The Girl of the Golden West (2 page)

As the stage approached the motionless horseman, the young man
cried out to the 
vaquero
, for such he was, and asked
in Spanish whether he had a message for him; an answer came back in
the same language, the meaning of which the Girl failed to
comprehend. A moment later her companion turned to her and
said:

"It is as I feared."

Once more a silence fell upon them. For a half-mile or so,
apparently deep in thought, he continued to canter at her side; at
last he spoke what was in his mind.

"I hate to leave you, Señorita," he said.

In an instant the light went out of the Girl's eyes, and her
face was as serious as his own when she replied:

"Well, I guess I ain't particularly crazy to have you go
neither."

The unmistakable note of regret in the Girl's voice flattered as
well as encouraged him to go further and ask:

"Will you think of me some time?"

The Girl laughed.

"What's the good o' my thinkin' o' you? I seen you talkin' with
them gran' Monterey ladies an' I guess you won't be thinkin' often
o' me. Like 's not by to-morrow you'll 'ave clean forgot me," she
said with forced carelessness.

"I shall never forget you," declared the young man with the
intense fervour that comes so easily to the men of his race.

At that a half-mistrustful, half-puzzled look crossed the Girl's
face. Was this handsome stranger finding her amusing? There was
almost a resentful glitter in her eyes when she cried out:

"I 'mos' think you're makin' fun o' me!"

"No, I mean every word that I say," he hastened to assure her,
looking straight into her eyes where he could scarcely have failed
to read something which the Girl had not the subtlety to
conceal.

"Oh, I guess I made you say that!" she returned, making a
child-like effort to appear to disbelieve him.

The stranger could not suppress a smile; but the next moment he
was serious, and asked:

"And am I never going to see you again? Won't you tell me where
I can find you?"

Once more the Girl was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment.
Not that she was at all ashamed of being "The Girl of The Polka
Saloon," for that never entered her mind; but she suddenly realised
that it was one thing to converse pleasantly with a young man on
the highway and another to let him come to her home on Cloudy
Mountain. Only too well could she imagine the cool reception, if it
stopped at that, that the boys of the camp there would accord to
this stylish stranger. As a consequence, she was torn by
conflicting emotions: an overwhelming desire to see him again, and
a dread of what might happen to him should he descend upon Cloudy
Mountain with all his fine airs and graces.

"I guess I'm queer—" she began uncertainly and then stopped in
sudden surprise. Too long had she delayed her answer. Already the
stage had left him some distance behind. Unperceived by her a shade
of annoyance had passed over the Californian's face at her seeming
reluctance to tell him where she lived. The quick of his Spanish
pride was touched; and with a wave of his sombrero he had pulled
his horse down on his haunches. Of no avail now was her resolution
to let him know the whereabouts of the camp at any cost, for
already his "
Adios, Señorita
" was sounding faintly in her
ears.

With a little cry of vexation, scarcely audible, the young woman
flung herself back on the seat. She was only a girl with all a
girl's ways, and like most of her sex, however practical her life
thus far, she was not without dreams of a romance. This meeting
with the handsome 
caballero
 was the nearest she
had come to having one. True, there was scarcely a man at Cloudy
but what had tried at one time or another to go beyond the stage of
good comradeship; but none of them had approached the idealistic
vision of the hero that was all the time lying dormant in her mind.
Of course, being a girl, and almost a queen in her own little
sphere, she accepted their rough homage in a manner that was
befitting to such an exalted personage, and gave nothing in return.
But now something was stirring within her of which she knew
nothing; a feeling was creeping over her that she could not
analyse; she was conscious only of the fact that with the departure
of this attractive stranger, who had taken no pains to conceal his
admiration for her, her journey had been robbed of all its joy.

A hundred yards further on, therefore, she could not resist the
temptation to put her head out of the stage and look back at the
place where she had last seen him.

He was still sitting quietly on his horse at the place where
they had parted so unceremoniously, his face turned in her
direction—horse and rider silhouetted against the western sky which
showed a crimson hue below a greenish blue that was sapphire
farther from the horizon.

Not until a turn of the road hid the stage from sight did the
stranger fix his gaze elsewhere. Even then it was not easy for him,
and there had been a moment when he was ready to throw everything
to the winds and follow it. But when on the point of doing so there
suddenly flashed through his mind the thought of the summons that
he had received. And so, not unlike one who had come to the
conclusion that it was indeed a farewell, he waved his hand
resignedly in the direction that the stage had taken and, calling
to his 
vaquero
, he gave his horse a thrust of the
long rowel of his spur and galloped off towards the foothills of
the Sierras.

For some miles the riders travelled a road which wound through
beautiful green fields; but master and man were wholly indifferent,
seeing neither the wild flowers lining each side of the road nor
the sycamores and live oaks which were shining overhead from the
recent rains. In the case of the young man every foot of the way to
his father's rancho was familiar. All hours of the day and night he
had made the trip to the highway, for with the exception of the few
years that had been given to his education in foreign lands, his
whole life had been passed on the rancho. Scarcely less acquainted
with the road than his young master was the 
vaquero
,
so neither gave a glance at the country through which they were
passing, but side by side took the miles in silence.

