Chapter III: In the Border Town

Just off the main street of Indian Wells is an old two-storey adobe, tinted by weather and long-vanished coats of whitewash. Barely decipherable are the signs painted on the front wall:

CASA DEL DIAZ
VINO--POLLA FRITA--SALA DE BAILE

But in spite of the antiquity of the signs, there is plenty of wine, and a fried chicken; and one may dance on the hard-packed floor of the patio, where a pair of moulting parrots swear in Spanish at each other and at the three Mexican musicians, who seem for ever twanging at their guitars and mandolin.

There is always an odour of fried chicken and spilled wine; and on the rafter hang festoons of huge red peppers, adding a spicy perfume of their own.

There is, too, Rosita Diaz, refuting the belief that all Mexican women become fat and waddly after twenty-five. Rosita is nearing fifty, above average height, slender, few lines of age in her face. Her hair is sleek and black, parted in the middle, caught together in the back with a huge black comb studded with rhinestones. She always wears black. Rosita is not handsome. They say she is hard, grasping, inflexible. A good reason; she has run the Casa del Diaz for years.

It was the morning following the shooting scrape in Silver Bar, when Hal Austin came into the Casa del Diaz. His clothes were untidy, eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave. He came through the _cantina_ and slumped into a chair in the patio, where he threw his sombrero aside and ran his fingers through his mop of disordered blonde hair.

“_Dolor de cabeza?_” asked a soft voice behind him, and he turned quickly to see Juana Diaz, her lips parted in a flashing smile.

“Headache? Lordy, yes!” he said emphatically. “I’ve sure got one, Juana. Sit down.”

He drew out a chair for her and resumed his place. Juana Diaz was said to be the prettiest girl in Indian Wells, if not in the entire country. Tall and slender, like her mother, olive skin and cheeks that needed no rouge. Her features were regular, her eyes large and long-lashed, arched browed. Just now she wore a dark dress, a gay-coloured mantilla around her shoulders. Hal looked at her closely for several moments. Suddenly he leaned across the table and whispered:

“Juana, will you marry me? Right now--this morning?”

Juana drew back, her eyes wide.

“We’ll find a priest,” said Hal quickly. “I’m not a Catholic, but that’s all right. Religion don’t mean anything to me. Will you, Juana?”

“No wonder your head ache,” she said slowly.

“I’m serious, Juana. I love you and I want you--right now.”

“You got sometheeng matter weeth your head?”

“Don’t, Juana. Please, I’m serious. I’ve loved you ever since the first day I came into this place. You know that; I’ve told you many times.”

“_Si, si!_” Juana was serious now. “But why so sudden?”

“I’ll tell you why. You have always thought my name was Hal Gordon. I’ll admit I lied to you, Juana. My name is Hal Gordon, but the last name is Austin. My father is Frank Austin, of San Francisco. He is one of the big financial men of the Pacific Coast. He owns the Star A cattle outfit.

“I don’t know what Cal Sands said about you, but I’m sure he lied to dad about both of us, and dad, mother, and my sister came to Silver Bar last night. They are at the ranch now, and dad is probably looking for me.”

“To keep you from marrying me, eh?” Juana was on her feet instantly, eyes ablaze.

“That’s their viewpoint,” laughed Hal. “Sit down, Juana. Dad is a good scout. Mother is--well, blue blood means a lot to her. Don’t you see, things have been exaggerated. Marry me to-day, and everything will be all right.”

In his excitement Hal had raised his voice, even forgetting where he was. Now the soft voice of Rosita Diaz broke in on the conversation, and Hal turned to see her standing behind him. Hal flushed quickly. For some reason he had always feared Rosita Diaz just a little.

“Why did you say your name was Gordon?” she asked slowly.

“I don’t know,” confessed Hal. “It--it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Rosita ignored the question. “Your father is Frank Austin, the millionaire?”

Hal laughed shortly. “I don’t suppose he’s got that much.”

“And he came down here to stop you from seeing Juana?” Rosita demanded.

“I’m not sure, but I think that is his reason.”

“Because Juana is not good enough for you, eh?”

“Wait a minute,” begged Hal. “Dad never saw Juana. Some one has lied to him.”

Rosita’s eyes were like black ice now, and she laughed harshly. “No one has lied,” she said. “Your father does not want you to marry a Mexican. Perhaps he is right. _Quién sabe?_”

“I’m sorry,” said Hal wearily. “But I do want to marry Juana.”

“You are only one of many. I want to see Juana happy. If she wants to marry you--very well; but your father must consent.”

“I am of age, Mrs. Diaz.”

“Years have nothing to do with it.”

Some one was coming through the cantina, and Rosita moved over toward the entrance to meet Porfiro Mendez, a huge, overdressed Mexican, followed by Miguel and Ricardo Gonzales, cousins of Mendez. Mendez was picturesque in his gaudy attire, and no doubt a handsome man from the Mexican point of view. His head was huge, features regular, with sweeping black moustaches. He was possibly fifty years of age.

