CHAPTER VIII.
FELIPE DULZURA.
Frank did not find Rufus Staples at Warner. He had been there, however,and gone; but no one seemed to know where. The afternoon of a sunny dayfound Merry mounted on a fine horse, emerging from the mountains into ablack valley that was shut in on either side by savage peaks. Throughthis valley lay a faint trail winding over the sand and through theforests of hideous cactus and yucca trees.
He had not journeyed many miles along this trail ere he drew up. Turninghis horse about, he took a powerful pair of field glasses from a caseand adjusted them over his eyes. With their aid he surveyed the trailbehind him as far as it could be seen.
"I thought I was not mistaken," he muttered, as his glasses showed him amounted man coming steadily along from the foothills of the mountains."I wonder if he is the gentleman with the scarred cheek. I think I willwait and see."
He dismounted and waited beside the trail for the horseman to approach.The man came on steadily and unhesitatingly and finally discovered Franklingering there. Like Merry, the stranger was well mounted, and hisappearance seemed to indicate that there was Spanish blood in his veins.He had a dark, carefully trimmed Van Dyke beard and was carelesslyrolling a cigarette when he appeared in plain view. His clothing wasplain and serviceable.
Merry stood beside his horse and watched the stranger draw near. Frank'shand rested lightly on his hip close to the butt of his holsteredrevolver, but the unknown made no offensive move. Instead of that hecalled, in a pleasant, musical voice:
"Good-day, sir. I have overtaken you at last. I saw you in advance, andI hastened somewhat."
"Did you, indeed?" retorted Merry, with a faint smile. "I fancied youwere coming after me in a most leisurely manner. But, then, I supposethat's what you call hurrying in this country."
"Oh, we never rush and exhaust ourselves after the manner of the East,"was the smiling declaration, as the handsome stranger struck a match andlighted the cigarette.
Although Frank was confident the man was a Spaniard, he spoke withscarcely a hint of an accent. In his speech, if not in his manner, hewas more like an American.
"Seems rather singular," questioned Frank, "that you should be travelingalone through this desolate region."
"The same question in reference to you has been troubling me, sir,"retorted the stranger, puffing lightly at his cigarette. "To me it seemsaltogether remarkable to find you here."
"In that case, we are something of a mystery to each other."
"Very true. As far as I am concerned, the mystery is easily solved. Myname is Felipe Dulzura. I am from Santa Barbara. I own some vineyardsthere."
Having made this apparently frank explanation, the man paused and lookedinquiringly at Merry, as if expecting at least as much in return.
Frank did not hesitate.
"My name is Frank Merriwell," he said, "and I am a miner."
"A miner?"
"Yes, sir."
"You can't have any mines in this vicinity."
"Possibly I am looking the country over for an investment."
"It's possible," nodded Dulzura. "But from your intelligent appearance,I should fancy it hardly probable."
"Thanks for the compliment. In regard to you, being a planter, it seemsquite unlikely that you should be surveying this region in search of avineyard. It seems to me that I have been fully as frank, sir, as youhave."
Felipe Dulzura lifted an objecting hand.
"I have not finished," he protested. "I didn't mean to give you theimpression that I was seeking vineyards here. Far from it. On thecontrary, having a little leisure, I am visiting the old missions inthis part of the country. They interest me greatly. There was a time,long ago, you know, when this land belonged to my ancestors. Mygrandfather owned a vast tract of it. That was before gold wasdiscovered and the great rush of 'forty-nine occurred.
"I presume it is needless to state that my grandfather's title to hislands was regarded as worthless after that and he lost everything. Hedied a poor man. My father was always very bitter about it, and heretired to Old Mexico where he spent his last days. I am happy to saythat he did not transfer his bitterness toward the people of thiscountry to me, and I have found it to my advantage to return here andengage in my present occupation. You should see my vineyard, Mr.Merriwell. I think I have one of the finest in the State."
