Therefore, as noiselessly and hastily as possible, they placed themselves within earshot of what was said within the house; and the story they heard, reduced to simplest facts, was to the effect, as follows:
Upon receiving his discharge from legal detention at Los Angeles, Antonio had felt a homesick longing for his old haunts. He had returned without telling anybody of his intention and had taken up his abode at Solano’s ranch, where his unfortunate brother and the only person for whom he still cared was frequently to be found. There the dwarf had joined him, though rambling away again, from time to time, on errands of his own of which he neither spoke nor was questioned.
“Money, money! That’s the one thing, the only thing, no! Get money, Ferd whenever, however, wherever you can and what you get you keep. Hear me,” had been Antonio’s constant instruction during all the years of the hunchback’s life; and to the dwarf’s limited understanding, his adored brother typified incarnate wisdom.
He had anticipated high praise when, one day, he came back to Solano’s and reported his hiding of the little captain in the canyon cave. The praise was not so ready at first, for Antonio was astute enough to see whither such a hazardous scheme might lead; but the approbation came unstained when, later, Ferd again appeared, describing Pedro’s behavior at the time of the rescue and of the curious action of the ancient staff. Sent back alone to bring fresh specimens of the mineral Pedro had unearthed, Ferd had suddenly turned stubborn and refused to go more than halfway. Pedro had died suddenly, and Pedro’s ghost would haunt the spot; no, even Antonio should not compel him thither. 199 He would do anything, everything else, but go to the canyon cave again he would not.
Indeed Antonio now felt that it was hardly necessary he should. The poor lad’s superstition had suggested a better way. With Solano’s aid, the deluded “top-lofty” hatched a notable scheme. He would himself impersonate Old Century’s uneasy spirit, which could not rest because he had betrayed the secret of the ancient padres. Nero could be made as white as any ghost horse by the application of a little paint; and shod with rubber could pass over the sandy roads with almost as little noise as any spectral steed. It was easy to bribe and terrify two small boys into securing and restoring to him the pointed wand, even if by their effort to obtain it they might happen to fall and break it. That mattered little, however, since the point was all that he wanted; but it was just as well to have that money he had seen through the window, that night of his first appearance on Sobrante grounds. That, too, was easy to get if one watched his opportunity in that cactus tunnel Ferd had scooped for his brother’s convenience. An unsuspecting, busy household left many chances for entering an open-windowed room, and who had ever been so familiar as he with the supposed safety secret place in which the key was kept? With the money he had found also the bit of copper Pedro had procured; and he knew enough of mining matters to rejoice, indeed. He had meant to do great things. He would prosecute his land claim to the uttermost; and there were plenty of unscrupulous men who would undertake his cause for a share in the profits of a copper mine. This very mesa would have been the scene of their first operations. Here the mill would have been built, and here–––
“But what the use? The hand of punishment is upon me, yes. The money, it is there. Ferd shall tell of all the rest that he has put somewhere, I know not. His poor brain cannot carry out the plan, and to me it avails no more. Ay de mi! But Solano––beware. Of some things he knows, and of more he suspects, is it not? Ah! I weary, I languish, I die, I, Antonio Bernal, heir to wealth so boundless. It was so fine a plan––so most wonderful and simple. The fools, how they feared! Oh! the laughter I had! and the wild, rides on my so splendid ghost horse, yes. But I die––I die; and the great big plan for the copper turned to gold––I––who else will have the so great intellect, you call it, to make it real? Well, I have done. The staff I return––useless, save to me. The money––I cannot carry whither I must ride on the white horse of death––whiter than––the pity! The pity! Poor Antonio! Poor, poor Antonio!”
His long talk had, indeed, wearied him to faintness; but while his own tears rained down his cheeks in his self-pity, even as Jessica’s in sympathetic sorrow, a cheerful and hearty voice cried through the window:
“Don’t fret yourself, top-lofty! There’s one or two other smart men left, my friend, to carry out that noble scheme of yours, and my name ain’t John Benton, if they don’t do it! More’n that, I’ll promise you a few more years to spend in wickedness, if you like. On one condition.”