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Gordon was still in the porch-dwelling stage of convalescence when a Mexican rider swung from his saddle one afternoon with a letter from Manuel Pesquiera. The note was a formal one, written in the third person, and it wasted no words. After reading it Dick tossed the sheet of engraved stationery across to his companion.
Evidently this had formerly been the apartment of the cook, who had slept in the basement in order no doubt to be nearer her work. Pesquiera looked around and at last made out a figure in the darkness lying upon the bed. He stepped forward, observing that the man on the bed had his hands bound. Bending down, he recognized the face of Gordon.
Down in old-town some one must know where he is. Bring him to me and I'll make him tell what he has done with Mr. Gordon." Pesquiera was healthily hungry. He would have liked to sit down to a good breakfast, but he saw that his cousin was laboring under a heavy nervous tension. Cheerfully he gave up his breakfast for the present.
Your friends here fill the specifications close enough to suit me. I ain't worried about their being too good for the company they'll join at the pen." "You are then resolve', Señor?" "That's what I am. I'm going to see they get the limit. I've not got a thing against you, Mr. Pesquiera, and I'd like to oblige you if I could. But I'm playing this hand myself."
May I give them your pledge not to appear as a witness against them for what they have done?" "Fine! I'm to be mauled and starved and kidnaped, but I'm to say 'Thank you kindly' for these small favors, hoping for a continuance of the same. You have another guess coming, Mr. Pesquiera. I offered those terms two days ago. They weren't accepted. My ideas have changed.
Many of them left their wives and families in California, and all of them had warm friends there. Pesquiera issued a bloodthirsty proclamation, in the usual grandiloquent language of Spain, calling all patriotic Mexicans to arms, to exterminate the invaders and to preserve their homes. The roads fairly swarmed with Mexicans.
"You must judge for yourself, Valencia. But, if you don't mind, I shall continue to wish you failure in your search," he replied. It was now that Jimmie Corbett came into the room to say that Mr. Gordon would like to call on Don Manuel, if the latter felt able to receive him. Pesquiera did not glance at his cousin. He answered the boy at once. "Tell Mr.
I had first become acquainted with him when he was quartermaster at Benicia Barracks, in California, and met him the last time when he was chief of staff to the Khedive of Egypt at Grand Cairo, on the Nile. Pesquiera, the governor of Sonora, held the state in quasi-independence of Mexico, and drove the surveying party under Stone out of Mexico by force of arms.
"I object to the word illegal, Don Manuel," he answered curtly, not at all sure his objection had any foundation of law. Pesquiera shrugged. "Very well, señor. The courts, I feel sure, will sustain my words." "Perhaps, and perhaps not." "The law is an expensive arbiter, Señor Gordon. Your claim is slight. The title has never been perfected by you. In fifteen years you have paid no taxes.
"If you will happen round to the palace about noon to-morrow, Señor 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?
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