PAGE 12
The Chatelaine Of Burnt Ridge
by
Suddenly she heard a step in the porch. The lateness of the hour, perhaps some other reason, seemed to startle her, and she half rose. The next moment the figure of Miguel appeared at the doorway, and with a quick, hurried look around him, and at the open window, he approached her. He was evidently under great excitement, his hollow shaven cheek looked like a waxen effigy in the mission church; his yellow, tobacco-stained eye glittered like phosphorescent amber, his lank gray hair was damp and perspiring; but more striking than this was the evident restraint he had put upon himself, pressing his broad-brimmed sombrero with both of his trembling yellow hands against his breast. The young girl cast a hurried glance at the open window and at the gun which stood in the corner, and then confronted him with clear and steady eyes, but a paler cheek.
Ah, he began in Spanish, which he himself had taught her as a child, it was a strange thing, his coming there to-night; but, then, mother of God! it was a strange, a terrible thing that she had done to him–old Miguel, her uncle’s servant: he that had known her as a muchacha; he that had lived all his life at the ranch–ay, and whose fathers before him had lived there all THEIR lives and driven the cattle over the very spot where she now stood, before the thieving Americans came here! But he would be calm; yes, the senora should find him calm, even as she was when she told him to go. He would not speak. No, he–Miguel–would contain himself; yes, he HAD mastered himself, but could he restrain others? Ah, yes, OTHERS–that was it. Could he keep Manuel and Pepe and Dominguez from talking to the milkman–that leaking sieve, that gabbling brute of a Shipley, for whose sake she had cast off her old servant that very day?
She looked at him with cold astonishment, but without fear. Was he drunk with aguardiente, or had his jealousy turned his brain? He continued gasping, but still pressing his hat against his breast.
Ah, he saw it all! Yes, it was to-day, the day he left. Yes, she had thought it safe to cast Miguel off now–now that HE was gone!
Without in the least understanding him, the color had leaped to her cheek, and the consciousness of it made her furious.
“How dare you?” she said, passionately. “What has that stranger to do with my affairs or your insolence?”
He stopped and gazed at her with a certain admiring loyalty. “Ah! so,” he said, with a deep breath, “the senora is the niece of her uncle. She does well not to fear HIM–a dog,”–with a slight shrug,–“who is more than repaid by the senora’s condescension. HE dare not speak!”
“Who dare not speak? Are you mad?” She stopped with a sudden terrible instinct of apprehension. “Miguel,” she said in her deepest voice, “answer me, I command you! Do you know anything of this man?”
It was Miguel’s turn to recoil from his mistress. “Ah, my God! is it possible the senora has not suspect?”
“Suspect!” said Josephine, haughtily, albeit her proud heart was beating quickly. “I SUSPECT nothing. I command you to tell me what you KNOW.”
Miguel turned with a rapid gesture and closed the door. Then, drawing her away from the window, he said in a hurried whisper,–
“I know that that man has not the name of Baxter! I know that he has the name of Randolph, a young gambler, who have won a large sum at Sacramento, and, fearing to be robbed by those he won of, have walk to himself through the road in disguise of a miner. I know that your brother Esteban have decoyed him here, and have fallen on him.”
“Stop!” said the young girl, her eyes, which had been fixed with the agony of conviction, suddenly flashing with the energy of despair. “And you call yourself the servant of my uncle, and dare say this of his nephew?”