If Don Anabel’s word was law within his own home, his influence extended no less outside his estates. His father had been a governor of New Mexico, and Don Anabel’s word carried great weight with the successive _jefe politicos_ of the territory of New Mexico. Chihuahua, the seat of government of this province, of which Santa Fe was the chief city, numbering as it did a thousand souls, was three months’ travel to the south. The capital of Mexico was more than nine hundred leagues to the south. Little did the President of the new republic interfere with the overlordship of the _jefe politico_ of the northern territory. At one time Mexican officials had intervened jealously over the intrusion of venturesome Yankees from beyond the mountains, who came exploring and were followed by trains of fresh traders. They dared to bring in from eastward the goods that Mexico had always supplied to the farthermost parts of New Spain. The luckless ones had been thrown into prison, had languished in Chihuahua jails for a decade, but as soon as they returned to their northern homes it was but to send more and more pack animals back across the deserts. Don Anabel himself had from the first resented these intruders bitterly. To him the white men from across the plains were still colonists of the hereditarily hated English. They were thrown into the _carcel_, hindered in every way, yet still they came! And in the end Don Anabel traded with them, as every one else did. It was to his advantage. He could not afford not to. On the morning after this last invasion Don Anabel, straight, forbidding, stood in his warehouse, taking stock not only of merchandise, but of things in general. Luis, a trifle nervous, but much quicker than usual to anticipate his father’s moods and requests, stood by with pencil and pad, while the clerks ran hither and thither. “And ten bolts of the cotton cloth, with but two more of the linen,” concluded Don Anabel. “They are an ill-mannered lot,” he resumed his grievance, “bursting into a gentleman’s house while he is at dinner with his family. Turning the dances into low brawls. El Coronel St. Vrain is the only one with any measure of dignity or discretion.” “Discreet indeed,” murmured Luis, sarcastically. “We had better hurry if we are to get the best of the goods.” “And your mother tells me that while she was at the _baile_ another piece of silver disappeared from the cupboard. You remember that the last time a caravan arrived the same thing happened. I’ll shoot the next sneaking _ladron_ I lay my hands on.” “It is terrible,” assented Luis, unmoved, as he checked over the bolts of cloth. “Well, shall we go on to the trading?”