"Say," asked Mr. Backus, as the pair rode out of the pueblo side by side, "how're ye getting on with the silver-mine question? Had any new developments?"
"No," replied the prospector, "I bounced them straight out about it last night, and learned nothing. They just won't open their heads on the subject at all. They simply swear there never was a mine, and I don't believe it's any use to go on working at them."
"And what'll you do next?" queried the storekeeper.
"To tell you the truth," said Stephens simply, "I've not quite made up my mind what I want to do, but I'm much inclined to chuck it up."
"Look at here," interjected Backus, "did ye ever think to try them Navajos? They used to roam all over these mountains in the old days, and they know 'em still just like a book. They know what silver is, too, for you see all their high-u-muck-a-mucks wearing plates of it all over 'em. How about them knowing where the mine is?"
"I doubt it," returned Stephens. "They'd have sold the secret of it to the Mexicans long ago if they had known it."
"They're too suspicious of the Mexicans to do that," said the other; "they don't trust 'em. They'd be afraid they'd cheat 'em; but mebbe they might trust you or me enough to think we'd pay 'em if we promised to."
"They don't trust the Mexicans far, by all accounts," said Stephens, "I allow that much. But say—I want to know more about this fuss between Don Andrés and the Navajo. How was it?"
"Oh," said Backus, "the Navajo came to the sheep camp where Andrés was with his two herders. The Navajo had his squaw along. And he and Andrés got to playing cards by the firelight, and Andrés won all the money he had, six dollars and a half. And then the Injun got mad and swore Andrés had cheated him. And Andrés told him to go to Halifax! And then the Injun got madder, and drawed his butcher-knife and went for Andrés right there. But Andrés was too darn quick for him, and pulled his gun,—he wears a mighty nice pistol, does Andrés, a Smith and Wesson nickel-plated,—and he plugged him just under the heart and laid him out. And then the squaw bawled and ran off into the woods, and Andrés and the two sheep-herders were powerful frightened over what they'd done, and they chucked the body on the camp-fire to burn it up, and they packed their camp outfit and drove the sheep herd that night right away to the Ojo Escondido. But when the squaw got back to the other Injuns and told them, they just naturally knew their best plan was to come down on old man Sanchez at oncet. That's why they're here. They got here this morning, and Andrés come in only a few hours ahead of 'em, about midnight last night."
"Well I'm sorry for Don Nepomuceno," said Stephens.
"And he's tarnation sorry for himself too, you bet," added the Texan. "He's in an awful sweat over his flock of sheep. I never saw a man look sicker. Why, if the Navajos was to run off his sheep it'd bust him wide open. He's liable to have to make the original herd good to old man Baca, you see."
"By George!" returned Stephens, "I don't wonder he's in a sweat. What does he want to see me for, d'you know?"
"Wal'," replied Backus, "he reckons that as an American you might be able to help him some. The Americans are running this Territory now, and the Navajos have darned good reason to know it, and he thinks they'll mind you. I left him and some of his compadres pow-wowing away with them outside the house, but they hadn't come to no conclusion. Pretty Miss Manuelita"—he looked knowingly at the prospector—"was just crying her eyes out over her brother inside. She thinks he'll be killed, sure."
Stephens touched his mare with the spurs. "I'll gallop ahead, I think," he said, raising his reins, "but I'll be obliged to you if you'll bring that mule along quietly and just put him in your stable till I can come round for him. So long." He gave the mare her head, and in a moment she was skimming like a swallow over the gentle undulations of the dusty stretch of the Indian lands. Backus jogged along, watching the mare and her rider grow smaller and smaller in the distance.
"You don't just know what you want yourself," said he, apostrophising his late companion, "but I think I know about what you want, and I'll make it my business, Mr. Stephens, to see that you don't get it." The look in his eye as he spoke was not amiable.
It was not exactly a cheerful sight that greeted the American on his arrival at San Remo. The palaver was in progress, and there against a blank wall outside the Sanchez house squatted eleven very glum-faced Navajos, while on the ground opposite to them in the strong morning light sat Don Nepomuceno and three of his relations who had come to give him their support.
