The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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"My boy," he suddenly says, "Valois left an enormous estate; don't
you come in anywhere?"

"I never knew of his will," replies Armand. "I want you, Colonel,
to meet my old friend Pere Francois, who was the priest at
this Lagunitas. He tells me, a Judge Hardin has charge of all the
property."

Joe Woods drops the knife with which he is cutting the tip of his
imperial cigar.

"By Heavens! If that old wolf has got his claws on it, it's a long
fight. I'll see your Padre. I knew him. Now, my boy," says Colonel
Joe, "I've got no wife, and no children," he adds proudly.

"I'll take you over to California with me, and we'll see old Hardin.
I'm no lawyer, but you ought to hear of the whole details. We'll
round him up. Let's go up to my room and look at your picture."

Throwing the waiter a douceur worthy of his financial grade, the
new friends retire to the Colonel's rooms.

Here the spoils of the jeweler, the atelier, and studio, are
strangely mingled. Joe Woods buys anything he likes. A decanter
of Bourbon, a box of the very primest Havanas, and a business-like
revolver, lying on the table, indicate his free and easy ways.

Letters in heaps prove that "mon brave Colonel Woods" is even known
to the pretty free-lances who fight under the rosy banner of Venus
Victrix.

In hearty terms, the Californian vents his enthusiasm.

"By the way, my boy, I forgot something." He dashes off a check
and hands it to the young painter.

"Tell me where to send for a man to frame this picture in good
shape," he simply says.

He looks uneasily at the young man, whose senses fail him when he
sees that the check is for five thousand francs.

"Is that all right?" he says cheerfully, nudging Armand in the ribs.
"Cash on delivery, you know. I want another by and by. I'll pick
out a picture I want copied. I'm going to build me a bachelor
ranch on Nob Hill: Ophir Villa." He grins over some pet "deal" in
his favorite Comstock. Dulcet memories.

For Colonel Joe Woods is a man of "the Golden Days of the Pacific."
He too has "arrived."

The boy murmurs his thanks. "Now look here, I've got to run over
to the Cafe Anglais, and see some men from the West. You give me
your house number. I'll come in and see the padre to-morrow evening.

"Stay; you had better come and fetch me. Take dinner with me
to-morrow, and we'll drive down in a hack."

The Colonel slips his pistol in its pocket, winks, takes a pull
at the cocktail of the American, old Kentucky's silver stream, and
grasps his gold-headed club. He is ready now to meet friend or
foe.

Joy in his heart, good humor on his face, jingling a few "twenties,"
which he carries from habit, he grasps a handful of cigars, and
pushes the happy boy out of the open door.

"Oh! never mind that; I've got a French fellow sleeping around here
somewhere," he cries, as Armand signals the sanctum is unlocked.
"He always turns up if any one but HIMSELF tries to steal anything.
He's got a patent on that," laughs the "Croesus of the American
River."

Armand paints no stroke the next day. He confers with Pere Francois.
He is paralyzed when the cashier of the "Credit Lyonnais" hands
him five crisp one-thousand-franc notes. Colonel Joe Woods' check
is of international potency. It is not, then, a mere dream.

When the jovial Colonel is introduced to the family circle he
is at home in ten minutes. His good nature carries off easily his
halting French. He falls into sudden friendship with the young
soldier-sculptor. He compliments Madame Josephine. He pleases the
modest Louise, and is at home at once with Padre Francisco.

After a friendly chat, he says resolutely:

"Now, padre, you and I want to have a talk over our young friend
here. Let us go up to his room a little."

Seated in the boy's studio, Woods shows the practical sense which
carried him to the front in the struggle for wealth.

"I tell you what I'll do," he says. "I'm going out to the coast
in a month or so. I'll look this up a little. If I want our young
friend here, I'll send you a cable, and you can start him out to
me. My banker will rig him out in good style. Just as well he comes
under another name. See? Padre, you take a ride with me to-morrow.
We will talk it all over."