The manner in which this statement was made seemed frankly open andaboveboard. To all appearances, Felipe Dulzura had nothing to concealand was unhesitating in telling his business.
"I, too," declared Merry, "am interested in the old Spanish missions.They remind me of the days of romance, which seem so far removed."
"Ah!" cried Dulzura, "then it may happen that we can journey a while incompany. That will be agreeable to me. I confess that the trail has beenlonely."
The planter was most agreeable and friendly in his manner, and his smilewas exceedingly pleasant. In every way he seemed a most harmlessindividual, but experience had taught Merry the danger of alwaystrusting to outward appearances.
"Company of the right sort will not be disagreeable to me," assuredFrank.
"Good!" laughed Dulzura. "I am sick of talking to myself, to my horse,or to the landscape. I am a sociable chap, and I like some one to whom Ican talk. Do you smoke, Mr. Merriwell? I have tobacco and papers."
"Thank you; I don't smoke."
"Ah, you miss one of the soothing friends of life. When I have no othercompany, my cigarette serves as one. This beastly valley is hot enough!The mountains shut it in and cut off all the cool breezes. However, erenightfall we should get safely out of it and come to San Monica Mission.It lies yonder near the old Indian reservation. I have heard my fathertell of it, and it has long been my object to see it."
For some little time they chatted, Dulzura seeming to be in the mostcommunicative mood, but finally they prepared to go on together. Whenthey were ready Frank suggested that his companion lead the way, as itwas far more likely that he knew the trail better.
"No, no, Mr. Merriwell," was the protest. "There is but one trail here.Like you, I have never passed over it. You were in advance; it wouldscarcely be polite for me to take the lead."
Frank, however, had no thought of placing himself with his back turnedon the self-styled planter, and, therefore, he insisted that Dulzurashould proceed in advance, to which the latter acquiesced. As they rodeon through the somewhat stifling heat of the valley, the Spaniardcontinued to talk profusely, now and then turning his head and smilingback at Merry.
"Next year," he said, "I mean to visit Spain. I have never been there,you know. Years and years ago my ancestors lived there. I trust you willpardon the seeming egotism, Mr. Merriwell, if I say it's not poor bloodthat runs in my veins. My ancestors far back were grandees. Did you everhear of the Costolas? It's likely not. There were three branches of thefamily. I am a descendant of one branch."
"Costola?" murmured Frank. "The name seems familiar to me, but I presumethere are many who bear it."
"Quite true. As for our family, however, an old feud has nearly wiped itout. It started in politics, and it divided the Costolas againstthemselves. A divided house, you know, cannot stand. My grandmother wasa Costola. She was compelled to leave Spain. At that time another branchof the family was in power. Since then things have changed. Since thenthat powerful branch of the family has declined and fallen. It was notso many years ago that the sole surviving member was compelled, like mygrandmother, to escape secretly from Spain. He came to this country andhere lived under another name, taking that of his mother's family. Idon't even remember the name he assumed after reaching America; but Idid know that the surviving Costolas hunted him persistently, althoughhe managed to evade and avoid them. What has become of him now islikewise a mystery. Perhaps he is dead."
The speaker suddenly turned so that he could look fairly into Frank'sface, smiling a little, and said:
"It's not likely this interests you, sir."
"On the contrary," Merry smiled back, "I
find it quite interesting. Tome Spain is a land of romance. Being a plain American, the tales ofthose deadly feuds are fascinating to me. I presume the Costolas musthave possessed large estates in Spain?"
"Once they did."
"And the one you speak of--the one who was compelled to flee from thecountry--was he wealthy?"
"I believe he was reckoned so at one time."
"And now," said Frank, "if this feud were ended, if any offense of hiswere pardoned, could he not claim his property?"
"That I don't know," declared Dulzura, shaking his head.
"Well, then, if he has any descendants, surely they must be the rightfulheirs to his estate."
"I doubt, sir, if they could ever possess it. It must eventually bedivided among his living relatives."
