IV
Farrel remained in the smoking-car throughout the rest of his journey,for he feared the possibility of a renewal of acquaintance with hisquondam companion of the dining-car should he return to theobservation-platform. He did not wish to meet her as a dischargedsoldier, homeward bound--the sort of stray dog every man, woman, andchild feels free to enter into conversation with and question regardinghis battles, wounds, and post-office address. When he met that girlagain, he wanted to meet her as Don Miguel Jose Farrel, of Palomar. Hewas not so unintelligent as to fail to realize that in his own countryhe was a personage, and he had sufficient self-esteem to desire her torealize it also. He had a feeling that, should they meet frequently inthe future, they would become very good friends. Also, he lookedforward with quiet amusement to the explanations that would ensue whenthe supposedly dead should return to life.
During their brief conversation, she had given him much food forthought--so much, in fact, that presently he forgot about her entirely.His mind was occupied with the problem that confronts practically alldischarged soldiers--that of readjustment, not to the life of pre-wardays, but to one newer, better, more ambitious, and efficient. Farrelrealized that a continuation of his _dolce-far-niente_ life on theRancho Palomar under the careless, generous, and rather shiftlessadministration of his father was not for him. Indeed, the threatenedinvasion of the San Gregorio by Japanese rendered imperative animmediate decision to that effect. He was the first of an ancientlineage who had even dreamed of progress; he _had_ progressed, and hecould never, by any possibility, afford to retrograde.
The Farrels had never challenged competition. They had been content tomake their broad acres pay a sum sufficient to meet operating-expensesand the interest-charges on the ancient mortgage, meanwhile supportingthemselves in all the ease and comfort of their class by nibbling attheir principal. Just how far his ancestors had nibbled, the last ofthe Farrels was not fully informed, but he was young and optimistic,and believed that, with proper management and the application of modernranching principles, he would succeed, by the time he was fifty, insaving this principality intact for those who might come after him, forit was not a part of his life plan to die childless--now that the warwas over and he out of it practically with a whole skin. This aspectof his future he considered as the train rolled into the Southland. Hewas twenty-eight years old, and he had never been in love, although,since his twenty-first birthday, his father and Don Juan Sepulvida, ofthe Rancho Carpajo, had planned a merger of their involved estatesthrough the simple medium of a merger of their families. AnitaSepulvida was a beauty that any man might be proud of; her blood was ofthe purest and best, but, with a certain curious hard-headedness (thefaint strain of Scotch in him, in all likelihood), Don Mike haddeclined to please the oldsters by paying court to her.
"There's sufficient of the _manana_ spirit in our tribe now, even withthe Celtic admixture," he had declared forcibly. "I believe that likebegets like in the human family as well as in the animal kingdom, andwe know from experience that it never fails there. An infusion of pepis what our family needs, and I'll be hanged if I relish the job ofrehabilitating two decayed estates for a posterity that I know could nomore compete with the Anglo-Saxon race than did their ancestors."
Whereat, old Don Miguel, who possessed a large measure of the Celticinstinct for domination, had informed Don Mike that the latter was tooinfernally particular. By the blood of the devil, his son's statementindicated a certain priggishness, which he, Don Miguel, could notdeplore too greatly.
"You taught me pride of race," his son reminded him. "I merely desireto improve our race by judicious selection when I mate. And, ofcourse, I'll have to love the woman I marry. And I do not love AnitaSepulvida."
"She loves you," the old don had declared bluntly.
"Then she's playing in hard luck. Believe me, father, I'm no prig, butI do realize the necessity for grafting a little gringo hustle to ourfamily tree. Consider the supergrandson you will have if you leave meto follow my own desires in this matter. In him will be blended thecourtliness and chivalry of Spain, the imagery and romance andbelligerency of the Irish, the thrift and caution of the Scotch, andthe go-get-him-boy, knock-down-and-drag-out spirit of our own UncleSam. Why, that's a combination you cannot improve upon!"
"I wish I could fall in love with some fine girl, marry her, and givemy father optical assurance, before he passes on, that the Farrel tribeis not, like the mule, without pride of ancestry or hope of posterity,"he mused; "but I'll be shot if I'll ever permit myself to fall in lovewith the sort of woman I want until I know I have something moretangible than love and kisses to offer her. About all I own in thisworld is this old uniform and Panchito--and I'm getting home just intime to prevent my father from selling him at auction for the benefitof my estate. And since I'm going to chuck this uniform to-morrow andgive Panchito away the day after--by the gods of War, that girl gave mea fright when she was trying to remember the name of old man Gonzales'sranch! If it had been the Palomar instead of the Palomares! I mightbe able to stand the sight of Japs on the Palomares end of the SanGregorio, but on the Palomar--"
At four o'clock, when the train whistled for Sespe, he hurried back tothe observation-car to procure his baggage preparatory to alightingfrom the train. The girl sat in the seat opposite his, and she lookedup at him now with friendly eyes.