The Californian's questions and sagacity charm the padre. He is
now smoking one of those blessed "Imperiales." An innocent pleasure.

They rise to join the circle below. A thought animates the priest.

Yes, he will confer with the clear-headed man and tell him of the
child below, whose pathway is unguarded by a parent's love.

Around the frugal board Colonel Joe enters into the family spirit.
He insists on having Raoul come to him for a conference about his
portraiture in marble.

"I have just finished a bust of Madame de Santos, the beautiful
Mexican lady," remarks Raoul.

Colonel Joe bounds from his chair. "By hokey, young man, you are
a bonanza. Do you know her well?" he eagerly asks.

The sculptor tells how he saved her from the bedlam horrors of the
Orangery.

The miner whistles. "Well, you control the stock, I should say.
Now, she's the very woman, Gwin, and Erlanger, and old Slidell,
and a whole lot told me about. I want you to take me up there," he
says.

"I will see Madame de Santos to-morrow," remarks Raoul, diplomatically.

"Tell her I'm a friend of her Southern friends. They're scattered
now. Most of them busted," says Wood calmly. "I must see her. See
here, padre; we'll do the thing in style. You go and call with me,
and keep me straight." The priest assents.

In gayest mood the Colonel bids Raoul come to him for this most
fashionable call. Claiming the padre for breakfast and the ride
of the morrow, he rattles off to his rooms, leaving an astounded
circle.

Golden claims to their friendly gratitude bound them together.

Colonel Joe has the "dejeuner a deux" in his rooms. He says, "More
homelike, padre, you know," ushering the priest to the table. Under
the influence of Chablis, the Californians become intimate.

Raoul arrives with news that Madame de Santos will be pleased to have
the gentlemen call next day in the afternoon. After an arrangement
about the bust, the horses, champing before the doors, bear the elders
to the Bois, now beginning to abandon its battle-field appearance.

Long is their conference on that ride. Pere Francois is thoughtful,
as he spends his evening hour at dominoes with Aristide Dauvray.
His eyes stray to fair Louise, busied with her needie. At last,
he has a man of the world to lean on, in tracing up this child's
parentage. Raoul and Armand are deep in schemes to enrich Joe's queer
collection, the nucleus of that "bachelor ranch," "Ophir Villa."

In all the bravery of diamonds and goldsmithing the Westerner
descends from his carriage, at the doors of Madame de Santos, next
day.

Pale-faced, aristocratic Pere Francois is a foil to the "occidental
king." Mind and matter.

Waiting for the Donna, the gentlemen admire her salon.

Pictures, objets d'art, dainty bibelots, show the elegance of a
queen of the "monde."

"Beats a steamboat," murmurs Colonel Joe, as the goddess enters
the domain.

There is every grace in her manner. She inquires as to mutual
friends of the "Southern set." Her praises of Raoul are justified
in the beautiful bust, a creation of loveliness, on its Algerian
onyx pedestal.

Colonel Joe Woods is enchanted. He wonders if he has ever seen this
classic face before.

"I drive in the Bois," says madame, with an arch glance.

She knows the Californian is a feature of that parade, with his
team. Paris rings with Colonel Joe's exploits.

"No poor stock for me," is Colonel Joe's motto.

With a cunning glance in his eyes, the miner asks: "Were you ever
in California, madame?"

Her lips tremble as she says, "Years ago I was in San Francisco."

Colonel Joe is thoughtful. His glance follows madame, who is ringing
a silver bell.

The butler bows.

"I shall not drive this afternoon," she says.

With graceful hospitality, she charms Pere Francois. Chat about
the Church and France follows.

The gentlemen are about to take their leave. Madame de Santos,
observing that Pere Francois speaks Spanish as well as French,
invites him to call again. She would be glad to consult him in
spiritual matters.

Colonel Joe speaks of California, and asks if he may be of any
service.

"I have no interests there," the lady replies with constraint.

