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III · Conquistador

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  Section three of Conquista Door. This is a LibriVox recording. All Libervox recordings
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  were in the public domain. For more information not a volunteer, please visit
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  librox dot org. Conquistador by Catin Fulton, Gerrald. Three eleven days later,
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  Don Fernando kept close to the ranch house all day, sitting in his
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  office that commanded the approach. Not even a word from a distant corral of
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  stampede and cattle took him afield. His meals were served to tim apart as
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  afternoon draw on. He summoned Vicente more than once. Ten days were an
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  ample allowance. The return will be child's play, he muttered. At one
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  moment, fetch the signora's chair, Vicente, and set it beside mine at
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  the head of the board. I shall not dine alone. Vincente's jaw dropped.
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  Who will sit in that chair? Senor? He whispered my air.
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  The next gutierres he cannot delay beyond to night. Ten days were enough.
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  It is now eleven twelve, and I should burst two went forth. Vicente
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  speculated to himself in a distant corner, the young Americano who looks like a
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  Spaniard, and are Juan, one of these he will make his heir.
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  Vicente had never seen Cameron's papers, but be sure he knew the old Mahardonnin
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  could not be deceived in family matters. Moreover, was the photograph of Donia
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  Mercedes. What do you growling about? Vicente? The gray haired steward came
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  and stood beside his master's chair. I say, two went forth and two
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  will return. Is it after a perilous journey that either should be affronted by
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  an honor paid to the other, either the guest Don Pablo or Jue,
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  the child of the Hazienda. If two return, I am the last gutierres
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  and the senor empty church shall mark that fact. But two will not return.
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  Vicente to God. I commended them both equally the ordeal. I arranged
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  myself as honorably as might be. I could not deprive one of his machete,
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  but I told Don Pablo to shoot without hesitation. Vicente, who had
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  no grasped the situation, permitted himself one murmur. He was, after all
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  has Ndado's foster brother, and our one should sit at the Senora's chair before
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  the notary has made him legitimate. Don Fernando shivered a little. When these
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  things are arranged comfortably with the requirements of Honor Vicente, the decision is Heaven's.
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  If one returns, I shall not keep him waiting until Don Luis has
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  mended his pen. But it may be the other. Vicente shook his head.
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  One had his machete. A round oath was his reward. Could I
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  help it that they do not teach the use of the mache in the United
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  States of What do you accuse me? I told the other to shoot when
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  he saw the arms stir under the serape like this, And if they both
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  return, Vicente held to his hypothesis, they could not, for one will
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  certainly try to kill Pablo. The Holacienda knows by this time that Don Pablo
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  is my sister's child. Look you, Vicente, it was a hard decision.
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  Therefore I left it to Heaven. Neither one is pure Spanish. Only
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  Heaven can decide which of the two other bloods is better, And the one
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  who kills proves his blood the better. Vacina did not question it. He
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  merely affirmed, it is one who will try first to kill, said Don
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  Fernando, calmly, because he knows more. But I tell you. Heaven
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  decides these things. When all has been well prepared, the survivor will be
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  the better man. Grmber, the sun is sinking. Will this never be
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  over? Vicente withdrew to fetch the heavy chair, twin of Don Fernando's own,
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  but uneasy, thrilled, half unhappy, who turned to his master when
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  his task was done. Together they stood by the barred window that looked towards
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  the gate half an hour an hour, and the two faces, not unlike
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  in the twilight of the room, were bloodless and drawn with expectation. The
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  cloud of dust by the fire gate. A muffled figure rocking slightly on the
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  horse coming nearer my son. My son, cried Don Fernando, and strode
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  to the door. No one could have told who was unfolded in the serabe,
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  nor did Don Fernando know whichever, For it was was now his son
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  remove the segnor's chair. He hissed to Vicente as he distanced him, for
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  the man who had returned was sore, hurt, or he would not rock
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  so in the saddle. A moment later, a huddled form slipped off at
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  Don Fernando's feet, only when his firm hands had dweund the serape. Did
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  he know when he had untwisted the last fold? He looked past rides and
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  clotted blood stains into Wharton Cameron's face, and of Section three rebay and curl