Miguel and Ricardo were of different types, their heads barely reaching to Mendez’s shoulders. No doubt their mother had been Indian, as the Indian blood showed plainly in these two men. They were younger than Mendez, evil-looking, loose-lipped, drab of attire alongside Mendez.

“Ho, ho, ho!” roared Mendez jovially. “’Eere ees my seester-in-law all ready to serve _polla frita_ and _mucho vino_ to ’ungry men. ’Ullo, Rosita. Shake ’ands weeth Mike and Deek.”

“_Buenos dias_,” said Mike and Dick in chorus.

“Thees boys don’t spik Englis’ ver’ good,” grinned Mendez.

“Mike don’t spik Englis’ wort’ damn,” said Dick expansively.

“You go from hell,” grunted Mike. “I’m spik twice times worse den you.”

“You see?” said Mendez. “Pretty good, eh? Bimeby thees boys spik so good Englis’ he’s forget _español_. Seet down.”

Rosita walked imperiously out to the kitchen to give the order, while Mendez looked expansively around. His eyes lighted at sight of Juana, but he scowled heavily at Hal.

“_Buenos dias, dulce amiga_,” he smiled at Juana.

“Hello, Uncle Porfiro,” replied Juana, little interested.

“Onkle!” snorted Mike.

“_Tonto!_ You fool!” exploded Mendez angrily, and Mike subsided. Not for nothing was Porfiro Mendez known as “Lobo,” the Wolf, down across the border, where he owned and controlled the little town of Piñon.

Juana turned her back on Mendez and he scowled blackly, watching her and Hal from the corner of his eye. For a long time Mendez had coveted Juana, and he possibly had an understanding--with himself--that she was to marry him. He had given no thought to the vast difference in their ages.

Mendez shifted uneasily in his chair as Hal and Juana talked softly. Finally he got up and walked into the _cantina_ room, where he found Rosita unpacking some bottles of wine.

“Who is this young man with Juana?” he asked in Spanish.

Rosita stood up and brushed off a bottle with a cloth. “Why do you ask?” she replied.

“Is this young man in love with Juana?”

“Of what interest is that to you, Porfiro?”

“Enough. I mean to marry Juana.”

Rosita stared at him in amazement for several moments.

“You are going to marry Juana?”

“That is true.”

She laughed in his face, as she placed the bottle on a table.

“You? Old enough to be her father. Porfiro, do not be a fool. Knowing you as I do, even were you of an age, I would never agree to a marriage. You see,” Rosita leaned in closer, lowering her voice, “I have a memory--a memory of my sister, little Juanita.”

Mendez shifted his eyes nervously. It was something he did not care to discuss.

“You drove her away,” said Rosita softly. “You took another woman. Juanita came here to live with me--died here in my arms. No, Porfiro.”

“Does Juana know all this?” he asked hoarsely.

“Why would I tell it to a child? Go back and eat--but forget Juana.”

Mendez nodded slowly. “Who is the gringo?” he asked.

“His name is Austin.”

“Austin? Austin of the Star A cattle company?”

“His son.”

Mendez lifted his right hand and tugged at his moustaches, eyes almost closed. He glanced back at the doorway to the patio, where a parrot was shrieking a meaningless jargon of Spanish words. His eyes came back to Rosita’s face. “_Madre de Dios_,” he snorted, and swaggered back to the patio, as Juana and Hal were coming out.

Rosita went to the kitchen with her bottles. Hal held out his hand to Juana.

“You weel come back?” she asked simply.

“And keep coming back,” he smiled. “Let somebody try to stop me.”

“Thees cheeken ees cook’ to the taste of a quin,” declared Mike.

“Quin?” queried the greasy Dick. “What ees ‘quin,’ Mike?”

Mike choked over a chicken bone, dug deeply with a forefinger and got it out, but not until his cheeks were wet with tears from the choking.

“A quin,” he said hoarsely, “ees--a quin ees--you dam-fool, a quin is w’at takes a jack.”

“A seester from a keeng?”

“Sure.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m. She’s like good cook cheeken, eh?”

“Sure.”

“Shut up,” growled Mendez. “I’m want theenk.”

“Sure,” grunted Dick, and then with inspiration. “You say w’at you wan’ theenk, and I’m ’elp you, Porfiro.”

“I don’ want no brain from you!” snapped Mendez.

“All right--onkle,” grinned Mike.

“Some day,” said Mendez severely, “I’m cut off your damn head and run you out of Mejico. Who are you? _Ladron!_ ’Orse t’ief! And you try mak’ fun from Lobo Mendez.”

Mike subsided. He realised that he had overstepped a little. Mendez swelled out his cheeks and grew very red in the face, as he glowered at his low-bred cousins who would dare poke fun at him.

“W’en you spik to me--spik _español_,” he ordered. “You spik Englis’ like damn Basque sheepherder.”

They both nodded, but did not agree with Mendez. Cut-throats and horse-thieves they were, but proud of their English-speaking ability. Still, it was not policy to anger their patron cousin further; so they confined themselves to finishing the chicken and wine, while Lobo Mendez picked his teeth with the point of a pocket-knife and appeared to be deep in thought.