"And it was such a wicked thing that man Delafield did! Oh, he must have been a villain! As wicked and cruel--oh, as bad as he could be! I can't blame Mr. Conrad for feeling as he does. I know it seems an awful thing for me to say, but I really can't blame him, daddy, when I think what that man made him suffer--and he was only one; there must have been many others. I might even feel the same way if I were in his place and it had been you that was killed!" There was a thrill in her voice that seemed in her father's ears to be the echo of that which had vibrated through Curtis Conrad's words when he so passionately declared his purpose. Her words were as knife-thrusts in his heart as she went on, "Oh, how I should hate him! I know I should hate him with all my strength!" He made no immediate reply, leaning forward to tap the horses with the whip-lash. Lucy choked down a sob or two, turned, threw her arms around his neck, and burst into tears. He put his arm about her with a sudden close pressure, and she, with her eyes hidden against his shoulder, could not see that his face had gone suddenly white and that underneath his brown moustache and pointed beard his lips were pale and tense. "Well, well, Lucy," he said presently, his voice calm and caressing, "there's no need to be tragic over it. Is it any of our affair, even if Conrad is our good friend? Possibly Delafield wasn't as bad as he says--it's likely Curt exaggerates about him--he usually does when he dislikes anybody. And perhaps Delafield suffered as much as--the others. Come, dear, brace up and don't be hysterical." Lucy straightened up and gave her father a wavering, wistful smile. "It was silly of me, wasn't it, daddy, to act like that! I'm ashamed of myself. I don't know why I cried--I guess it was because I am tired." CHAPTER III MISTAKE, OR BLUNDER? With eager pleasure Conrad gazed from his car window the next morning at the narrow bright ribbon of verdure with which the Rio Grande pranks itself on its southward course through New Mexico. The unkempt fields, the orchards and meadows, and the softened and caressing sunlight were as balm to his eyes, accustomed to the pale, grim southern plain and its fierce white sunshine. As the train rushed northward along the banks of the muddy stream, he looked at the little adobe houses, wondering how long these peaceful Mexican homes could withstand the pressure of the dominant American. He became aware that the men behind him were discussing the same question. "It will be only a few years," one of them was saying, "until this rich valley with all this water for irrigation will be in American hands." "The greasers are safe enough," said his companion, "until they begin to borrow on mortgages. Then their fate is settled." "I heard the other day," responded the first, "that Dell Baxter's been corralling a lot of mortgages on the land hereabouts."