Passing into the hall, Pere Francois stands amazed as if he sees
a ghost.

"What's the matter, padre?" queries Colonel Joe as they enter their
carriage.

"Did you see that maid who passed us as we left the salon?" remarks
the padre.

"Yes, and a good-looking woman too," says the Californian.

"That woman is the guardian of Louise Moreau," the padre hastily
replies.

"Look here! What are you telling me?" cries the Colonel.

"There's some deviltry up! I'm sorry I must leave. But how do you
know?" he continues.

The priest tells him about artful Josephine, whose womanly curiosity
has been piqued. He has seen this person on her visits. Useless to
trace her. Entering an arcade or some great shop, she has baffled
pursuit. Through the Bois, the friends commune over this mystery.

"I'll fix you out," says Woods, with a shout. "I've got a fellow
here who watched some people for me on a mining deal. I'll rip that
household skeleton all to pieces. We'll dissect it!"

He cries: "Now, padre, I'm a-going to back you through this affair,"
as they sit in his rooms over a good dinner. Colonel Joe has sent
all his people away. He wants no listeners. As he pours the Cliquot,
he says, "You give me a week and I'll post you. Listen to me. You
can see there is an object in hiding that child. Keep her safely
guarded. Show no suspicion. You make friends with the lady. Leave
the maid dead alone. Take it easy, padre; we'll get them. I'll tell
my bankers to back you up. I'll take you down; I'll make you solid.

"All I fear is they will get frightened and take her off. You people
have got to watch her. They'll run her off, if they suspect. Poor
little kid.

"It's strange," says the miner; "they could have put this poor
little one out of the way easy. But they don't want that. Want her
alive, but kept on the quiet. I suppose there's somebody else," he
mutters.

"By Jove! that's it. There's property or money hanging on her
existence. Now, padre, I'll talk plain. You priests are pretty sly.
You write your people about this child. I'll see you have money.
My banker will work the whole municipality of Paris for you.

"That's it; we've got it." The miner's fist makes the glasses
rattle, as he quaffs his wine.

"Don't lose sight of her a minute. Don't show your hand."

The priest rolls home in Joe's carriage. He busies himself the
next days with going to the bank, conferring with his fellows, and
awaking the vigilance of Josephine.

It is left to the priest and his ally from the ranks of "Mammon" to
follow these tangled threads. The younger men know nothing, save
the injunctions to Josephine.

Ten days after this visit, Colonel Joe, who has run over to London,
where he closed some financial matters of note, sends post-haste
to Pere Francois this note:

"Come up, padre. I've got a whole history for you. It will make
your eyes open. I want you to talk to the detective."

Even the Californian's horses are not quick enough to-day for the
priest.

Ushered in, he finds Colonel Joe on the broad grin.

Accepting a cigar, his host cries, "We've struck it rich. A mare's
nest. Now, Vimont, give my friend your report."

Joe Woods smokes steadily, as Jules Vimont reads from his note-book:

"Madame Natalie de Santos arrived in Paris with two young girls,
one of whom is at the Sacre-Coeur under the name of Isabel Valois;
the other is the child who is visited by Marie Berard, her maid.
She is called Louise Moreau."

Pere Francois listens to this recital. The detective gives a
description of the beautiful stranger, and at length.

Joe interrogates. The priest gravely nods until the recital is
finished. Vimont shuts his book with a snap and disappears, at a
nod from the miner. The friends are alone.

Pere Francois is silent. His face is pale. Joe is alarmed at his
feeling. Forcing a draught of Bourbon on the padre, Joe cries,
"What is the matter?"

"I see it now," murmurs the priest. "The children have been changed.
For what object?"

He tells Woods of the proofs gained in days of Louise's illness.

"Your little friend is the heiress of Lagunitas?" Woods asks.

"I am sure of it. We must prove it."

"Leave that to me," bursts out Joe, striding the room, puffing at
his cigar.

