George Mechlin's wound was not mortal, but it made it necessary to convey him to town to have medical attendance near at hand, and no doubt it would be of a long and painful convalescence, with the danger, almost a certainty, of leaving him lame for life. This danger was to him far more terrible than death, but he concealed in the deepest recesses of his heart the horror he felt at being a cripple, for he knew the keen anguish that Elvira suffered at the thought of such a probability. Her lovely black eyes would fill with tears, and her lips would tremble and turn white, when he or any one else spoke of the possibility of his being lame. So he had to be consoler, and soothe her grief, and be the one to speak of hope and courage.

There was no possibility of his being able to return to his duties at their bank in New York at present, and he, to cheer Elvira's desponding heart, would say that he could attend to a bank in San Diego.

“Don't be despondent, my pet,” he said one day, when she looked very sad; “things will not be so bad, after all, for in the spring I will be well enough to attend to bank business here, even if I cannot stand the trip to New York. With the money that Clarence sent, and with what I will put in myself, we can start quite a solid bank. Gabriel will have learned a good deal by that time, and though I will not walk much, I can be a very majestic President, and give my directions from my arm-chair. All we want is the success of the Texas Pacific—and my uncle writes that Tom Scott is very confident, and working hard.”

“But will he succeed?” Elvira asked.

“He has powerful enemies, but his cause is good. The construction of the Texas Pacific ought to be advocated by every honest man in the United States, for it is the thing that will help the exhausted South to get back its strength and vitality.”

“Will it really help the South so much?”

“Certainly. Don't we see here in our little town of San Diego how everything is depending on the success of this road? Look at all the business of the town, all the farming of this county, all the industries of Southern California—everything is at a stand-still, waiting for Congress to aid the Texas Pacific. Well, the poor South is in pretty much the same fix that we are. I am sure that there are many homes in the Southern States whose peace and happiness depend upon the construction of the Texas Pacific. Look at our two families. All the future prosperity of the Alamares and Mechlins is entirely based upon the success of this road. If it is built, we will be well off, we will have comfortable homes and a sure income to live upon. But if the Texas Pacific fails, then we will be financially wrecked. That is, my father will, and Don Mariano will be sadly crippled, for he has invested heavily in town property. For my part, I'll lose a great deal, but I have my bank stock in New York to fall back upon. So my poor father and yours will be the worst sufferers. Many other poor fellows will suffer like them—for almost the entire San Diego is in the same boat with us. It all depends on Congress.”

“But why should Congress refuse to aid the Texas Pacific, knowing how necessary the road is to the South? It would be wicked, George, downright injustice, to refuse aid.”

“And so it would, but if rumors are true, the bribes of the Central Pacific monopolists have more power with some Congressmen than the sense of justice or the rights of communities. The preamble and resolution which Luttrell introduced last session were a ‘flash in the pan,’ that was soon forgotten, as it seems. In that document it was clearly shown that the managers of the Central Pacific Railroad Company were guilty of undeniable and open frauds. Enough was said by Luttrell to prove those proud railroad magnates most culpable, and yet with their record still extant, their power in Congress seems greater every year. Still, uncle writes that Tom Scott is to make a big fight this winter, and that his chances are good. I am bound to hope that he'll win.”

“But why has he to fight? What right have those men of the Central Pacific to oppose his getting Congressional aid? Does the money of the American people belong to those men, that they should have so much to say about how it should be used? Is it not very audacious, outrageous, to come forward and oppose aid being given, only because they don't want to have competition? Isn't that their reason?”

“That's all. They have not an earthly right to oppose the Texas Pacific, and all their motive is that they don't want competition to their Central Pacific Railroad. They have already made millions out of this road, but they want no one else to make a single dollar. They want to grab every cent that might be made out of the traffic between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and they don't care how many people are ruined or how many homes are made desolate in the South or in California.”

