is hand. He had stirred in the miner an
interest born of curiosity and a sense of romantic possibilities. Dick
wanted to see this daughter of Castile who was still to the
simple-hearted shepherds of the valley a princess of the blood royal.
Don Manuel was very evidently her lover. Perhaps it was his imagination
that had mixed the magic potion that lent an atmosphere of old-world
pastoral charm to the story of the Valdes grant. Likely enough the girl
would prove commonplace in a proud half-educated fashion that would be
intolerable for a stranger.

But even without the help of the New Mexican the situation was one which
called for a thorough personal investigation. Gordon was a hard-headed
American business man, though he held within him the generous and
hare-brained potentialities of a soldier of fortune. He meant to find
out just what the Moreno grant was worth. After he had investigated his
legal standing he would look over the valley of the Chama himself. He
took no stock in Don Manuel's assurance that the land was worthless, any
more than he gave weight to his warning that a personal visit to the
scene would be dangerous if the settlers believed he came to interfere
with their rights. For many turbulent years Dick Gordon had held his own
in a frontier community where untamed enemies had passed him daily with
hate in their hearts. He was not going to let the sulky resentment of a
few shepherds interfere with his course now.

A message flashed back to a little town in Kentucky that afternoon. It
was of the regulation ten-words length, and this was the body of it:

Send immediately, by express, little brown leather trunk in garret.

The signature at the bottom of it was "Richard Gordon."

CHAPTER III

FISHERMAN'S LUCK

A fisherman was whipping the stream of the Rio Chama.

In his creel were a dozen trout, for the speckled beauties had been
rising to the fly that skipped across the top of the riffles as
naturally as life. He wore waders, gray flannel shirt, and khaki coat.
As he worked up the stream he was oftener in its swirling waters than on
the shore. But just now the fish were no longer striking.

"Time to grub, anyhow. I'll give them a rest for a while. They'll likely
be on the job again soon," he told himself as he waded ashore.

A draw here ran down to the river, and its sunny hillside tempted him to
eat his lunch farther up.

Into the little basin in which he found himself the sun had poured