The Treasure Trail. Marah Ellis Ryan

The Treasure Trail - Marah Ellis Ryan


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      Marah Ellis Ryan

      The Treasure Trail

      The Story of the Land of Gold and Sunshine

      Published by

      Books

      - Advanced Digital Solutions & High-Quality eBook Formatting -

       [email protected]

      2017 OK Publishing

      ISBN 978-80-272-2084-7

       CHAPTER I KIT AND THE GIRL OF THE LARK CALL

       CHAPTER II THE RED GOLD LEGEND

       CHAPTER III A VERIFIED PROPHECY OF SEÑORITA BILLIE

       CHAPTER IV IN THE ADOBE OF PEDRO VIJIL

       CHAPTER V AN “ADIOS” –– AND AFTER

       CHAPTER VI A DEAD MAN UNDER THE COTTONWOODS

       CHAPTER VII IN THE PROVINCE OF ALTAR

       CHAPTER VIII THE SLAVE TRAIL

       CHAPTER IX A MEETING AT YAQUI WELL

       CHAPTER X A MEXICAN EAGLET

       CHAPTER XI GLOOM OF BILLIE

       CHAPTER XII COVERING THE TRAIL

       CHAPTER XIII A WOMAN OF EMERALD EYES

       CHAPTER XIV THE HAWK OF THE SIERRAS

       CHAPTER XV THE “JUDAS” PRAYER AT MESA BLANCA

       CHAPTER XVI THE SECRET OF SOLEDAD CHAPEL

       CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF DOÑA JOCASTA

       CHAPTER XVIII RAMON ROTIL DECIDES

       CHAPTER XIX THE RETURN OF TULA

       CHAPTER XX EAGLE AND SERPENT

       CHAPTER XXI EACH TO HIS OWN

      CHAPTER I

       KIT AND THE GIRL OF THE LARK CALL

       Table of Contents

      In the shade of Pedro Vijil’s little brown adobe on the Granados rancho, a horseman squatted to repair a broken cinch with strips of rawhide, while his horse –– a strong dappled roan with a smutty face –– stood near, the rawhide bridle over his head and the quirt trailing the ground.

      The horseman’s frame of mind was evidently not of the sweetest, for to Vijil he had expressed himself in forcible Mexican –– which is supposed to be Spanish and often isn’t –– condemning the luck by which the cinch had gone bad at the wrong time, and as he tinkered he sang softly an old southern ditty:

      Oh –– oh! I’m a good old rebel,

       Now that’s just what I am!

       For I won’t be reconstructed

       And I don’t care a damn!

      He varied this musical gem occasionally by whistling the air as he punched holes and wove the rawhide thongs in and out through the spliced leather.

      Once he halted in the midst of a strain and lifted his head, listening. Something like an echo of his own notes sounded very close, a mere shadow of a whistle.

      Directly over his head was a window, unglazed and wooden barred. A fat brown olla, dripping moisture, almost filled the deep window sill, but the interior was all in shadow. Its one door was closed. The Vijil family was scattered around in the open, most of them under the ramada, and after a frowning moment of mystification the young fellow resumed his task, but in silence.

      Then, after a still minute, more than the whisper of a whistle came to him –– the subdued sweet call of a meadow lark. It was so sweet it might have been mate to any he had heard on the range that morning.

      Only an instant he hesitated, then with equal care he gave the duplicate call, and held his breath to listen –– not a sound came back.

      “We’ve gone loco, Pardner,” he observed to the smutty-faced roan moving near him. “That jolt from the bay outlaw this morning has jingled my brain pans –– we don’t hear birds call us –– we only think we do.”

      If he had even looked at Pardner he might have been given a sign, for the roan had lifted its head and was staring into the shadows back of the sweating olla.

      “Hi, you caballero!”

      The words were too clear to be mistaken, the “caballero” stared across to the only people in sight. There was Pedro Vijil sharpening an axe, while Merced, his wife, turned the creaking grindstone for him. The young olive branches of the Vijil family were having fun with a horned toad under the ramada where gourd vines twisted about an ancient grape, and red peppers hung in a gorgeous splash of color. Between that and the blue haze of the far mountains there was no sign of humanity to account for such cheery youthful Americanism as the tone suggested.

      “Hi, yourself!” he retorted, “whose ghost are you?”

      There was a giggle from the barred window of the adobe.

      “I don’t dare say because I am not respectable just now,” replied the voice. “I fell in the ditch and have nothing on but the Sunday shirt of Pedro. I am the funniest looking thing! wish I dared ride home in it to shock them all silly.”

      “Why not?” he asked, and again the girlish laugh gave him an odd thrill of comradeship.

      “A good enough reason; they’d take Pat from me, and say he wasn’t safe to ride –– but he is! My tumble was my own fault for letting them put on that fool English saddle. Never again for me!”

      “They are all right for old folks and a pacing pony,” he observed, and again he heard the bubbling laugh.

      “Well, Pat is not a pacing pony, not by a long shot; and I’m not old folks –– yet!” Then after a little silence, “Haven’t you any curiosity?”

      “I


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