The eleven Indians were the first Navajos Stephens had ever seen, and he eyed them with no little curiosity. "Call these wild Indians?" he felt like saying: "why they look as civilised as the Pueblos." This was because of their dress mainly. They did not have their hair braided in locks with beaver fur like the mountain Utes, or twisted up like any of the plains Indians; each had a bright red kerchief bound turban-wise round his snaky black locks, just like the Pueblo Indians, except that he wore no "chungo," or pigtail, at the back. Neither was their colour as dark as that of the Utes or the Sioux; they were distinctly lighter. "Perhaps living further south they wash more," he thought, "and that may account for it." Then, in lieu of buffalo robes and buckskins they were clad in neat belted tunics and loose cotton breeches, and for a wrap or mantle had gaily striped blankets of their own weaving. "Real tony their blankets are," said he to himself, "and just as pretty as a painted mule." A pinto, or piebald, mule is an extraordinary rarity, and it is quoted in the Far West as the highest standard of picturesque beauty.
No; as far as dress went they did not look like wild Indians at all, at least not like any he had ever seen. But when he came to look at their faces he changed his mind. Not that they were all alike; on the contrary the diversity of types was remarkable. There were lowbrowed, thick-lipped, thick-nosed, heavy-jawed men among them, and there were others with fine aquiline features and regular, well-shaped mouths. But their bold, impudent, cunning eyes betrayed them. One and all they looked thorough rascals. As Stephens ran his eye over them, his acute glance rested on a big, hawk-faced man with a sullen expression, who sat in the middle of them smoking a cigarette with an air of unconcern. His broad leather belt was studded with great bosses of shining silver.
"How," said Stephens, dismounting and looking straight at this Indian whom he took for the chief, but the latter gazed at him stolidly without taking any notice. The Mexican rose and welcomed him warmly.
"Come round with me to the corral, Don Estevan," said Sanchez as he dismounted; "let me put the mare up for you. Pedro, the peon, is keeping the house door. My unlucky boy Andrés is inside. Ah, what a foolish boy to go and gamble with an Indian! The storekeeper will have told you of our trouble."
"Yes," said Stephens, "he told me that the Navajos were demanding your whole flock of sheep."
"Oh, not really," replied the Mexican; "that is, they only threaten to take them if I don't pay. But they positively and actually have the impudence to demand that I should pay them a thousand dollars, silver dollars, for one scrub Indian," he groaned.
"It sounds a good lot," said Stephens reflectively.
"Oh, it's ridiculous," said the disconsolate Mexican. "A thousand dollars for one miserable, low-down Indian. I've offered them a hundred and twenty-five, and that's more than he was worth to them twice over. But they say he belonged to Ankitona's family." He busied himself undoing the latigo strap of the hair cinch.
"But, look here," rejoined the American, to whom this exact appraisement of the value of one "low-down Indian" was a novelty; "according to the way Mr. Backus gave me the story as we rode down, I can't see why you should have to pay anything to them at all. If Don Andrés killed the Indian in self-defence, any court in this country would clear him. Do they deny it? Do they say that he attacked the Indian first?"
"Oh, no," said the Mexican, "you don't understand; his acting in self-defence doesn't make any difference." He spread the saddle blanket over the mare, tying it on with a cord surcingle. "She's hot," he observed, "she'd best have it on till she's cool. No," he repeated, as they turned back to the scene of the palaver, "it isn't a matter where law courts count for anything. Our courts don't ever bind the Navajos. The one thing that does count in our dealings with them is whether we are at peace or at war. Now, if we were at war with them at present they wouldn't come here to ask for pay. No, they'd go straight off and just kill or carry away captive any Mexicans they could catch in revenge. But, you see, we're at peace; so the rule is, if any Mexican kills a Navajo he must pay. They think that if his family don't make the Mexicans pay up for the dead man his ghost will haunt them. Their religion, you see, binds them, if I don't pay, to kill my son, or else maybe me, or some other member of my family; and very likely they'll cut my sheep herd some night and run off a lot of the sheep besides. Oh, I've got to pay." He groaned again.
"Well, Don Nepomuceno," said the American, "I'm real sorry to hear of your ill-luck. I call it a very hard case. If there's anything I can do to help you, you can count on me. All the same, if that Indian came at Don Andrés with a knife I don't myself see what else he could do except shoot, and I ain't the man to blame him for defending himself. Say, now, before we go back to where the Navajos are, you just tell me what you think I can do to be of assistance."
The strictly business footing, so to speak, on which Don Nepomuceno dealt with the subject puzzled the prospector not a little, and he was afraid lest by interfering ignorantly he might only make things worse.
