The Bad Man Part 43

It was curious to see the change in Uncle Henry since the arrival of little Pancho. Gilbert got him a brand-new wheel chair--sent all the way to Phoenix for it--to celebrate the great event; and Uncle Henry loved nothing better than to take the chap on his knee and give him a ride in the courtyard whenever Lucia would trust him to his care. He never complained now. He was deliriously happy, and with the new era of prosperity that had struck the household, he was given a Mexican boy as his own personal attendant, and he grew to take a kindly interest in him. He taught him to read and write English. Thus busily occupied, and loving Lucia because she loved his nephew so, his health improved, as well as his temper. He could even tolerate "Red's" harmonica; in fact, he often begged him to play it when the latter came over to midday dinner, and his legs had so improved that he could actually jiggle them to some merry tune.

"If you don't look out, you'll be dancin' soon!" "Red" used to say on these happy occasions. "You can s.h.i.+mmy now!"

"Shet your head!" Uncle Henry cried; but not angrily--not now. He laughed when he said it, and was secretly flattered that anyone thought he had such pep at his age and in his condition of semi-invalidism (for that is all it could be called now).

It was five o'clock when the Giddings family came. They used the faithful little Ford for the short run; but they too had a big roadster, painted a flaming red, "to match the master's hair," Mrs. Quinn put it.

Angela, radiant in her motherhood, instantly compared notes with Lucia as to infant symptoms--not that anything was the matter with either child; but she loved to be ready for any emergency, and had a natural fear that Panchita might be taken ill in the night sometime; and was everything in her home medicine-chest, that should be?

Uncle Henry begged to take both children on his lap; and, holding them firmly, he made his boy push the chair here and there, got "Red" to play the once detested harmonica, and had a gay time of it all around the ranch house.

"We'd better eat indoors this afternoon," Lucia said. "I was going to spread the table under the pergola; but it may turn cooler."

It was not long before they were all seated at an extended table in the big living-room--that same room which had been the scene of tragedy and suffering for them, but was now so filled with joy.

"Mrs. Quinn sent over the cake," Lucia announced, as the table-boy brought in a huge dish, on which was a chocolate cake of magnificent proportions.

It looked--and was--as light as a feather; a work of art to be proud of.

"Just like her, eh?" said "Red." "What would we do without Mrs. Quinn, the queen of 'em all!"

"That's what I say," Uncle Henry declared. He could hardly wait to get to the cake, for he knew what toothsome dainties the Irishwoman could cause to emerge from her oven; and often she sent him this or that sweet, "just to let 'im know she was livin' an' breathin'."

Suddenly there came a sound of hoof beats on the road; and through the open door, outlined against the flaming sunset, Gilbert could see two hors.e.m.e.n approaching, with pointed hats, and glistening b.u.t.tons.

"Mexicans!" he cried. "What can they be doing here, now?" His mind rushed back to that terrible evening so long ago when Lopez had ridden up to the adobe, and changed the world for them all in almost the twinkling of an eye.

He got up from the table now, and "Red" followed him. Dusk was just descending, but Gilbert's sharp eyes recognized the first horseman even in the dimming light.

"It's Pancho Lopez!" he cried.

And sure enough, on a steed that looked like Sunday afternoon, with brand-new reins and bit, and in a suit that fit him to perfection, with gleaming spurs and s.h.i.+ning b.u.t.tons, the rakish and indomitable Pancho, his long-lost friend, returned to greet him. He could scarcely believe it. For since that memorable night when he had left them, to return to the interior of Mexico, never a word had he had from him. Meantime, the great happiness had come to him; and when the baby came into the world, he and Lucia had not forgotten the man who had been responsible for their joy. With one accord they named the boy Pancho. There was not the slightest doubt but that should be what he should be called. The only tragedy was that they had no way of letting the bandit know what they had done. Where was he? They did not know. When, if ever, would he return? They had no way of finding out. There was but one thing to do--wait. And they did. But often Gilbert had said to Lucia, "He has forgotten us, though we have never forgotten him--our friend."

