ‘syndicate’ he talked about most and was most grieved by because the money to buy it had not been sent as it had been promised.”

“Poor child!”

“Beg pardon?”

“It was nothing. I was thinking. So this ‘Mr. Syndicate’ never sent the money your father hoped for?”

“No. It was a great disappointment. Antonio had charge of all the letters, only he; so there could have been nobody careless enough to lose them had any come. Father left all the writing to Antonio, for he was nearly blind, you know. That’s how he came to get hurt. He could not see and his horse stepped over the ledge and somebody brought him home that way. Poor mother!”

“Poor mother, indeed!” echoed Mr. Hale, with something like a groan.

“Thank you for caring about it,” said Jessica, quickly touched by his ready sympathy. “But she says her life now must be to carry on all father’s work, and I shall help her. In that way it will be always as if he were still with us. Oh! see! That’s Stiffleg’s track! Ephraim Marsh has passed this way! Maybe I shall find him at the Winklers’ cabin! Would you mind hurrying, just a little bit?”

“I’ll do my best, little lady. But I’m a wretched horseman, I fear.”

“Oh! you’ll learn. If you would only let yourself be easy and comfortable. But, beg pardon, you do it this way–so stiff, with your hands all clinched. Your horse feels that something’s wrong, and that’s why he fidgets so. You should get Samson to show you how. He’s a magnificent rider. I’ll coax him to do some tricks for you, to-night, when we get through supper. I’m off. Just drop all care and let the horse do the work and–catch me if you can.”

As they approached the foothills they had dropped into a little hollow where the sandy ground was moist and retained an impression distinctly, and it was thus that Jessica’s keen eyes discovered the peculiar footprints of “Forty-niner’s” halting steed. But she quickly forgot these in the interest of the race she had started and was now bent upon nothing save beating Mr. Hale at the goal, the miner’s cabin.

“He has by far the better horse. He ought to win, but he shall not–he can’t. He mustn’t! Go, Buster! A taste of Elsa’s honey if you get there first!”

Bending forward the girl rested her cheek against the broncho’s neck and, as if the touch fired him with new ambition, he shot forward so swiftly that the question of winning was soon settled. However, Mr. Hale’s own pride was touched, and he put to the test the advice just given him, and with such good results that he, too, soon came in sight of a small house at the end of the trail, a dark hole in the mountain side, and a group of people eagerly surrounding his little guide.

Indeed, Elsa had already drawn the child upon her capacious lap, and was tenderly smoothing the tumbled curls with her hard hand, while she asked endless questions, yet waited for no answers.

Till, suddenly remembering, Lady Jess demanded:

“But have you seen our Ephraim? Is he here? Has he been here?”

Elsa’s fat form grew quite rigid and her hand ceased its caressing stroke. Not for her to betray the confidence of one who had taken refuge with her.

“Why ask that? What if he has and is? Is he not the old man, already? Even here there is no room for the old. When one is fifty one should die. That would be wisdom.”

“Elsa Winkler, nonsense! That’s not polite for me to say, but it’s true. You’re fifty, yourself, I guess, and you don’t want to die, do you?”

Elsa shivered slightly. “When the right time comes and the usefulness is past. As the Lord wills.”

Jessica laughed and kissed the woman’s cheek, then sprang to the ground, demanding:

“Where is he? For he’s mine, you know. He belongs to Sobrante just as much the sunshine does. If he’d loved us as we love him he’d not have ridden away in the night time just because of one little bit o’ note. Wherever you’ve hidden him you must find him for me, and he’s to go straight away back with me. With us, I mean, for here comes a–a friend of ours; I guess he is. Any way he’s a guest and you must make him a cup of your very best coffee, and Otto must show him his carved clock that he is making. He’s a pleasant gentleman, and so interested in everything, it’s fun to tell him things. In that New York, where he came from, they don’t have much of anything nice. No ostriches, nor mines, nor orange groves. Fancy! and he doesn’t know–he’s only just learning to ride a horse!”

As Mr. Hale now approached, this description ceased and Jessica presented him to her mountain friends:

“This is dear Elsa Winkler, and ‘her man,’ Wolfgang. And Otto–where’s Otto gone? He needn’t be shy. Mr. Hale would like to see the carvings and the knittings, and maybe, go down the shaft. But first of all, he’d like the coffee, Elsa, dear.”

The portly Dutchwoman, whose needles could click as fast as her tongue, now thrust the stocking, at which she had resumed working the moment Jessica left her lap, into her apron pocket and waddled inside the cabin. Already she was beaming with hospitality and calling in harsh chiding to the invisible Otto:

“You bad little boy, where are you at already? Come by, soon’s-ever, and lay the dishes. Here’s company come to the house and nobody but the old mother got a grain of sense left to mind them. Wolfgang! Wolfgang! Hunt the child and set him drawing a tether o’ milk from Gretchen, the goat. Ach! but it shames my good heart when my folks act so foolish, and the Lady Jess just giving the orders so sweet.”

