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Page 1
CONTENTS
FOREWORD--THE BELLS
CHAPTER
I. THE BELLS RING
II. THE SHERIFF OF SAN JUAN
III. A MAN'S BOOTS
IV. AT THE BANKER'S HOME
V. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE PATIO
VI. A RIDE THROUGH THE NIGHT
VII. IN THE HOME OF CLIFF-DWELLERS
VIII. JIM GALLOWAY'S GAME
IX. YOUNG PAGE COMES TO TOWN
X. A BRIBE AND A THREAT
XI. THE FIGHT AT LA CASA BLANCA
XII. WAVERING IN THE BALANCE
XIII. CONCEALMENT
XIV. A FREE MAN
XV. THE KING'S PALACE
XVI. THE MEXICAN FROM MEXICO
XVII. A STACK OF GOLD PIECES
XVIII. DESIRE OUTWEIGHS DISCRETION
XIX. DEADLOCK
XX. FLUFF AND BLACK BILL
XXI. A CRISIS
XXII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XXIII. THE STRONG HAND OF GALLOWAY
XXIV. IN THE OPEN
XXV. THE BATTLE IN THE ARROYO
XXVI. THE BELLS RING
ILLUSTRATIONS
Having come closer he reined in his horse, stared at her a moment in
surprised wonderment . . . . Frontispiece
Then came the second meeting with Jim Galloway
"Come, and I'll share my secret with you"
On through the bright moonlight came the sheriff's posse
FOREWORD
THE BELLS
He who has not heard the bells of San Juan has a journey yet to make.
He who has not set foot upon the dusty road which is the one street of
San Juan, at times the most silent and deserted of thoroughfares, at
other times a mad and turbulent lane between sun-dried adobe walls, may
yet learn something of man and his hopes, desires, fears and ruder
passions from a pin-point upon the great southwestern map.
The street runs due north and south, pointing like a compass to the
flat gray desert in the one direction, and in the other to the broken
hills swept up into the San Juan mountains. At the northern end, that
is toward the more inviting mountains, is the old Mission. To right
and left of the whitewashed corridors in a straggling garden of
pear-trees and olives and yellow roses are two rude arches made of
seasoned cedar. From the top cross-beam of each hang three bells.
They have their history, these bells of San Juan, and the biggest with
its deep, mellow voice, the smallest with its golden chimes, seem to be
chanting it when they ring. Each swinging tongue has its tale to tell,
a tale of old Spain, of Spanish galleons and Spanish gentlemen
adventurers, of gentle-voiced priests and sombre-eyed Indians, of
conquest, revolt, intrigue, and sudden death. When a baby is born in
San Juan, a rarer occurrence than a strong man's death, the littlest of
the bells upon the western arch laughs while it calls to all to
hearken; when a man is killed, the angry-toned bell pendant from the
eastern arch shouts out the word to go billowing across the stretches
of sage and greasewood and gama-grass; if one of the later-day frame
buildings bursts into flame, Ignacio Chavez warns the town with a
strident clamor, tugging frantically; be it wedding or discovery of
gold or returns from the county elections, the bell-ringer cunningly
makes the bells talk.
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