Pesquiera talked with his hands and shoulders, sparkling into animation.
"Mr. Gordon distrusts me. So? Am I not right? He perhaps mistakes me for
what you call a--a pettifogger, is it not? I do assure to the contrary.
The blood of the Pesquieras is of the bluest Castilian."

"Fine! I'll take your word for it, Don Manuel. And I don't distrust you
at all. But here's the point. I'm a plain American business man. I don't
buy and I don't sell without first investigating a proposition submitted
to me. I'm from Missouri."

"Oh, indeed! From St. Louis perhaps. I went to school there when I was a
boy."

Gordon laughed. "I was speaking in metaphor, Don Manuel. What I mean is
that I'll have to be shown. No pig-in-a-poke business for me."

"Exactly. Most precisely. Have I not traveled from New Mexico up this
steep roof of the continent merely to explain how matters stand?
Valencia Valdés is the true and rightful heiress of the valley. She is
everywhere so recognize' and accept' by the peons."

The miner's indolent eye rested casually upon his guest. "Married?"

"I have not that felicitation," replied the Spaniard.

"It was the lady I meant."

"Pardon. No man has yet been so fortunate to win the _señorita_"

"I reckon it's not for want of trying, since the heiress is so