Wolfgang heard his wife’s commands and obeyed them after his own manner, by lifting his mighty voice and shouting in his native patois–“Little heart! Son of my love! Come, come hither.”

But he did not, for all that, cease from his respectful attention to the stranger, for whom he had promptly brought out the best chair he owned, and whose horse he had taken to a shaded spot and carefully rubbed down with a handful of dried grass.

Presently, the “child” appeared, and the Easterner flashed a smile toward Jessica, whose own face was dimpled with mirth; for the “child,” Otto, proved to be a gaunt six-footer, lean as he was long, and with a manly beard upon his pink and white face. He shambled forward on his great feet and shyly extended his mighty hands.

Mr. Hale grasped them heartily, eager to put the awkward youth at ease; and, nodding toward the chair from which he had risen, exclaimed:

“So, you are he who does that beautiful carving! I congratulate you on your skill, and I hope you will have some trifle of your work to sell a traveler. I’ve never seen finer.”

Otto flushed with pleasure and was about to reply, but again Elsa commanded:

“Milk the goat, little one. After the guest feeds let the household talk.”

As if he had been the “child,” the “little heart,” his parents called him he obediently entered the cabin, tied an apron before his lank body and spread a tablecloth. Then, as deftly as if he had been a girl, he arranged it with the three cups and plates the family possessed, took his mother’s cherished spoons from her chest, and, taking a small pail, sought the goat, Gretchen.

“Now, I’m in for it,” thought Mr. Hale, regretfully. “My poor dyspepsia! Coffee, honey, and goat’s milk! A combination to kill. But even if it is, one must respond to such whole-souled hospitality as this.”

Jessica had no such qualms; and, indeed, the refreshment which her visitor forced himself to accept was far more palatable than he had dared expect; and, besides, he now brought to it that astonishing appetite which had come to him on this eventful trip. When the luncheon was disposed of, Dame Elsa held an exhibition of her wonderful knitting and it seemed to the unappreciative stranger that a small fortune must have been expended in yarns, and that even in this wilderness one might be extravagant and wasteful.

“My wife would know more about such things than I do, but I should think you might easily stock a whole shop with your tidies and things.”

“Man alive, do I not? Didst think it was for the pleasure of one’s self the fingers are always at toil? Ach! Yet, of course, how could a poor man from a far city understand! It is Elsa’s knitting, and Elsa’s only, will all the tourists have who come to Sobrante; and in that Los Angeles, so distant, where the master went but once every year already, there is a merchant buys all. Ay. See here. I show you!”

“I–I don’t really care–I mean–ought we not to be going, Jessica?” cried Mr. Hale, hopelessly, foreseeing another exhibition of “trash,” as he considered it.

But Elsa could not conceive that everybody should not be interested in all that concerned everybody else; and, besides, this was quite another matter. One for pride, indeed, beyond the accomplishment of the most difficult “lacework” or “overshot” stitch.

From the same chest in which her precious half-dozen plated spoons had reposed she now drew forth a buckskin sack; and, from this, with radiant eyes fixed on Mr. Hale’s own, another bag, knitted, of course, and seemingly heavy. Sitting before him she spread her own apron over her guest’s knees and poured therein a goodly pile of gold and silver coins. With a little catching of his own breath the lawyer realized that among these were many eagles and double eagles.

“Why, this is wealth. This is money. I can see now, after our paper bills and ‘checks’ how real this seems. You are a fortunate woman, Dame Elsa. Now, I begin to respect your ‘tidies’ and notions as things of moment. Did you earn it all?”

“Ach! wait. There is more already. This but begins; and it is for the child. Some day, when there is enough, he shall this mine buy and the machinery hire, and the workmen. Then he will repay to the mistress of Sobrante, and our Lady Jess, all that their dead man spent for us. More. He will make the great money–this but leads the way. Wait.”

Trustful and eager of appreciation, which came so rarely into her isolated life, the woman thrust her hand again into the buckskin sack, her shining eyes still fixed upon the stranger’s face, and her fingers fumbling nervously in the depths of the narrow bag. Her excitement and delight communicated itself to him, and he found himself watching her broad, beaming face with intense curiosity.

But–the face was changing. The light was dying out of the sparkling eyes, an ashy color succeeding the ruddy hue of the fat cheeks. Bewilderment, then anxiety, then terror.

“Why, good Elsa, what is it?”

“Gone–gone–but I am robbed, I am ruined! Mein Gott, man! Little one–lost, lost, lost!”

With a shriek the poor creature sprang up, and in so doing scattered far and wide the coins she had already poured into her apron, but heeded nothing of this as she rushed frantically out of doors.