"How will you do it?" falters the priest.

"I will find the father of the other child," Joe yells. "I am
going to California. I will root up this business. I have a copy
of Vimont's notes. You write me all you remember of this history.
Meanwhile, not a word. No change in your game. You make foothold
in that house on the Elysees.

"There was no railroad when these people came here. I will get
the lists of passengers and steamer reports, I have friends in the
Pacific Mail."

Joe warms up. "Yes, sir. I'll find who is responsible for that
extra child. The man who is, is the party putting up for all this
splendor here. I think if I can stop the money supplies, we can
break their lines. I think my old 'companero,' Judge Hardin, is
the head-devil of this deal.

"It's just like him.

"Now, padre, I have got something to amuse me. You do just as I
tell you, and we'll checkmate this quiet game.

"We are not on the bedrock yet, but we've struck the vein. Don't
you say a word to a living soul here.

"I'll have that maid watched, and tell Vimont to give you all the
particulars of her cuttings-up.

"She's not the master-mind of this. She has never been to the
convent. There's a keynote in keeping these girls apart. I think
our handsome friend, Madame de Santos, is playing a sharp game."
In two days he has vanished.

In his voyage to New York and to the Pacific, Joe thinks over
every turn of this intrigue. If Hardin tries to hide Armand Valois'
fortune, why should he dabble in the mystery of these girls?

Crossing the plains, where the buffalo still roam by thousands,
Woods meets in the smoking-room many old friends. A soldierly-looking
traveller attracts his attention. The division superintendent
makes Colonel Peyton and Colonel Woods acquainted. Their friendship
ripens rapidly. Joe Woods, a Southern sympathizer, has gained his
colonelcy by the consent of his Western friends. It is a brevet
of financial importance. Learning his friend is a veteran of the
"Stars and Bars," and a Virginian, the Westerner pledges many a cup
to their common cause. To the battle-torn flag of the Confederacy,
now furled forever.

As the train rattles down Echo Canyon, Peyton tells of the hopes
once held of a rising in the West.

Woods is interested. When Peyton mentions "Maxime Valois," the
Croesus grasps his hand convulsively.

"Did you serve with him?" Joe queries with eagerness. "He was my
pardner and chum."

"He died in my arms at Peachtree Creek," answers Peyton.

Joe embraces Peyton. "He was a game man, Colonel."

Peyton answers: "The bravest man I ever saw. I often think of
him, in the whirl of that struggle for De Gress's battery. Lying
on the sod with the Yankee flag clutched in his hand, its silk was
fresh-striped with his own heart's blood. The last sound he heard
was the roar of those guns, as we turned them on the enemy."

"God! What a fight for that battery!" The Californian listens,
with bated breath, to the Virginian. He tells him of the youthful
quest for gold.

The war brotherhood of the two passes in sad review. Peyton tells
him of the night before Valois' death.

Joe Woods' eyes glisten. He cries over the recital. An eager
question rises to his lips. He chokes it down.

As Peyton finishes, Woods remarks:

"Peyton, I am going to get off at Reno, and go to Virginia City.
You come with me. I want to know about Valois' last days."

Peyton is glad to have a mentor in the West. He has gained neither
peace nor fortune in wandering under the fringing palms of Latin
America.

Toiling up the Sierra Nevada, Woods shows Peyton where Valois won
his golden spurs as a pathfinder.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Peyton," says Joe. "I want to hunt
up that boy in Paris. I'm no lawyer, but I think he ought to have
some of this great estate. Now, Hardin is a devil for slyness. I
want you to keep silent as to Valois till I give you the word.
I'll see you into some good things here. It may take time to work
my game. I don't want Hardin to suspect. He's an attorney of the
bank. He counsels the railroad. He would spy out every move."

"By the way, Colonel Woods," Peyton replies, "I have the papers
yet which were found on Valois' body. I sealed them up. They are
stained with his blood. I could not trust them to chances. I intended
to return them to his child. I have never examined them."

