CHAPTER XIII
GONZALES
The Rancho Sierra had long been the rendezvous of the contrabandista, a sanctuary for outlaws of every type and description for many years. Steve Guadalupe welcomed them all, took their gold freely, and asked no questions.
Situated in the heart of the hills, half-hidden by the overhanging bluff against which it had been built, and commanding a view in three directions, it would be impossible of undetected approach, except at night.
The ranch-house was an L-shaped, one-story adobe structure, and so weathered with age that it seemed part of the bluff, which was covered with a growth of mesquite and manzanita. South of the ranch-house extended a long, low, adobe shed, surrounded on the west by a big pole corral, capable of holding many horses.
The ranch-house was roomy, with thick walls, and the windows were barred, like those of a prison. The floor of adobe had been walked upon until it was flintlike in texture, and the furnishings were of the most crude construction.
In one end of the L was the kitchen, where a frowzy old Mexican, overalled, half-shirted, barefooted, cooked food in big black kettles in an open fireplace. There was little idea of sanitation. The floor of the kitchen reeked of ancient spillings. Strings of chili peppers hung in festoons from the ceiling, a half-eaten haunch of venison on the table attracted a myriad of flies, while more of the insects buzzed about the head of the half-asleep cook.
In the angle of the L, facing each other across a rough table, on which stood a bottle of mescal and two tin cups, sat Pedro Torres and Steve Guadalupe. Big Medicine’s description fitted Guadalupe well. His dirty gray hair, matted in some spots and in others standing upright like a handful of fox-tail grass, framed a thin, evil countenance, aged to the texture of dirty parchment, almost belying the brilliancy of his two little eyes, which age had failed to dim.
His mouth was wide and the lips so thin that it appeared more like a gash than a mouth. His raiment was little better than that of his cook, except that his shoulders were draped with a bright-colored serape, and on the index finger of his right hand he wore a huge emerald ring.
His general appearance was a direct contrast with that of the dapper Torres, who was drinking almost too much of the potent liquor to suit Guadalupe. Guadalupe drank little. He swept the bottle off the table and shoved it inside his serape.
“Idiota!” he snarled.