"Well, Don Estevan, these Navajos think a deal of an American's opinion, naturally; so, since you are so kind, I want you to use your influence with them to make them take a more reasonable sum. A thousand dollars is all nonsense. He was quite a poor scrub Indian. He had hardly any sheep of his own, and no pony. They admit that he lived off the richer men of his family, so I say that they're well rid of him. They're really richer without him. He was, among them, like one of the poorest of our peons here. I declare if I gave them fifty dollars for him it would be plenty. But he was one of the family of Ankitona, and he's a very powerful chief, with lots of relations. He's not here himself—not he. He has sent his sister's son though, Mahletonkwa. He's that tall Indian with a hooked nose and the big row of silver plates all round his belt. He's a terribly bad Indian. He boasts that he never surrendered to the Americans,—that they never could take him to the Pecos. I think he's rather afraid of them all the same, though he says he isn't, and swaggers about with his band of desperadoes. But he's quite the worst Navajo going, and there hasn't been a piece of mischief done in the last two years without him and his gang having a hand in it. They're the terror of the whole country. There's another rascal there that's pretty near as bad as he is. That's the one with two feathers in his head-dress—Notalinkwa his name is. He's a villain too."
"I see," answered Stephens; "you want me to talk to this—what do you call him—Mahletonkwa, and tell him that he's got to come down a bit in his price. Do you think that'll do any good?"
The Mexican turned his eager eyes full on Stephens, and laid his hand on his arm. "I think it will," he cried; "you are an American, and all the Navajos think that it's their cue to keep on good terms with the Americans. They are a good deal afraid of them since the time of their defeat in the Cañon de Chelly, when they learned to fear the brave Coronel Christophero Carson and that valiente capitan, Albert Pfeiffer. That was several years ago, and after that they surrendered and were taken away beyond Santa Fé and kept over on the Pecos. They did hate that; they were nearly starved there, and lots of them died, and a good job too. It is only a couple of years now since they have been allowed to come back to their own country. But even those who never were caught and taken to the Pecos heard the story of it, and they, too, fear the Americans. Oh yes, they listen to their agent, Señor Morton, at Cañon Bonito."
"Well, then," exclaimed Stephens, "there's our man. Of course the Indian agent is the proper person to appeal to in a matter of this sort. Shall I tell this Mahletonkwa, then, that the moment he goes to cutting up any didoes on his own hook round here the agent will be down on him like a knife? I'll just inquire what right Mr. Mahletonkwa has got to come here anyhow—yes, or to be off his reservation at all. If Don Andrés had gone on to their reservation and killed a Navajo there, then there might be something to be said for their side of the argument, but if a Navajo comes here among the Mexican sheep herds he's got to abide by the laws of New Mexico, I say."
"Oh, Don Estevan, that's no use," answered the other sadly. "He don't care two reales about the laws. No, you tell him that Señor Morton will make the soldiers come and shoot him if he or any of his family kill my son; make him believe that, if you can, and you'll be doing some good."
"I'll try," said the American doubtfully, "but I hardly expect he'll mind much what I say."
The pair walked round the house to the south side, where the Navajos were sitting, and squatted down on the dry, sandy soil opposite them, alongside of the three Mexicans. Stephens got out his tobacco-bag and passed it round before he filled his own pipe, and began to smoke with calculated deliberation. He had at least learned one lesson, that it is no use to hurry an Indian if you want to do business with him.
Having got his pipe thoroughly alight and returned his tobacco-bag to his pocket, he looked at Mahletonkwa, and said, "You come from Fort Defiance?"
The Agency at Fort Defiance, called by the Mexicans Cañon Bonito, is just over the border line between New Mexico and Arizona, and well in the middle of the Navajo country.
"No," said the Indian briefly; "more this side."
"You got leave from the agent to be off the reservation?" asked Stephens sharply.
The Indian parried this question. "I come from my mother's brother, Ankitona," he said. "He mucho bravo—very angry about this thing." He indicated the killing by Don Andrés.
"Likely enough," said Stephens, "but that's no answer to my question. What I want to know is if you've got leave."
"I don't ask anybody's leave," said Mahletonkwa defiantly. "I'm not the slave of the Americans. I never went to Bosque Redondo." Bosque Redondo was the scene of their captivity over on the Pecos River.