Joe bounds from his seat. "A ten-strike! Now, you take a look at
them when we reach 'Frisco.' If there are any to throw a light on
his affairs, tell me. Don't breathe a word till I tell you. I will
probe the matter. I'll break Hardin's lines, you bet." The speculator
dares not tell Peyton his hopes, his fears, his suspicions.

San Francisco is reached. Peyton has "done the Comstock." He is
tired of drifts, gallery, machinery, miners, and the "laissez-aller"
of Nevada hospitality. The comfort of Colonel Joe's bachelor
establishment places the stranger in touch with the occidental
city.

Received with open arms by the Confederate sympathizers, Peyton is
soon "on the stock market." He little dreams that Joe has given
one of his many brokers word to carry a stiff account for the
Virginian. Pay him all gains, and charge all losses to the "Woods
account."

Peyton is thrilled with the stock gambling of California Street.
Every one is mad. Servants, lawyers, hod carriers, merchants,
old maids, widows, mechanics, sly wives, thieving clerks, and the
"demi-monde," all throng to the portals of the "Big Board." It
is a money-mania. Beauty, old age, callow boyhood, fading manhood,
all chase the bubble values of the "kiting stocks."

From session to session, the volatile heart of San Francisco throbs
responsive to the sliding values of these paper "stock certificates."

Woods has departed for a fortnight, to look at a new ranch in San
Joaquin. He does not tell Peyton that he lingers around Lagunitas.
He knows Hardin is at San Francisco. A few hours at the county seat.
A talk with his lawyer in Stockton completes Joe's investigations.
No will of Maxime Valois has ever been filed. The estate is held
by Hardin as administrator after "temporary letters" have been
renewed. There are no accounts or settlements. Joe smiles when
he finds that Philip Hardin is guardian of one "Isabel Valois," a
minor. The estate of this child is nominal. There is no inventory
of Maxima Valois' estate on file. County courts and officials are
not likely to hurry Judge Philip Hardin.

On the train to San Francisco, Woods smokes very strong cigars
while pondering if he shall hire a lawyer in town.

"If I could only choose one who would STAY bought when I BOUGHT>
him, I'd give a long price," Joe growls. With recourse to his great
"breast-pocket code," the Missourian runs over man after man, in
his mind. A frown gathers on his brow.

"If I strike a bonanza, I may have to call in some counsel. But I
think I'll have a few words with my friend Philip Hardin."

Woods is the perfection of rosy good-humor, when he drags Hardin
away from his office next day to a cosey lunch at the "Mint."

"I want to consult you, Judge," is his excuse. Hardin, now counsel
for warring giants of finance, listens over the terrapin and birds,
to several legal posers regarding Joe's affairs. Woods has wide
influence. He is a powerful friend to placate. Hardin, easy now
in money matters, looks forward to the United States Senate. Woods
can help. He is a tower of strength.

"They will need a senator sometime, who knows law, not one of those
obscure MUD-HEADS," says Hardin to himself.

Colonel Joe finishes his Larose. He takes a stiff brandy with his
cigar, and carelessly remarks:

"How's your mine, Judge?"

"Doing well, doing well," is the reply.

"Better let me put it on the market for you. You are getting old
for that sort of bother."

"Woods, I will see you by and by. I am trustee for the Valois
estate. He left no will, and I can't give a title to the ranch till
the time for minor heirs runs out. So I am running the mine on my
own account. Some outside parties may claim heirship."

"Didn't he leave a daughter?" says Woods.

"There is a girl--she's East now, at school; but, between you and
me, old fellow, I don't know if she is legitimate or not. You know
what old times were."

Colonel Joe grins with a twinge of conscience. He has had his
"beaux-jours."

"I will hold on till the limitation runs out. I don't want to cloud
the title to my mine, with litigation. It comes through Valois."

"You never heard of any Eastern heirs?" Joe remarks, gulping a
"stiffener" of brandy.