"Ah!" cried Merry. "I understand, Mr. Dulzura, why you must have aparticular interest in visiting Spain. It seems probable that you, beingdistantly related to this exiled nobleman, may finally come intopossession of a portion of his property."
"It's not impossible," was the confession, as the man in advance rolleda fresh cigarette. "But I am not counting on such uncertainties.Although my grandfather and my father both died poor, I am not a paupermyself. To be sure, I am not immensely rich, but my vineyards support mewell. I have lived in this country and in Mexico all my life. In fact, Ifeel that I am more American than anything else. My father could notunderstand the democracy of the Americans. He could not understand theirdisregard of title and royalty."
Frank laughed.
"Had he lived in these days," he said, "and associated with a certainclass of degenerate Americans, he would have discovered that they arethe greatest worshipers of titles and royal blood in the whole world."
"I think that may be true," agreed the Spaniard, puffing at hiscigarette. "I have seen some of it. I know that many of your richAmerican girls sell themselves for the sake of titles to broken-down andrakish noblemen of other countries. I think most Americans are ashamedof this."
"Indeed they are," seriously agreed Merry. "It makes them blush when arich American girl is led to the altar by some broken-down old _roue_with a title, who has spent his manhood and wrecked his constitution indissipation and licentiousness. Almost every week we read in the papersof some titled foreigner who is coming to America in search of a richwife. We don't hear of the scores and scores of American girls withwealthy parents who go abroad in search of titles. But we have forgottenthe Costolas. Can you tell me anything more of them?"
"You seem strangely interested in them," said Dulzura, again glancingback. "It almost seems as if you had heard of them before."
"And it almost seems so to me," confessed Frank. "I think I must haveheard of them before. Sometime I shall remember when it was and what Ihave heard."
But, although they continued to talk, the Spaniard told Merry nothingmore of interest in that line. Finally they relapsed into silence androde on thus.
Frank's thoughts were busy when his tongue became silent. He rememberedwell that the most malignant and persistent enemy of little Felicia'sfather was a man who called himself Felipe Costola. This man had maderepeated efforts to get possession of Felicia, but had been baffled byDelores and had finally lost his life in Fardale. Beyond question,Felipe Costola was dead, and what had become of Juan Delores no manseemed to know.
Putting two and two together, Frank began to wonder if Delores might notbe a Costola who had assumed the name of his mother's family whileliving in Spain, thus arousing the everlasting enmity of all theCostolas, and who had finally been compelled to flee to America. In manyrespects the history of this man agreed with that told by Juan Deloreshimself. He had once told Frank the name and title by which he was knownin Spain, but never had he explained the fierce enmity of FelipeCostola. Now Merry was speculating over the possibility that Deloresmust have once been a Costola.
If this was true, then little Felicia was, by the statement of Dulzura,the rightful heir to the estate in Spain. Meditating on thispossibility, Frank fancied he obtained a peep behind the curtain whichhid the mystery of Felicia's disappearance. With the child out of theway, a false heir might be substituted, and the schemers behind the plotwould reap their reward.
The shadows of evening were thickening in the mountain when Merry andhis companion passed from the valley and reached the abrupt foothills.Here the trail was more clearly defined, and soon they were startled tosee standing beside it an aged Indian, who regarded them with the stonygaze of the Sphinx. Dulzura drew up and asked the Indian in Spanish ifthe San Monica Mission was near. The reply was that it was less thanhalf a mile in advance.
They came to it, sitting on a little plateau, silent and sad in thepurple twilight. It was worn and battered by the storms of years. On itsancient tower the cross stood tremblingly. A great crack showed in itswall, running from base to apex. In the dark opening of the tower a hugebell hung, silent and soundless.
Merry drew up and sat regarding the ancient pile in almost speechlessawe and reverence. It was a monument of other days in that sunny land.Here, long before the coming of the gold seekers, the Spanish priest hadtaught the Indian to bow his knee to the one true God. Here they hadlived their calm and peaceful lives, which were devoted to the holycause.