"Indeed!" retorted Stephens; "but, if you hear me talk, it might have been better for you if you had. You might have had a chance to learn how to behave yourself." If this audacious redskin was going to put on any frills with him he proposed to check him up short right at the start.
Mahletonkwa chose to look very surly at this rebuff. Then he repeated his previous assertion. "Ankitona very angry indeed about this."
"And quite right of him too," said Stephens. "He ought to be very angry with your man who went and got himself killed. You've got no right to say it's Don Andrés's fault, if he had to defend himself. The man who drew the knife is to blame."
The Indian dissented by a gesture, but made no verbal reply. Disregarding Sanchez's warning of the futility of this argument, Stephens laboured to prove that killing done in self-defence was nothing more than justifiable homicide. But his words seemed to take no effect on the Indian, who smoked on stolidly till it was evident that all this talk was to no purpose. In an undertone Don Nepomuceno hinted as much.
When at last the Navajo condescended to answer, his view of the affair proved to be very much as the Mexican had prophesied. To him it did not matter three straws, he explained, who struck the first blow or who was to blame for the quarrel. His point was that the family had lost a valuable asset in the shape of a warrior, for which they required a good round sum in compensation, and not only that, but enough to enable them to give their lost relative a number of gifts that would make him comfortable in the next world. He would require a good deal to make him comfortable, too, for not only had he been killed, but he had been sadly disfigured; an undeniable fact, for of course the charred object that had been partly destroyed with fire was a horrid sight. The dead warrior's spirit was exceedingly angry, said Mahletonkwa, and required to be appeased with liberal offerings, and if he wasn't properly mollified he would take it out of his neglectful family by haunting them. Under this spiritual compulsion it was clear that all the family were bound to rise to the situation, he argued. There was no choice left them; they were absolutely bound, by some means or other, to extract satisfaction from the family of the slayer. He was very much in earnest. It wasn't war by any means; no, it was a mere family affair, so to speak. But there it was, and it would have to be arranged.
It took Stephens some time to become convinced that Don Nepomuceno was right, and that the dead man's ghost was at the bottom of it all.
"You see, this is how it is, Don Estevan," said the Mexican, speaking to him aside. "These Navajos have a sort of Purgatory of their own. Heaven forgive me for comparing their heathen superstitions to our holy religion, but I want to make you understand. You know when our friends die we give the proper offerings to the priest to say masses to make their stay in Purgatory shorter. Well, now you have heard Mahletonkwa say that these Indians have their religion, which is all false, of course, only they are obstinate and believe it, and according to that it is necessary for the family to give presents to make the spirits of the dead more happy. And they are very much afraid if they don't do it; oh yes, they are grossly superstitious; but how can I help it? How can I teach them better? These heathens are very expensive to deal with. If he were a Christian it wouldn't cost me half so much, but I don't suppose you could make him see how foolish he is."
He paused, as if a new idea had struck him. "Could you, do you think"—he added eagerly—"could you show him the error of his ways?"
"Jerusalem, no!" cried Stephens, taken considerably aback, "I rather guess not. I'm not a missionary by a long shot. No sir-ee, that's a trade I never had a go at, but I'll tell you what we used to say up in Montana: 'The best missionary is a gain-twist, hair-trigger rifle that will convert a Sioux Indian at three hundred yards every pop.' That's what we said there; but I'll admit that these southern Indians down here are a very different sort of folk. The Sioux were pure, unadulterated savages, but these Navajos seem to be part human. Still, I don't see my way to wading in at Messrs. Mahletonkwa and Co. with a hymn-book." He chuckled to himself at the naïveté of the Mexican's suggestion.
"Yes," said the latter regretfully, "I feared you couldn't do it. After all, to be missionaries is the business of the padres and not of you or me. But I like what you told me about the missionary rifle of the Americans that converts an Indian at three hundred yards. You tell him that; preach that to him; put it strong." He evidently had great faith in the moral influence of the American over the Navajos from the mere fact of his being an American.
