spoiled by an education – and he was always talking about 'La Fortuna,' I guess this was the place he meant, but it doesn't look like it – according to him it was a Mexican town. Maybe he's around here now – his name was Mendez."
"José Maria Mendez?" inquired Don Juan, who was a living directory of the place. "Ricardo? Pancho? Cruz?"
"Cruz!" cried De Lancey. "That was it!"
"He lives down the river a couple of miles," said Don Juan, "down at Old Fortuna."
"Old Fortuna!" repeated Phil. "I didn't know there was such a place."
"Why, my gracious!" exclaimed Don Juan de Dios, scandalized by such ignorance. "Do you mean to say you have been here three days and never heard about Fortuna Vieja? Why, this isn't Fortuna! This is an American mining camp – the old town is down below.
"That's where this man Aragon, the big Mexican of the country, has his ranch and store. Spanish? Him? No, indeed —mitad! He is half Spanish and half Yaqui Indian, but his wife is a pure Spaniard – one of the few in the country. Her father was from Madrid and she is a Villanueva – a very beautiful woman in her day, with golden hair and the presence of a queen!
"No, not Irish! My goodness, you Americans think that everybody with red hair is Irish! Why, the most beautiful women in Madrid have chestnut hair as soft as the fur of a dormouse. It is the old Castilian hair, and they are proud of it. The Señora Aragon married beneath her station – it was in the City of Mexico, and she did not know that he was an Indian – but she is a very nice lady for all that and never omits to bow to me when she comes up to take the train. I remember one time – "
"Does Cruz Mendez work for him?" interjected De Lancey desperately.
"No, indeed!" answered Don Juan patiently. "He packs in wood from the hills – but as I was saying – " and from that he went on to tell of the unfailing courtesy of the Señora Aragon to a gentleman whom, whatever his present station might be, she recognized as a member of one of the oldest families in Castile.
De Lancey did not press his inquiries any further, but the next morning, instead of riding back into the hills, he and Bud turned their faces down the cañon to seek out the elusive Mendez. They had, of course, been acting a part for Don Juan, since Kruger had described Old Fortuna and the Señor Aragon with great minuteness.
And now, in the guise of innocent strangers, they rode on down the river, past the concentrator with its multiple tanks, its gliding tramway and mountains of tailings, through the village of Indian houses stuck like dugouts against the barren hill – then along a river-bed that oozed with slickings until they came in sight of the town.
La Fortuna was an old town, yet not so old as its name, since two Fortunas before it had been washed away by cloudbursts and replaced by newer dwellings. The settlement itself was some four hundred years old, dating back to the days of the Spanish conquistadores, when it yielded up many mule-loads of gold.
The present town was built a little up from the river in the lee of a great ridge of rocks thrust down from the hill and well calculated to turn aside a glut of waters. It was a comfortable huddle of whitewashed adobe buildings set on both sides of a narrow and irregular road – the great trail that led down to the hot country – and was worn deep by the pack-trains of centuries.
On the lower side was the ample store and cantina of Don Cipriano, where the thirsty arrieros could get a drink and buy a panoche of sugar without getting down from their mounts. Behind the store were the pole corrals and adobe warehouses and the quarters for the peons, and across the road was the mescal still where, in huge copper retort and worm, the fiery liquor was distilled from the sugar-laden heads of Yuccas.
This was the town, but the most important building – set back in the shade of mighty cottonwoods and pleasantly aloof from the road – was the residence of Señor Aragon. It was this, in fact, which held the undivided attention of De Lancey as they rode quietly through the village, for he had become accustomed from a long experience in the tropics to look for something elusive, graceful, and feminine in houses set back in a garden. Nothing stirred, however, and, having good reason to avoid Don Cipriano, they jogged steadily on their way.
"Some house!" observed Phil, with a last, hopeful look over his shoulder.
"Uh," assented Bud, as they came to a fork in the road. "Say," he continued, "let's turn off on this trail. Lot of burro tracks going out – expect it's our friend, Mr. Mendez."
"All right," said De Lancey absently. "Wonder where old Aragon keeps that bee-utiful daughter of his – the one Don Joo-an was telling about. Have to stop on the way back and sample the old man's mescal."
"Nothing doing!" countered Hooker instantly. "Now you heard what I told you – there's two things you leave alone for sixty days – booze and women. After we cinch our title you can get as gay as you please."
"Oo-ee!" piped Phil, "hear the boy talk!" But he said no more of wine and women, for he knew how they do complicate life.
They rode to the east now, following the long, flat footprints of the burros, and by all the landmarks Bud saw that they were heading straight for the old Eagle Tail mine. At Old Fortuna the river turns west and at the same time four cañons come in from the east and south. Of these they had taken the first to the north and it was leading them past all the old workings that Kruger had spoken about. In fact, they were almost at the mine when Hooker swung down suddenly from his horse and motioned Phil to follow.
"There's some burros coming," he said, glancing back significantly; and when the pack-train came by, each animal piled high with broken wood, the two Americans were busily tapping away at a section of country rock. A man and a boy followed behind the animals, gazing with wonder at the strangers, and as Phil bade them a pleasant "Buenos días!" they came to a halt and stared at their industry in silence. In the interval Phil was pleased to note that the old man had only one eye.
"Que busca?" the one-eyed one finally inquired. "What are you looking for?"
And when Phil oracularly answered, "Gold!" the old man made a motion to the boy to go on and sat down on a neighboring rock.
"Do you want to buy a prospect?" he asked, and Bud glanced up at him grimly.
"We find our own prospects," answered Phil.
"But I know of a very rich prospect," protested Mendez; "very rich!" He shrilled his voice to express how rich it was.
"Yes?" observed Phil. "Then why don't you dig the gold out? But as for us, we find our own mines. That is our business."
"Seguro!" nodded Mendez, glancing at their outfit approvingly. "But I am a poor man – very poor – I cannot denounce the mine. So I wait for some rich American to come and buy it. I have a friend – a very rich man – in Gadsden, but he will not come; so I will sell it to you."
"Did you get that, Bud?" jested Phil in English. "The old man here thinks we're rich Americans and he wants to sell us a mine."
Bud laughed silently at this, and Mr. Mendez, his hopes somewhat blasted by their levity, began to boast of his find, giving the history of the Eagle Tail with much circumstantiality and explaining that it was a lost padre mine.
"Sure," observed Phil, going back to his horse and picking up the bridle, "that's what they all say. They're all lost padre mines, and you can see them from the door of the church. Come on, Bud, let's go!"
"And so you could this," cried Mendez, running