“Oh, George, but this is awful! If those men are so very rapacious and cruel, what hope have we? They will certainly sacrifice San Diego if their influence in Congress is so great! Poor San Diego! my poor, little, native town, to be sacrificed to the heartless greed of four or five men.”

“And what claim have these men upon the American people? Think of that! Have they or their fathers ever rendered any services to the nation? None whatever. All they rely upon is their boldness in openly asking that others be sacrificed, and backing their modest request with money earned out of the road they built with Government funds and Government credit. But they have tasted the sweets of ill-gotten gain, and now their rapacity keeps increasing, and in a few years—if they kill the Texas Pacific—they will want to absorb every possible dollar that might be made on this coast. The only thing that will put a check upon their voracity is the Texas Pacific. If this is killed, then heaven knows what a Herculean work the people of this coast will have to destroy this hydra-headed monster, or in some way put a bit in each of its many voracious mouths.”

“I am awfully discouraged, George. I am so sorry that papa put all his money into town property.”

“Let us yet hope Tom Scott might succeed.”

And thus this young couple went on discussing San Diego's chances of life or death, and their own hopes in the future. They were not the only couple who in those days pondered over the problem of the “to be or not to be” of the Texas Pacific. It is not an exaggeration to say that for nearly ten long years the people of San Diego lived in the hope of that much-needed and well-deserved Congressional aid to the Texas Pacific, which never came! That aid which was to bring peace and comfort to so many homes, which at last were made forever desolate!

Yes, aid was refused. The monopoly triumphed, bringing poverty and distress where peace might have been!

Yet in those days—the winter of '74-'75—everybody's hopes were bright. No clouds in San Diego's horizon meant misfortune. Not yet!

And of all of San Diego's sanguine inhabitants, none surpassed in hopefulness the three friends who had invested so heavily in real estate, viz.: Mr. Mechlin, SeÑor Alamar and Mr. Holman. They exhorted all to keep up courage, and trust in Tom Scott.

Many of the cattle sent to Clarence's mines had returned to the rancho from the mountains, and now it was necessary to collect them again and send them back.

Don Mariano himself, accompanied by Victoriano and two of his brothers, would start for the Colorado River, intending to see that the cattle got to the mines safely.

The evening before leaving Victoriano enjoyed the great happiness of seeing Alice by herself and talking to her of his love. For three long months her illness had kept her a close prisoner in her bedroom, and she had not seen Tano.

Now they enjoyed a two hours' tÉte-Â-tÉte, which was very sweet to them, and which pleasure they had not had since Clarence left.

Mercedes' convalescence was very slow. Her despondency at Clarence's absence retarded her recovery. The wounding of George had also impressed her painfully, for she was devotedly attached to him; and now she was worrying about her father having to go away.

Don Mariano told her that as soon as the cattle were on the other side of the mountains he would not feel any apprehension of their running away; that once in the desert they would go straight to the river, but that while in the mountains there was danger of their “stampeding” and being lost. She heard all this, but still she dreaded her papa's going out of her sight. She could not forget that had he been at home when Clarence came that last evening all might have been right. She had no faith in human calculations any more. She was sick, and wanted her papa near her.

“I think the best thing you can do is to send Mercita to town, to remain with us while you are away,” George had said to Don Mariano, hearing how badly she felt at his going.

“Yes, you are right. The surroundings at the rancho bring to her painful thoughts which will be gloomier when Tano and myself are away. She will have the two babies, of whom she is so fond, to amuse her here,” said Don Mariano.

“Besides all of us, the Holman girls will be good company for her,” added George.

Mercedes, therefore, was told by her papa that she was to remain with Elvira and Lizzie in town during his absence.

“Papa, darling, I shall not cease to be anxious about you and Tano until I see your dear faces again. I am a thoroughly superstitious girl now. But still, I do agree with you and poor, dear George, that the babies will be a sweet source of consolation to me. Yes, take me to them. I'll play chess or cards with George, and we'll amuse each other. He will read to me; he is a splendid reader; I love to hear him.”

