“So far your story corresponds with the one Sanders told me,” said Julian.
“Can’t you remember anything about those happy days?” continued White-horse Fred. “I can, but then I am almost two years older than you are. I can remember that Juan—the old fellow who came into your room with us to-night—and his two boys, Romez and Antoine, were great favorites of mine. Juan was father’s _major domo_—he had charge of everything in the house. Romez was the hostler, and Antoine was the chief herdsman. They were life-long servants of our family, and they and a few others have since proved themselves as true as steel. When I became old enough to be trusted alone with a horse, I used to ride out to Antoine’s hut, which was located in the lower end of the valley, and spend weeks at a time with him, assisting in herding the cattle and learning to throw the lasso. Father would occasionally ride out there to see that I was all right, and now and then I would come home to spend a day with you.”
“I can remember those visits,” observed Julian.
“At that time, in spite of the gloom thrown over it by the death of our mother, which occurred when you were about three years old, our house was not the desolate place it is now. The officers of the fort used to visit there regularly to talk over army matters with father, eat Juan’s excellent dinners, and enjoy the splendid shooting the mountains afforded. Father did considerable trading with the trappers and friendly Indians; the house was always full, and there was always something interesting going on there. Somehow the story got abroad that father was immensely rich. Well, he was wealthy, but he didn’t have as much money as most people supposed he did.”
“How much was he worth, anyhow?” asked Julian.
“Perhaps a couple of million, and the most of that once belonged to grandfather.”
“Why, I heard Pedro tell Sanders that he had fifty millions stowed away somewhere.”
“Ah, nonsense! Pedro has about as clear ideas of wealth as he has of the moon; and that’s something he knows nothing at all about. The story got wind from this simple circumstance: Father was one day walking up a little ravine a short distance from the house, prospecting, when he found a pretty good-sized nugget. The next day he picked up another, and a week or two afterward he found a third. He told some of the officers of it, and they spread it around. There were a few miners here then, and they at once crowded into the ravine and turned up every inch of it; but not another nugget was brought to light. That, however, did not serve to convince them that there was not a gold mine of wonderful richness hidden about there somewhere. They industriously circulated the report, and finally the story, together with the news of grandfather’s death and mother’s, reached the ears of a couple of men in San Francisco, who at once laid their plans to possess themselves of father’s wealth. They were Reginald and Richard Cordova, mother’s brother and cousin.