"Very well," replied Stephens, with a certain pride of race in the appeal thus made, "I'll see what I can do. Look here, Mahletonkwa," he continued, addressing the chief, "I've heard your talk about this unfortunate incident, and I quite see that you've got reason on your side, looking at it from your point of view. Of course, our point of view is quite different; but we'll waive that for the moment. Very well. Here's Don Nepomuceno making you a very liberal offer of a hundred and twenty-five dollars to settle the matter. Now that's a lot of money; and if you're the wise man I take you for, you'll close with it and accept his offer. That's my advice to you. You'll find it best in the end, much better business than trying to fight the United States soldiers. The soldiers have got repeating rifles, heap-shoot guns, mind you. If you refuse, and go and take the law into your own hands, and attack Don Andrés, or any of his family, you'll smart for it. I give you fair warning. If you touch them I'll have the soldiers sent after you. Captain Pfeiffer aint dead yet. You've heard of him, so don't you make any mistake about that. You hear me talk; and what I say I'll do. My tongue is straight. I have spoken."
His words carried weight and produced some effect, as two of the Navajos at once began to urge something on their chief with great earnestness in their own language, apparently wishing him to comply. Stephens had adopted the crisp, pungent sentences that appeal most to the redskin's taste. But Mahletonkwa was in no hurry to come to terms, and presently replied to Stephens at some length, explaining that the offer was most inadequate. More cash for themselves and gifts for the dead man were indispensable, absolutely indispensable. His terms were still a thousand dollars, neither more nor less.
"I believe that other chap—what d'you call him? Notalinkwa, looks as if he was inclined to vote for taking your offer," said Stephens to Don Nepomuceno. He had been observing the faces of the rest of the Indians very closely while Mahletonkwa was speaking. "Look here. Let's leave him and his friends to argue it out; I'm sure by their looks some of them want him to give way. They'll talk better if we're not by. Come along to the store or somewhere."
"Come into the house," said the Mexican, jumping up; "we can talk better too when we are by ourselves," and he led the way to the great door leading into the patio, now strongly barred and fastened. At the master's summons the peon who was on guard hastened to unbar; the door was partly opened and they slipped in, the master of the house quickly assisting the peon to replace the wooden beams that secured it as soon as they were inside, while Stephens shook hands with Don Andrés, a tall, well-built young Mexican, who would have been very handsome had he not been marked with smallpox.
"How do you do, Don Andrés?" he said heartily. "I'm sorry for this trouble you've got into. However, let's hope it can be fixed up all right."
"It's very unlucky," returned the young Mexican; "I didn't want to kill him, but he would have it. I had to do something to defend my life."
"That's just what I say," assented Stephens; "I was putting it to Mahletonkwa like that just now, only he wouldn't see it. He jumped the track entirely, and went off into a rigmarole about ghosts and such like stuff, where I couldn't follow him, nohow."
"You were an exasperating, foolish boy!" exclaimed Don Nepomuceno testily to his son, as the door-beam was finally wedged into its place. "It's all your fault," he broke out, with vexation and almost despair in his voice. "What I shall do I don't know. You've gone and acted like an idiot. I've told you to stop your gambling a thousand times, and then you must go and gamble with an Indian, a scrub Indian! Yes, an idiot, that's what you are. Come in, Don Estevan, come into the house," and he led the way to the big living-room, Don Andrés following rather sheepishly. Not a word did he venture to say in reply to his angry father's tirade. "Honour thy father" is a commandment that is far from being obsolete in New Mexico. If his father had taken a rod in his wrath and beaten him, this tall young man would have dutifully submitted himself.
"Sit down," said the master of the house hospitably, pointing to the divan; "take a seat here, Don Estevan. Will you have something to eat?"
"Well, thank you, Don Nepomuceno," answered Stephens, "since you are so kind, I think I will, if it isn't too much trouble. The fact is, I came down without my breakfast."
"Ho, there, Juana!" cried the Mexican, running to the door, "and you, my sister! Make haste, set breakfast for the señor. He is hungry. Be quick now." A scurrying of feet was heard in the kitchen at the sound of his commanding voice. "And make him tortillas of wheat flour," his loud tones went on, "hot tortillas with fat, and coffee; see that you make coffee."
He came back and seated himself beside Stephens. "What do you think about it, señor?" he inquired. "What is the best thing to be done?"