Mercedes, therefore, was conveyed to town by her loving father, who went away with a much lighter heart, thinking that she would be less desponding.

The mayordomo, with about twenty vaqueros, were nearly at the foot of the mountains with twenty-five hundred head of cattle, when Don Mariano and Victoriano overtook them, and as the cattle had been resting there for two days, their journey to the Colorado River would be resumed at daybreak.

The weather had been intensely cold for the last two days, so that the benumbed animals could scarcely walk in the early morning, but now the air felt warmer.

“I fear it is going to rain. We must try to reach the desert and leave the storm behind us,” said Don Mariano to his mayordomo.

A good day's journey was made that day, and night overtook them as they descended into a small valley, which seemed to invite them to rest within its pretty circumference of well-wooded mountain slopes, from which merry little brooks ran singing and went to hide their music among the tall grasses that grew in rank solitude.

The bellowing of cattle and shouts of the vaqueros soon awoke the mountain echoes, and the silent little valley was noisy and crowded with busy life. Camp-fires were quickly lighted, from which arose blue columns of smoke, making the lonely spot seem well populated.

“With a good supper and good night's rest, we will make a long march to-morrow,” said the mayordomo to Don Mariano. “There is plenty of feed here for our cattle.”

“But the weather looks so threatening. I wish we were out of this,” said Don Mariano.

“And I, too. We are going to get a wetting,” added Tano.

About midnight Don Mariano awoke, startled; he had heard nothing, and yet he awoke with a sense of having been summoned to arise. He sat up and looked around, but saw nothing. The darkness of the sky had changed from inky black to a leaden hue, and the clouds hung down among the tall trees like curtains of ashy gray, draping them entirely out of view. The fires were out, and yet he did not feel cold. He thought it strange that all the fires should have burned out, when they had put on such heavy logs before going to sleep. He struck a light to look at his watch, for he had no idea what the hour might be. By the light he saw that his blankets seemed covered with flour. He brushed off the white dust, and found that snowflakes had invaded even their retreat under the shelter of oak trees.

“There must have been some wind to blow this snow under the thick foliage of these oaks,” said he, hurriedly putting his coat and shoes on, these being the only articles of his dress he had removed, “and I did not hear it. How stealthily this enemy came upon us. I fear it will be a winding-sheet for my poor cattle.” He now proceeded to awake everybody, and a hard task it was, for the treacherous drowsiness spread over them with that snow-white coverlet was hard to shake off. But he persisted, and when he made believe he was losing his patience, then all arose, slowly, reluctantly, but they were on their feet.

“Come on, boys, let us build fires, fires! Fires under every tree, if we have to put up barricades to keep off snow-drifts. Come on; we must drink coffee all night to keep us awake.”

In a short time several fires were started under oak trees which had widely-spreading branches or under pines which clustered together.

Don Mariano had a consultation with his mayordomo, and both agreed that it would be best to drive the cattle back for a few miles and wait until the snow had melted sufficiently for them to see the trails, else all might plunge unawares into hidden pitfalls and gulches covered over by snow-drifts.

“Yes, this is our only course,” said Don Mariano, “and now we must start them up. Sleep under snow cannot be any better for cattle than it is for men. Let us have some coffee, and then we must whip up and rouse the cattle; they seem dead already; they are too quiet.”

He was going back to the tree where he had slept, when he was met by his brother Augustin, who came to say that Victoriano wished to see him.

“What? Still in bed?” said he, seeing Victoriano lying down. “This won't do. Up with you, boy.”

“Come here to me, father,” said Victoriano's voice, very sadly. His father was quickly by his side.

“What is the matter, my boy?” asked he.

“Father, I cannot stand up. From my knees down I have lost all feeling, and have no control of my limbs at all.”

“Have you rubbed them to start circulation? They are benumbed with the cold, I suppose.”