Now, in the quiet, brooding autumn dusk he came to their doorstep, dismounted, lifted his hat, smiled that wonderful smile of his, and made a bow that any courtier might have been proud to make. Behind him, on a brown horse, was Pedro, his lieutenant--the same monosyllabic Pedro, faithful unto death, and now as clean as a whistle.

"Ah! my frand!" Pancho said, as he bowed again, "How glad am I to see you.

You glad to see me, too, eh?"

Lucia also had come to the door; likewise Angela--but the latter was still a bit timid. Even Uncle Henry pushed his way to the sill, and sat like a lonely man in a gallery while those in the orchestra pressed about their favorite actor.

"Glad?" exclaimed Gilbert. "I could kiss you, Pancho! But where on earth have you been? Come in, and tell us everything."

He needed no urging. "Hongry as beeg bear!" he told them.

"Then sit right down," Lucia said, "There's plenty--far more than the last time you were here!" And they all laughed.

He came into the room, while Pedro took care of the horses.

"Hallo, Oncle Hennery," he greeted the old man in the wheel chair. "You look splendid! And 'allo, 'Red,'--zat's what zey call you--yes?" Then he saw the babies, and his eyes fairly popped from his head, "Well, well!" he cried, "Who 'ave zese leetle fellers!"

"They're not both fellers!" Angela made bold to say. "One's a girl--that one! She's mine!"

"Oh, ho! Leetle spitfire still!" Pancho laughed. He chucked her under her pretty chin. "So you marry ze man I pick for you, eh? Good! An'

zis"--pointing to the baby--"zis ees better yet!"

"Look at mine!" the proud Lucia couldn't help saying. "Isn't he the image of his father?"

She held him up, and Lopez took his little hand in his. "Yes, I see what you mean," he said, carefully looking at the child. "Hees father's eyes--but not so much hair! What you call heem?"

"Guess!" said Gilbert.

"Could not," the Mexican answered.

"Only one guess!" Lucia begged.

"Could not t'ink," Lopez insisted.

"Well, then--you tell him, Gilbert," the mother said, turning to her husband.

"There could be only one name in all the world for that youngster," Gilbert said, and put his hand affectionately on his old friend's shoulder. "You ought to know it as well as I. Of course his name is--Pancho!"

The smile that came over the Mexican's face was beautiful to see. And was that the suggestion of a tear in his eye?

Long and long, and while everybody in the room remained perfectly still, he looked at the baby, whose tiny hands bobbed up and down--a fat, healthy youngster, fit as a fiddle, laughing, squirming, happy.

"For me you name him?" Lopez finally got out. "Oh, too good you are to me.

Pancho! my own leetle boy! Pancho! 'Some' name, what you say, eh?"

And he pinched the child's cheek, tenderly as his mother would have done.

"And here's mine!" Angela, not to be outdone, piped up, presenting her child, also in her arms, to the delirious bandit.

"An' what heez name?"

"It ain't a he--it's a she, I told you!" Angela corrected.

"Ah! All kinds you 'ave 'ere, eh? Good! An' what _'er_ name?"

"Can't you guess?" asked "Red," coming forward, smiling.

"A girl? What use I 'ave for girls?" laughed Pancho Lopez. "What you say now--what's ze name?"

"Why, Panchita! What else could we have named her?" Angela said.

You could have knocked the Mexican down with a straw. This time he was flabbergasted.

"You all too fine, too tender, too good to me," he said; and there was a softness in his speech that none of them had guessed could be there, save, perhaps, Gilbert.

"Oh, no," Jones said. "We wanted a little Mexican touch in our households.

And we've never forgotten you, old friend. Tell me, where have you been all these months? We hoped to hear from you. But never a word or a sign from you. Aren't you just a little ashamed of yourself now, when you see how much we have been thinking of you?"