An hour passed with the young man still wrapt in thought. The
truth was, though he was scarcely ready to admit it, he had been
hard hit. In more ways than one the Girl had made a deep impression
on him. Not only had her appearance awakened his interest to the
point of enthusiasm, but there was something irresistibly
attractive to him in her lack of affectation and audacious
frankness. Over and over again he thought of her happy face, her
straightforward way of looking at things and, last but not least,
her evident pleasure in meeting him. And when he reflected on the
hopelessness of their ever meeting again, a feeling of depression
seized him. But his nature—always a buoyant one—did not permit him
to remain downcast very long.

By this time they were nearing the foothills. A little while
longer and the road that they were travelling became nothing more
than a bridle path. Indeed, so dense did
the
chaparral
 presently become that it would have been
utterly impossible for one unacquainted with the way to keep on it.
Animal life was to be seen everywhere. At the approach of the
riders innumerable rabbits scurried away; quail whirred from bush
to bush; and, occasionally, a deer broke from the thickets.

At the end of another hour of hard riding they were forced to
slacken their pace. In front of them the ground could be seen, in
the light of a fast disappearing moon, to be gradually rising.
Another mile or two and vertical walls of rock rose on each side of
them; while great ravines, holding mountain torrents, necessitated
their making a short detour for the purpose of finding a place
where the stream could be safely forded. Even then it was not an
easy task on account of the boulder-enclosing whirlpools whose
waters were whipped into foam by the wind that swept through the
forest.

At a point of the road where there was a break in
the 
chaparral
, a voice suddenly cried out in
Spanish:

"Who comes?"

"Follow us!" was the quick answer without drawing rein; and,
instantly, on recognition of the young master's voice, a mounted
sentinel spurred his horse out from behind an overhanging rock and
closed in behind them. And as they were challenged thus several
times, it happened that presently there was quite a little band of
men pushing ahead in the darkness that had fallen.

And so another hour passed. Then, suddenly, there sprung into
view the dark outlines of a low structure which proved to be a
corral, and finally they made their way through a gate and came
upon a long adobe house, situated in a large clearing and having a
kind of courtyard in front of it.

In the centre of this courtyard was what evidently had once been
a fountain, though it had long since dried up. Around it squatted a
group of 
vaqueros
, all smoking cigarettes and some of
them lazily twisting lariats out of horsehair. Close at hand a
dozen or more wiry little mustangs stood saddled and bridled and
ready for any emergency. In colour, one or two were of a peculiar
cream and had silver white manes, but the rest were greys and
chestnuts. It was evident that they had great speed and bottom. All
in all, what with the fierce and savage faces of the men scattered
about the courtyard, the remoteness of the adobe, and the care
taken to guard against surprise, old
Bartolini's 
hacienda
 was an establishment not
unlike that of the feudal barons or a nest of banditti according to
the point of view.

At the sound of the fast galloping horses, every man on the
ground sprang to his feet and ran to his horse. For a second only
they stood still and listened intently; then, satisfied that all
was well and that the persons approaching belonged to the rancho,
they returned to their former position by the fountain—all save an
Indian servant, who caught the bridle thrown to him by the young
man as he swung himself out of the saddle. And while this one led
his horse noiselessly away, another of the same race preceded him
along a corridor until he came to
the 
Maestro's
 room.

Old Ramerrez Bartolini, or Ramerrez, as he was known to his
followers, was dying. His hair, pure white and curly, was still as
luxuriant as when he was a young man. Beneath the curls was a
patrician, Spanish face, straight nose and brilliant, piercing,
black eyes. His gigantic frame lay on a heap of stretched rawhides
which raised him a few inches from the floor. This simple couch was
not necessarily an indication of poverty, though his property had
dwindled to almost nothing, for in most Spanish adobes of that
time, even in some dwellings of the very rich, there were no beds.
Over him, as well as under him, were blankets. On each side of his
head, fixed on the wall, two candles were burning, and almost
within reach of his hand there stood a rough altar, with crucifix
and candles, where a padre was making preparations to administer
the Last Sacraments.

In the low-studded room the only evidence remaining of
prosperity were some fragments of rich and costly goods that once
had been piled up there. In former times the old Spaniard had
possessed these in profusion, but little was left now. Indeed,
whatever property he had at the present time was wholly in cattle
and horses, and even these were comparatively few.

There had been a period, not so very long ago at that, when old
Ramerrez was a power in the land. In all matters pertaining to the
province of Alta California his advice was eagerly sought, and his
opinion carried great weight in the councils of the Spaniards.
Later, under the Mexican regime, the respect in which his name was
held was scarcely less; but with the advent of
the 
Americanos
 all this was changed. Little by
little he lost his influence, and nothing could exceed the hatred
which he felt for the race that he deemed to be responsible for his
downfall.

It was odd, in a way, too, for he had married an American girl,
the daughter of a sea captain who had visited the coast, and for
many years he had held her memory sacred. And, curiously enough, it
was because of this enmity, if indirectly, that much of his fortune
had been wasted.