“I have been rubbing them, but without any effect, it seems. I don't feel pain though, nor cold either.”

This was the saddest perplexity yet. There was nothing to be done but to wait for daylight to take Victoriano home. In the meantime, a fire was made near his bed. His limbs were wrapped in warm blankets; he drank a large cup of warm coffee and lay down to wait for the dawn of day to appear.

As soon as all the herders had drank plenty of warm coffee, all mounted their horses, and the work of rousing the cattle began.

The shouts of the vaqueros, bellowing of cattle and barking of dogs resounded throughout the valley, the echo repeating them from hill to hill and mountain side. In a short time everything living was in motion, and the peaceful little valley seemed the battle-ground where a fiercely contested, hand-to-hand fight was raging. The great number of fires burning under the shelter of trees, seen through the falling snow as if behind a thick, mysterious veil, gave to the scene a weird appearance of unreality which the shouts of men, bellowing of cattle and barking of dogs did not dispel. It all seemed like a phantom battle of ghostly warriors or enchanted knights evoked in a magic valley, all of which must disappear with the first rays of day.

Don Mariano and his two brothers also mounted their horses, but remained near Victoriano's bed to keep him from being trampled by cattle that might rush in that direction.

About four o'clock the vaqueros had a recess. They had put the cattle in motion, and could conscientiously think of cooking breakfast. By the time that breakfast was over, daylight began to peep here and there through the thick curtains of falling snow. Giving to the mayordomo the last instructions regarding the management of the cattle, Don Mariano got Victoriano ready to start on their forlorn ride homeward. It was no easy task to put him in the saddle, but once there, he said he was all right.

“I am a miserable chicken from my knees down, but a perfect gentleman from my knees up. Don't be sad, father; I'll be all right again soon,” said he, cheerfully.

The snow had not ceased falling for one moment, and if the mayordomo had not been so good a guide they might not have found their way out, for every trail was completely obliterated, and no landmarks could be seen. After a while, Don Mariano himself, aided by a pocket compass, got the bearings correctly. The entire band of cattle were driven back, so that all began their retreating march together, preceded by Victoriano, with his limbs wrapped up in pieces of blanket, an expedient which he found very ridiculous and laughable, suggesting many witticisms to him.

About ten o'clock they came to a grove of oak trees which covered a broad space of ground and afforded good shelter for man and animals. Don Mariano told his mayordomo that he thought this would be a good place for him to stay with the stock until the storm had passed, for although the snow might fall on the uncovered ground, there would be shelter for all under the trees.

After resting for an hour and eating a good luncheon, Don Mariano, aided by his brothers, again put Victoriano on horseback and started homeward, all the country being still enveloped in snow. About nightfall the snow was succeeded by rain, and this was much worse, for it came accompanied by a violent wind which seemed as if it would blow them away with their horses. Having left the mayordomo and all but one vaquero with the cattle, Don Mariano had with him only this one mozo to wait on them, and his two brothers to assist him in the care of Tano. The night was passed again under the friendly shelter of trees, but in the morning it was found necessary to ride out into the storm, for now Victoriano's limbs ached frightfully at times, and it was imperative to reach home. This was not done until the following day, when Victoriano's malady had assumed a very painful character, and when Don Mariano himself had taken a severe cold in his lungs. A doctor was immediately sent for, and now DoÑa Josefa had two invalids more to nurse.

For six weeks Don Mariano was confined to his bed with a severe attack of pneumonia, followed by a lung fever, which clung to him for many days. In the latter part of January, however, he was convalescing. Not so Victoriano; his strange malady kept him yet a close prisoner. When his father was out already, driving and riding about the rancho, poor Tano had to be content with sitting by the window in an arm-chair, and looking at that other window which he knew was in Alice's room. Everett came daily to sit with him, to read to him, or play chess or cards, and he helped the invalid to take a few steps, and little by little, Tano began to walk.