"Come," urged Dulzura, "let's get a peep within ere it becomes quitedark. There must be an Indian village somewhere near, and there, afterlooking into the mission, we may find accommodations."
Frank did not say that he was doubtful if such accommodations as theymight find in an Indian village could satisfy him; but he followed hiscompanion to the stone gate of the old mission, where Dulzura hastilydismounted. Even as Frank sprang from his horse he saw a dark figureslowly and sedately approaching the gate. It proved to be a bare-headedold monk in brown robes, who supported his trembling limbs with a short,stout staff.
Dulzura saluted the aged guardian of the mission in a manner of mingledworship and respect.
"What do ye here, my son?" asked the father, in a voice no less unsteadythan his aged limbs.
"We have come, father, to see the mission," answered the Spaniard. "Wehave journeyed for that purpose."
"It's now too late, my son, to see it to-night. On the morrow I willtake you through it."
"You live here alone, father?"
"All alone since the passing of Father Junipero," was the sad answer, asthe aged monk made the sign of the cross.
Frank was deeply touched by the melancholy in the old man's voice and inthe lonely life he led there in the ruined mission.
"What is the mission's income?" questioned Merry.
"Our lands are gone. We have very little," was the reply. "Still FatherPerez has promised to join me, and I have been looking for him. When Iheard your horse approaching I thought it might be he. It was butanother disappointment. Still, it matters not."
"Let us take a peep inside," urged Dulzura. "Just one peep to-night,father."
"You can see nothing but shadows, my son; but you shall look, if youwish."
He turned and moved slowly along the path, aided by the staff. Theyfollowed him through the gate and into the long stone corridor, whereeven then the twilight was thick with shadows. In the yard the foliagegrew luxuriantly, but in sad neglect and much need of trimming andattention.
At the mission door they paused.
"Let's go in," urged Dulzura.
"To-morrow will be time enough," answered Frank, a sudden sensation ofuneasiness and apprehension upon him.
At this refusal Dulzura uttered a sudden low exclamation and took aswift step as if to pass Merry. Frank instantly turned in such a mannerthat he placed his back against the wall, with the door on his left andthe old monk close at hand at his right.
Suddenly, from beyond the shadows of the foliage in the yard, dark formssprang up and came bounding into the corridor. Out from the door rushedanother figure. Dulzura uttered a cry in Spanish and pointed at Frank.They leaped toward him.
Merry's hand dropped toward the holster on his hip, but with a gas
p hediscovered that it was empty. Instead of grasping the butt of hispistol, he found no weapon there with which to defend himself.
For all of the shadows he saw the glint of steel in the hands of thosemen as they leaped toward him, and he knew his life was in frightfulperil.
How his pistol had escaped from the holster, whether it had slipped outby accident, or had in some inexplicable manner been removed by humanhands, Frank could not say. It was gone, however, and he seemeddefenseless against his murderous assailants.
In times of danger Frank's brain moved swiftly, and on this occasion itdid not fail him. With one sudden side-step, he snatched from the oldmonk's hand the heavy staff. With a swift blow from this he was barelyin time to send the nearest assailant reeling backward. The others didnot pause, and during the next few moments Frank was given the liveliestbattle of his career.
"Cut him down! Cut him down!" cried Dulzura, in Spanish.
They responded by making every effort to sink their knives in Frank.They were wiry, catlike little men, and in the gloom their eyes seemedto gleam fiercely, while their lips curled back from their white teeth.
Merriwell's skill as a swordsman stood him in good stead now. He tookcare not to be driven against the wall. He whirled, and cut, and struckin every direction, seeking ample room for evolutions. He knew full wellthat to be pressed close against the wall would put him at adisadvantage, for then he would not have room for his leaps, and swings,and thrusts, and jabs.