"Would you care to leave your things in the car and entrust them tofather's man?" she queried. "We would be glad to take them in themotor as far as the mission. My father suggested it," she added.
"Your father's a brick. I shall be happy to accept, thank you. Justtell the chauffeur to leave them off in front of the mission and I'llpick them up when I come over the trail from Sespe. I can make farbetter time over the hills without this suitcase, light as it is."
"You're exceedingly welcome, Sergeant. And, by the way, I have decidednot to contest your right to Panchito. It wouldn't be sporty of me tooutbid you for your dead buddy's horse."
His heart leaped.
"I think you're tremendously sweet," he declared bluntly. "As mattersstand, we happen to have a half-brother of Panchito up on theranch--or, at least, we did have when I enlisted. He's coming four,and he ought to be a beauty. I'll break him for you myself. However,"he added, with a deprecatory grin, "I--I realize you're not the sort ofgirl who accepts gifts from strangers; so, if you have a nickel on you,I'll sell you this horse, sight unseen. If he's gone, I'll give thenickel back."
"You are quite right," she replied, with an arch smile. "I could notpossibly accept a gift from a stranger. Neither could I buy a horsefrom a stranger--no; not even at the ridiculous price of five cents."
"Perhaps if I introduced myself--have I your permission to be thatbold?"
"Well," she replied, still with that bright, friendly, understandingsmile, "that might make a difference."
"I do not deserve such consideration. Consequently, for your gentleforbearance, you shall be accorded a unique privilege--that of meetinga dead soldier. I am Miguel Jose Farrel, better known as 'Don Mike,'of the Rancho Palomar, and I own Panchito. To quote the language ofMark Twain, 'the report of my death has been grossly exaggerated,' asis the case of several thousand other soldiers in this man's army." Hechuckled as he saw a look of amazement replace the sweet smile. "Andyou are Miss--" he queried.
She did not answer. She could only stare at him, and in that look hethought he noted signs of perturbation. While he had talked, the trainhad slid to a momentary halt for the flag-station, and while he waitednow for her name, the train began creeping out of Sespe.
"All right," he laughed. "You can tell me your name when we meetagain. I must run for it. Good-by." He hurried through the screendoor to the platform, stepped over the brass railing, and clung there amoment, looking back into the car at her before dropping lightly to theground between the tracks.
"Now what the devil is the meaning of that?" he mused, as he stoodthere watching the train. "T
here were tears in her eyes."
He crossed the tracks, climbed a fence, and after traversing a smallpiece of bottom-land, entered a trail through the chaparral, andstarted his upward climb to the crest of the range that hid the SanGregorio. Suddenly he paused.
Had the girl's unfamiliarity with Spanish names caused her to confusePalomar with Palomares? And why was Panchito to be sold at auction?Was it like his father to sacrifice his son's horse to any fellow withthe money to buy him? No! No! Rather would he sell his own mount andretain Panchito for the sake of the son he mourned as dead. ThePalomares end of the San Gregorio was too infertile to interest anexperienced agriculturist like Okada; there wasn't sufficient acreageto make a colonization-scheme worth while. On the contrary, fiftythousand acres of the Rancho Palomar lay in the heart of the valley andimmediately contiguous to the flood-waters at the head of theghost-river for which the valley was named.
Don Mike, of Palomar, leaned against the bole of a scrub-oak and closedhis eyes in sudden pain. Presently, he roused himself and went his waywith uncertain step, for, from time to time, tears blinded him. Andthe last of the sunlight had faded from the San Gregorio before hetopped the crest of its western boundary; the melody of BrotherFlavio's angelus had ceased an hour previous, and over the mountains tothe east a full moon stood in a cloudless sky, flooding the silentvalley with its silver light, and pricking out in bold relief thegray-white walls of the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa, crumblingsouvenir of a day that was done.
He ran down the long hill, and came presently to the mission. In thegrass beside the white road, he searched for his straw suitcase, hisgas-mask, and the helmet, but failing to find them, he concluded thegirl had neglected to remind her father's chauffeur to throw them offin front of the mission, as promised. So he passed along the front ofthe ancient pile and let himself in through a wooden door in the highadobe wall that surrounded the churchyard immediately adjacent to themission. With the assurance of one who treads familiar ground, hestrode rapidly up a weed-grown path to a spot where a tallblack-granite monument proclaimed that here rested the clay of onesuperior to his peon and Indian neighbors. And this was so, for theshaft marked the grave of the original Michael Joseph Farrel, theadventurer the sea had cast up on the shore of San Marcos County.
Immediately to the left of this monument, Don Mike saw a grave that hadnot been there when he left the Palomar. At the head of it stood atile taken from the ruin of the mission roof, and on this brown tilesome one had printed in rude lettering with white paint:
Fallecio Don Miguel Jose Noriaga Farrel Nacio, Junio 3, 1841 Muerto, Deciembre 29, 1919.
The last scion of that ancient house knelt in the mold of his father'sgrave and made the sign of the cross.