CHAPTER XXIV.—The Brewers of Mischief.
Eight delicious weeks passed—the most delightful that Clarence and Mercedes had ever lived. The first of September had dawned, and on the 16th they would be married. With the first rays of the coming morn, Clarence arose and went to the west window of his chamber, which looked towards the Alamar House. As he peeped through the closed shutters, thinking it would seem foolish to open them so early, he saw the shutters of one window—in that well known row where Mercedes' room was located, and which looked to the east—pushed open, and a white hand and part of a white arm came out and fastened it back. His heart told him whose white arm that was, and of course he could not think of going back to bed. He began to dress himself, deliberating whether he should or not go to town that day and telegraph to Hubert to do as he thought best about selling another cargo of ores, or say to wait for him, that he would be at San Francisco on the 20th. When he was dressed, he sat by the west window and tried to read, but that white arm would come across the page and that white hand would cover the letters, so that he threw the book down and began to walk, trying to think about that business of selling the ore to the Austrian house, of which Hubert had been writing to him. Yes, he thought, the best thing would be to go to town that same day and ask Hubert couldn't the matter wait until the 20th. But should Hubert be coming, or should it be necessary to wait for telegrams, he might not be back until the following day in the evening. He would go immediately after breakfast to tell Mercedes that he could not see her that evening.
Mercedes and Doña Josefa were on the front piazza when he arrived, and Gabriel was talking to George in quite an excited manner, for him, as he was always so calm and self-contained. As soon as Clarence came up the piazza steps, George began to tell him that some of the last lot of cattle which had been sent off to the mountains, had got away from the herders and returned to the rancho on the previous day, and that morning a couple of cows of a very choice breed were found shot through the body, in a dying condition. The poor brutes had to be shot dead by Gabriel himself, to save them from further suffering. No one knew who had fired on the poor dumb animals, but circumstantial evidence clearly pointed to Old Mathews.
Clarence was very angry, of course. He reflected in silence for a few moments, then said to Gabriel:
“I think if Don Mariano would make now, to-day, a deed of sale of all his cattle and horses to me, they would have a better chance of being spared. Not that Mathews, or Gasbang, or Miller like me any better, but they are not so anxious to annoy me.”
“I think Clarence's idea is a good one,” George said.
“I think so, too, and have thought so for some time,” Gabriel replied. “We are going to drive off the last lot to-day. Father and Tano are down in the valley. I'll tell him what you say as soon as I go down. I think we will return by to-morrow night, and he can draw up the deed then.”
“Tell him that I shall consider that the cattle are mine now, and will let our friends, the settlers, know it, so that they can have the satisfaction of killing my cattle.”
“Do you really mean it?” Doña Josefa asked.
“Certainly. Don Mariano can buy all the cattle he wants to restock his rancho after he gets rid of the two-legged animals,” Clarence replied.