"Never," says Hardin, reaching for his hat and cane. "The Judge
died during the war. I believe his boy died in Paris. He has never
turned up. New Orleans is gone to the devil. They are all dead."

"By the way, Judge, excuse me." Woods dashes off a check for Hardin.
"I want to retain you if the 'Shooting Star' people fool with my
working the 'Golden Chariot;' I feel safe in your hands."

Even Hardin can afford to pocket Joe's check. It is a prize. Golden
bait, Joseph.

Woods says "Good-bye," floridly, to his legal friend. He takes a
coupe at the door. "Cute old devil, Hardin; I'll run him down yet,"
chuckles the miner. Joe is soon on his way to the Pacific Mail
Steamship office.

Several gray-headed officials greet the popular capitalist.

He broaches his business. "I want to see your passenger lists for
1865." He has notes of Vimont's in his hand. While the underlings
bring out dusty old folios, Joe distributes his pet cigars. He is
always welcome.

Looking over the ancient records he finds on a trip of the Golden
Gate, the following entries:

Madame de Santos,
Miss Isabel Valois,
Marie Berard and child.

He calls the bookkeeper. "Can you tell about these people?"

The man of ink scans the entry. He ponders and says:

"I'll tell you who can give you all the information, Colonel Joe.
Hardin was lawyer for this lady. He paid for their passages with
a check. We note these payments for our cash references. Here is
a pencil note: 'CK Hardin.' I remember Hardin coming himself."

"Oh, that's all right!" says the Argonaut.

An adjournment of "all hands," to "renew those pleasing assurances,"
is in order.

"Ah, my old fox!" thinks Woods. "I am going to find out who gave
Marie Berard that other child. But I won't ask YOU. YOUR TIME IS
TOO VALUABLE, Judge Philip Hardin."

He gives his driver an extra dollar at the old City Hall.

Joe Woods thinks he is alone on the quest. He knows not that the
Archbishop's secretary is reading some long Latin letters, not three
blocks away, which are dated in Paris and signed Francois Ribaut.
They refer to the records of the Mission Dolores parish. They invoke
the aid of the all-seeing eye of the Church as to the history and
rights of Isabel Valois.

Pere Ribaut humbly begs the protection of his Grace for his protege,
Armand Valois, in case he visits California.

Philip Hardin, in his office, weaving his golden webs, darkened
here and there with black threads of crime, is deaf to the cry of
conscience. What is the orphaned girl to him? A mere human puppet.
He hears not the panther feet of the avengers of wrong on his trail.
Blind insecurity, Judge Hardin.

Woods has seized Captain Lee, and taken him out of his sanctum to
the shades of the "Bank Exchange."

The great detective captain, an encyclopedia of the unwritten
history of San Francisco, regards Woods with a twinkle in his gray
eye. The hunted, despairing criminal knows how steady that eye can
be. It has made hundreds quail.

Lee grins over his cigar. Another millionaire in trouble. "Some
woman, surely." The only question is "What woman?"

The fair sex play a mighty part in the mysteries of San Francisco.

"Lee, I want you to hunt up the history of a woman for me," says
the old miner.

The captain's smile runs all over his face. "Why, Colonel Joe!" he
begins.

"Look here; no nonsense!" says Joseph, firmly. "It's a little matter
of five thousand dollars to you, if you can trace what I want."

There is no foolishness in Lee's set features. He throws himself
back, studying his cigar ash. That five thousand dollars is an
"open sesame."

"What's her name?"

Joseph produces his notes.

"Do you remember Hardin sending some people to Panama, in '65?"
begins the Colonel. "Two women and two children. They sailed on
the GOLDEN GATE."

"Perfectly," says the iron captain, removing his cigar. "I watched
these steamers for the government. He was a Big Six in the K.G.C.,
you remember, Colonel Joe?"

Joe winces; that Golden Circle dinner comes back, when he, too,
cheered the Stars and Bars.

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