"Well, if you ask me my deliberate opinion," said Stephens, leaning back and crossing his left leg over the other with his hands clasped round the knee, "I should say this: It seems to be perfectly clear that these Indians are outside the law; it's no use to appeal to it with them. Now the mail goes by here to-day, noon, towards Santa Fé. I say, write to the governor of the Territory at Santa Fé, and to the general commanding the United States troops there, and tell them about it, and ask their protection. They're bound to give it you. And write to the Navajo Agency at Fort Defiance, and tell the agent there, and ask him to have Mahletonkwa and his band brought back on to the reservation. And I should tell the Indians exactly what I was doing, and warn them once more that they'll certainly have the United States cavalry after them if they don't behave. If that makes them any more inclined to accept your offer of a hundred and twenty-five dollars, why, of course you'll count them out the money and settle it out of hand. I should call a settlement cheap at a hundred and twenty-five dollars cash down. More than that, if I was you, I'd raise my offer a trifle, if I thought I could afford it, so as to meet them. You heard Mahletonkwa say he wanted gifts, some sheep and a pony, to sacrifice for the dead man's ghost. I gather by what you tell me about their religion, that he thinks that if he kills them for him specially, the dear departed can go and corral the ghosts of the pony and sheep in the happy hunting-grounds, and have the full benefit of them there. Now, you must have in your flock some old six-tooth ewes, that likely will never breed another lamb; give him a dozen or two to butcher. And then, couldn't you trade for, or borrow, some old stove-up pony, very cheap, and let him have that, too? That won't ruin you. I take it the Navajos mean to keep your good hard silver dollars for themselves, and they'll religiously send the foundered old sheep and pony ghosts to keep their defunct relative company in the sweet by-and-by." The notion of this ghostly herd tickled his cynical humour mightily.
"Yes, perhaps I might do that," said Sanchez in a saddened voice. To part with any of his cherished flock is like drawing eye-teeth for a Mexican. "I might let them have a few of my oldest ewes; they come in very useful for mutton, but if I must, I must. And my brother-in-law has a handsome pony who is inyerbado; he ate poison-weed over on the Rio Grande a year ago, and has never been any use since. That dead Navajo was a very poor scrub, and it would be more than good enough for him; he ought to be uncommonly grateful for it."
He spoke so feelingly that it really seemed as if he almost half believed in the Purgatory of the Navajos himself. He hesitated and then went on. "But as for the letters, Don Estevan, it's not so easy. For one thing, the governor and the general don't know Spanish; and then, you know, I haven't much English, and I'm not much of a hand at letter-writing anyhow. I couldn't manage the letters."
"Oh, if that's all," returned the other, "I'll write the letters for you willingly enough. Indeed, as I'm an American, it's just possible they may be a trifle more ready to pay attention to them. Yes, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write out an account of the killing of the Navajo for Don Andrés, like an affidavit, and he shall sign it, and then we'll have Mr. Backus witness it and put on the post-office stamp. He's a sort of a United States official, and it may help to make them feel more called upon to take notice of it. That'll come as near to being a regular legal document as anything we can scare up out here. I do like to do everything in correct legal style, when I can. I'm all for law and order every time. That's me."
"Ah, Don Estevan," said the elder Mexican, "it is you that have the clear head. I am very much obliged to you. Your plan is the good one."
"Very well, then," answered Stephens, "I'll just run over to the post-office, and get some paper and envelopes and stamps, and draw up those letters; and as Don Andrés had better not go outside the house before the matter is settled, I'll ask Mr. Backus to step around here in the course of an hour, and bring his post-office stamp with him."
He rose from his seat to go towards the door, but Don Nepomuceno hospitably protested. "Wait till you have had your breakfast first, Don Estevan. It is all ready; here is Manuelita bringing it for you;" and as he spoke the girl entered and set the table for him, as Juana had done on the previous day. She smiled at his greeting, but her eyelids were swollen with crying.
At this moment there came a knocking at the outer door, and the master of the house hastened out to see who it was demanding admittance, and was followed by his son.
"He's all right," said Stephens cheerfully to the girl, as he looked into her anxious eyes. "He's safe enough as long as he stays inside here. They'll none bother him while he's protected by these walls. And I've good hopes that we may be able to bring them to a reasonable settlement, so that he can go about again in perfect safety. Don't you fret yourself over it. We'll make these Navajos sing a proper tune before we've done with them." He spoke with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to deal with serious affairs, and conscious of possessing the ability and the experience for handling them successfully. But he was equally astonished and embarrassed when Manuelita, instead of appearing calmed by his reassuring words, flung her hands over her face and burst into a passion of sobs.