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CHAPTER IX. BARBARA IN MEXICO

THE manager of El Orobo Rancho was an American named Grayson. He was a

tall, wiry man whose education had been acquired principally in the cow camps

of Texas, where, among other things one does NOT learn to love nor trust a

greaser. As a result of this early training Grayson was peculiarly unfitted in some

respects to manage an American ranch in Mexico; but he was a just man, and so

if his vaqueros did not love him, they at least respected him, and everyone who

was or possessed the latent characteristics of a wrongdoer feared him.

Perhaps it is not fair to say that Grayson was in any way unfitted for the position

he held, since as a matter of fact he was an ideal ranch foreman, and, if the truth

be known, the simple fact that he was a gringo would have been sufficient to have

won him the hatred of the Mexicans who worked under him--not in the course of

their everyday relations; but when the fires of racial animosity were fanned to

flame by some untoward incident upon either side of the border.

Today Grayson was particularly rabid. The more so because he could not vent his

anger upon the cause of it, who was no less a person than his boss.

It seemed incredible to Grayson that any man of intelligence could have conceived

and then carried out the fool thing which the boss had just done, which was to

have come from the safety of New York City to the hazards of warring Mexico,

bringing--and this was the worst feature of it--his daughter with him. And at

such a time! Scarce a day passed without its rumors or reports of new affronts

and even atrocities being perpetrated upon American residents of Mexico. Each

day, too, the gravity of these acts increased. From mere insult they had run of

late to assault and even to murder. Nor was the end in sight.

Pesita had openly sworn to rid Mexico of the gringo--to kill on sight every

American who fell into his hands. And what could Grayson do in case of a

determined attack upon the rancho? It is true he had a hundred men--laborers

and vaqueros, but scarce a dozen of these were Americans, and the rest would,

almost without exception, follow the inclinations of consanguinity in case of

trouble.

To add to Grayson's irritability he had just lost his bookkeeper, and if there was

one thing more than any other that Grayson hated it was pen and ink. The youth

had been a "lunger" from Iowa, a fairly nice little chap, and entirely suited to his

duties under any other circumstances than those which prevailed in Mexico at

that time. He was in mortal terror of his life every moment that he was awake,

and at last had given in to the urge of cowardice and resigned. The day previous

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The Mucker