“At the beginning, of course. Tell me who I am, how I came to be an inmate of Jack Bowles’ cabin, and all about it. I have lived among mysteries for the last few weeks, and I want every one of them explained.”
“And yet there isn’t a single mystery connected with your history, or mine, either,” replied White-horse Fred. “I can make everything plain to you in ten minutes. In the first place, that old rancho back there is our home. It was built by Grandfather Cordova, our mother’s father, who came out here in early times. When I tell you that it was intended as a fort as well as a dwelling, you will know how those secret passage-ways came to be there. Such a building was necessary in those days, for it was hardly safe for white men about——”
“Safe!” interrupted Julian. “It isn’t safe now.”
“Oh, things have changed wonderfully since that house was built, and even during my recollection. We call ourselves a quiet, orderly, well-disposed set of people; but when grandfather first came out here he saw some excitements, I tell you. He was a native of Mexico, and brought with him a small colony of his own people. The Indians were so troublesome that the government was obliged to keep a strong body of troops here, and father was one of their officers. He commanded the fort; and Silas, who was in more than one battle with him, says he was a fighter worth looking at. He had not been out here very long before he fell in love with and married our mother, Inez Cordova, threw up his commission, and went to digging gold and raising cattle. Everything went on smoothly until grandfather and mother died, and then the trouble began. In one night our family was completely broken up by a couple of adventurers, who ought certainly to have had some mercy on us if they had no affection for us, for they were our mother’s brother and cousin.
“So far your story corresponds with the one Sanders told me,” said Julian.
“Can’t you remember anything about those happy days?” continued White-horse Fred. “I can, but then I am almost two years older than you are. I can remember that Juan—the old fellow who came into your room with us to-night—and his two boys, Romez and Antoine, were great favorites of mine. Juan was father’s major domo—he had charge of everything in the house. Romez was the hostler, and Antoine was the chief herdsman. They were life-long servants of our family, and they and a few others have since proved themselves as true as steel. When I became old enough to be trusted alone with a horse, I used to ride out to Antoine’s hut, which was located in the lower end of the valley, and spend weeks at a time with him, assisting in herding the cattle and learning to throw the lasso. Father would occasionally ride out there to see that I was all right, and now and then I would come home to spend a day with you.”
“I can remember those visits,” observed Julian.
“At that time, in spite of the gloom thrown over it by the death of our mother, which occurred when you were about three years old, our house was not the desolate place it is now. The officers of the fort used to visit there regularly to talk over army matters with father, eat Juan’s excellent dinners, and enjoy the splendid shooting the mountains afforded. Father did considerable trading with the trappers and friendly Indians; the house was always full, and there was always something interesting going on there. Somehow the story got abroad that father was immensely rich. Well, he was wealthy, but he didn’t have as much money as most people supposed he did.”
“How much was he worth, anyhow?” asked Julian.
“Perhaps a couple of million, and the most of that once belonged to grandfather.”