Fully resolved that England—even France or Russia, so long as
Spain was out of the question—should be given an opportunity to
extend a protectorate over his beloved land, he had sent emissaries
to Europe and supplied them with moneys—far more than he could
afford—to give a series of lavish entertainments at which the
wonderful richness and fertility of California could be exploited.
At one time it seemed as if his efforts in that direction would
meet with success. His plan had met with such favour from the
authorities in the City of Mexico that Governor Pico had been
instructed by them to issue a grant for several million of acres.
But the United States Government was quick to perceive the hidden
meaning in the extravagances of these envoys in London, and in the
end all that was accomplished was the hastening of the inevitable
American occupation.

From that time on it is most difficult to imagine the zeal with
which he endorsed the scheme of the native Californians for a
republic of their own. He was a leader when the latter made their
attack on the Americans in Sonoma County and were repulsed with the
loss of several killed. One of these was Ramerrez' only brother,
who was the last, with the exception of himself and son, of a
proud, old, Spanish family. It was a terrible blow, and increased,
if possible, his hatred for the Americans. Later the old man took
part in the battle of San Pasquale and the Mesa. In the last
engagement he was badly wounded, but even in that condition he
announced his intention of fighting on and bitterly denounced his
fellow-officers for agreeing to surrender. As a matter of fact, he
escaped that ignominy. For, taking advantage of his great knowledge
of the country, he contrived to make his way through the American
lines with his few followers, and from that time may be said to
have taken matters into his own hand.

Old Ramerrez was conscious that his end was merely a matter of
hours, if not minutes. Over and over again he had had himself
propped up by his attendants with the expectation that his command
to bring his son had been obeyed. No one knew better than he how
impossible it would be to resist another spasm like that which had
seized him a little while after his son had ridden off the rancho
early that morning. Yet he relied once more on his iron
constitution, and absolutely refused to die until he had laid upon
his next of kin what he thoroughly believed to be a stern duty.
Deep down in heart, it is true, he was vaguely conscious of a
feeling of dread lest his cherished revenge should meet with
opposition; but he refused to harbour the thought, believing, not
unnaturally, that, after having imposed his will upon others for
nearly seventy years, it was extremely unlikely that his dying
command should be disobeyed by his son. And it was in the midst of
these death-bed reflections that he heard hurried footsteps and
knew that his boy had come at last.

When the latter entered the room his face wore an agonised
expression, for he feared that he had arrived too late. It was a
relief, therefore, to see his father, who had lain still,
husbanding his little remaining strength, open his eyes and make a
sign, which included the padre as well as the attendants, that he
wished to be left alone with his son.

"Art thou here at last, my son?" said the old man the moment
they were alone.

"Ay, father, I came as soon as I received your message."

"Come nearer, then, I have much to say to you, and I have not
long to live. Have I been a good father to you, my lad?"

The young man knelt beside the couch and kissed his father's
hand, while he murmured an assent.

At the touch of his son's lips a chill struck the old man's
heart. It tortured him to think how little the boy guessed of the
recent history of the man he was bending over with loving concern;
how little he divined of the revelation that must presently be made
to him. For a moment the dying man felt that, after all, perhaps it
were better to renounce his vengeance, for it had been suddenly
borne in upon him that the boy might suffer acutely in the life
that he intended him to live; but in another moment he had taken
himself to task for a weakness that he considered must have been
induced by his dying condition, and he sternly banished the thought
from his mind.

"My lad," he began, "you promise to carry out my wishes after I
am gone?"

"Ay, father, you know that I will. What do you wish me to
do?"

The old man pointed to the crucifix.

"You swear it?"

"I swear it."

No sooner had the son uttered the wished-for words than his
father fell back on the couch and closed his eyes. The effort and
excitement left him as white as a sheet. It seemed to the boy as if
his father might be sinking into the last stupor, but after a while
he opened his eyes and called for a glass
of 
aguardiente
.

With difficulty he gulped it down; then he said feebly:

"My boy, the only American that ever was good was your mother.
She was an angel. All the rest of these cursed gringos are pigs;"
and his voice growing stronger, he repeated: "Ay, pigs, hogs,
swine!"

The son made no reply; his father went on:

"What have not these devils done to our country ever since they
came here? At first we received them most hospitably; everything
they wanted was gladly supplied to them. And what did they do in
return for our kindness? Where now are our extensive ranchos—our
large herds of cattle? They have managed to rob us of our lands
through clever laws that we of California cannot understand; they
have stolen from our people thousands and thousands of cattle!
There is no infamy that—"

The young man hastened to interrupt him.

"You must not excite yourself, father," he said with solicitude.
"They are unscrupulous—many of them, but all are not so."

"Bah!" ejaculated the old man; "the gringos are all alike. I
hate them all, I—" The old man was unable to finish. He gasped for
breath. But despite his son's entreaties to be calm, he presently
cried out:

"Do you know who you are?" And not waiting for a reply he went
on with: "Our name is one of the proudest in Spain—none better! The
curse of a long line of ancestors will be upon you if you tamely
submit—not make these Americans suffer for their seizure of this,
our rightful land—our beautiful California!"