The fighting American bewildered and astounded them. He seemed to haveeyes in the back of his head. When one leaped at him from behind to sinka knife between his shoulders Frank suddenly whirled like lightning andsmote the fellow across the wrist, sending the steel flying from hisfingers to clang upon the stones. The old monk lifted his tremblinghands in prayer and tottered away. What had happened seemed to him mostastounding and appalling.
"Come on, you dogs!" rang Frank's clear voice. "Come on yourself, FelipeDulzura, you treacherous cur! Why do you keep out of reach and urge yourlittle beasts on?"
The Spaniard uttered an oath in his own language.
"Close in! Close in!" he directed. "Press him from all sides! Don't letone man beat you off like that!"
"You seem to be taking good care of your own precious hide," halflaughed Frank. Then, as the opportunity presented, he made a sudden rushand reached Dulzura with a crack of the staff that caused the fellow tohowl and stagger.
It did not seem, however, that, armed only with that stick, Merry couldlong contend against such odds. Soon something must happen. Soon one ofthose little wretches would find the opportunity to come in and strikeswift and sure with a glittering knife.
The racket and uproar of the conflict startled the echoes of the missionbuilding, and in that peaceful, dreamy spot such sounds seemed mostappalling. Frank knew the end must come. Had he possessed a pistol hemight have triumphed over them all in spite of the odds.
Suddenly in the distance, from far down the trail toward the valley,came the sound of singing. As it reached Merry's ears he started in theutmost amazement, for he knew that tune. Many a time had he joined insinging it in the old days. Although the words were not distinguishableat first, he could follow them by the sound of the tune. This is thestanza the unseen singers voiced:
"Deep in our hearts we hold the love Of one dear spot by vale and hill; We'll not forget while life may last Where first we learned the soldier's skill; The green, the field, the barracks grim, The years that come shall not avail To blot from us the mem'ry dear Of Fardale--fair Fardale."
"Fair Fardale!"--that was the song. How often Frank had joined insinging it when a boy at Fardale Military Academy. No wonder Frank knewit well! By the time the stanza was finished the singers were muchnearer, and their words could be plainly distinguished. Dulzura and histools were astounded, but the man urged them still more fiercely toaccomplish their task before the singers could arrive.
The singing of that song, however, seemed to redouble Merry's wonderfulstrength and skill. He was now like a flashing phantom as he leaped, anddodged, and swung, and thrust with the heavy staff. His heart wasbeating high, and he felt that he could not be defeated then.
Finally the baffled and wondering assailants seemed to pause and drawback. Frank retreated toward the wall and stood waiting, his stickpoised. The musical voices of the unseen singers broke into the chorus,and involuntarily Frank joined them, his own clear voice floatingthrough the evening air:
"Then sing of Fardale, fair Fardale! Your voices raise in joyous praise Of Fardale--fair Fardale! Forevermore 'twixt hill and shore, Oh, may she stand with open hand To welcome those who come to her-- Our Fardale--fair Fardale!"
It was plain that, for some reason, Dulzura and his band of assassinshad not wished to use firearms in their dreadful work. Now, however, theleader seemed to feel that there was but one course left for him. Merrysaw him reach into a pocket and felt certain the scoundrel was in searchof a pistol.
He was right. Even as Dulzura brought the weapon forth, Frank made twopantherish bounds, knocking the others aside, and smote the chief rascala terrible blow over the ear. Dulzura was sent whirling out between twoof the heavy pillars to crash down into the shrubbery of the yard.
That blow seemed to settle everything, for with the fall of their masterthe wretches who had been urged on by him took flight. Like frighteneddeer they scudded, disappearing silently. Merry stood there unharmed,left alone with the old monk, who was still breathing his agitatedprayers. From beyond the gate came a call, and the sound of that voicemade Frank laugh softly with satisfaction.
He leaped down from the corridor and ran along the path to the gate,outside which, in the shadows, were two young horsemen.
"Dick--my brother!" exclaimed Merry.
"Frank!" was the cry, as one of the two leaped from the horse and sprangto meet him.