The bright Californian sun is declining towards the crest of the Coast
Range, when two horsemen, coming from the Pacific side, commence
ascending the ridge.
As the sultry hours have passed, and a chill breeze blows from the
outside ocean, they have thrust their heads through the central slits of
their cloaks--these being _mangas_--leaving the circular skirts to droop
down below their knees--while draping back, cavalry fashion, over the
hips of their horses. The colours of these garments--one scarlet, the
other sky-blue--enable us to identify the wearers as Don Francisco de
Lara and Don Faustino Calderon; for in truth it is they, returning from
the _pelea de gallos_ at Punta Pedro.
They have seen Diaz, and arranged everything about the duel. Faustino
has finally determined upon fight. Instigated by his more courageous
confederate, and with further pressing on the part of Diaz--a sort of
Californian bravo--his courage has been at length screwed up to the
necessary pitch; and kept there by the potent spirit of Catalonian
brandy, found freely circulating around the cock-pit.
A flask of the _Catalan_ he has brought away with him, and at intervals
takes a pull from it, as he rides along the road. Under its influence
he becomes pot valiant; and swears, if he can but again set eyes upon
the English _guardia-marina_, he will affront him in such fashion as to
leave him no loophole of escape from being the challenger. _Carrai_! he
will do as De Lara has recommended: cuff the young officer, kick him,
spit in his face, anything to provoke the _gringo_ to a fight--that
yellow-haired cub without _bigots_ or beard. And if the cur won't
fight, then he shall apologise--get down upon his knees, acknowledge
him, Faustino Calderon, the better man, and for ever after surrender all
claim to the smiles, as to the hand, of Inez Alvarez!
With such swaggering talk he entertains his companion, as the two are
returning to town.
De Lara, less noisy, is nevertheless also excited. The fiery alcohol
has affected him too. Not to strengthen his courage; for of this he has
already enough; but to remove the weight from off his soul, which, after
the scene at Don Gregorio's, had been pressing heavily upon it. Six
hours have since elapsed, and for the first three he had been brooding
over his humiliation, his spirit prostrate in the dust. But the
_Catalan_ has again raised it to a pitch of exultation; especially when
he reflects upon the prospect of the sure and speedy vengeance he is
determined to take.
It does not occur to him to doubt of success. With thorough reliance on
his skill as a swordsman, he feels sure of it. Though also a good shot,
he prefers the steel for his weapon; like most men of the southern
Latinic race, who believe Northerners to be very bunglers at sword-play,
though admitting their superiority in the handling of the pistol. As
things stand, unlike his comrade Calderon, he will have the choice of
weapons. His intended antagonist was the first to demand the card, and
must needs be challenger.
As the two ride on, they talk alternately, both giving vent to their
spleen--the man of courage, as the coward. If not so loud, or
boastingly, as his companion, De Lara expresses himself with a more
spiteful and earnest determination; repeating much of what he has
already said at an earlier hour, but with added emphasis. Once he sees
the English officer at his rapier's point, he will show him no mercy,
but run him through, without the slightest compunction. In vain may his
adversary cry "Quarter." There can be none conceded, after what has
that day passed between them.
"_Maldita_! it shall be a duel to the death!" he exclaims, after having
given way to a series of threats, the words pronounced with an
_empressement_ that tells him to be truly, terribly in earnest.
They have been carrying on this excited dialogue, as their horses
climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness hindering them
from going at their usual gait--a gallop. On rising the ridge's crest,
and catching sight of San Francisco, with its newly painted white walls,
and shining tin roofs, reflected red in the rays of the setting sun, De
Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure upon him as to time, strikes the
spur sharp against his horse's ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The
other imitating his example, they dash on towards Dolores.
They have no intention to make stop at the mission; but, on reaching it,
they draw up; obedient to the hail of a man seen standing in the door of
a little tavern, or _tinacal_, frequented by the lower class of native
Californians.
A rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb that proclaims his calling to
have connection with the sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a
shore-boatman--perhaps a _piscador_--though, judging by his general
appearance, and the uncanny cast of his countenance, he might well pass
for a pirate.
Stepping a few paces out from the _tinacal_, he salutes the two
horsemen, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his
approach. Despite his coarse, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he
is evidently on terms of familiarity with both--the style of his
salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies,
as signified by his saying:
"I want a word with you, Don Francisco."
"What is it, Rocas?" asks the Creole. "Anything about _seal-skins_?"
laying a significant emphasis on the last word.
"_Carramba_! No. Something of more importance than that."
"Money, then?"
"Money."
"Do you wish our speech to be private?"
"Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino--"
"Oh!" interrupts the _ganadero_, "don't let me stand in the way. I'll
ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco."
"Do," says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and
continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent
their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have
just stepped out of the _tinacal_, and stand loitering at its door.
Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on
the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise
is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims
that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been
forewarned, but also pleasing.
Their muttered dialogue is of brief duration; ending with a remark which
shows it to be only preliminary to a further and more prolonged
conference.
"I shall be with you to-morrow, by mid-day." It is De Lara who has said
this; after which adding: "_Adios, Don Rafael! Hasta manana_!" he gives
his horse the spur, and gallops to overtake his travelling companion;
Rocas sauntering back towards the _tinacal_.