A Country-House some ten miles from San Francisco, in a south-westerly
direction. It stands inland about half-way between the Bay and the
Pacific shore, among the Coast Range hills.
Though a structure of mud-brick--the sort made by the Israelites in
Egypt--and with no pretension to architectural style, it is, in
Californian parlance, a _hacienda_. For it is the headquarters of a
grazing estate; but not one of the first-class, either in stock or
appointments. In these respects, it was once better off than now; since
now it is less than second, showing signs of decay everywhere, but
nowhere so much as in the dwelling itself, and the enclosures around.
Its walls are weather-washed, here and there cracked and crumbling; the
doors have had no paint for years, and opening or shutting, creak upon
hinges thickly-coated with rust. Its _corrals_ contain no cattle, nor
are any to be seen upon the pastures outside. In short, the estate
shows as if it had an absentee owner, or none at all.
And the house might appear uninhabited, but for some _peons_ seen
sauntering listlessly around, and a barefoot damsel or two, standing
dishevelled by its door, or in the kitchen kneeling over the _metate_,
and squeezing out maize-dough for the eternal _tortillas_.
However, despite its neglected appearance, the _hacienda_ has an owner;
and with all their indolence, the lounging _leperoa_ outside, and
slatternly wenches within, have a master. He is not often at home, but
when he is they address him as "Don Faustino." Servants rarely add the
surname.
Only at rare intervals do his domestics see him. He spends nearly all
his time elsewhere--most of it in Yerba Buena, now named San Francisco.
And of late more than ever has he absented himself from his ancestral
halls; for the _hacienda_ is the house in which he was born; it, with
the surrounding pasture-land, left him by his father, some time
deceased.
Since coming into possession, he has neglected his patrimony; indeed,
spent the greater portion of it on cards, and evil courses of other
kinds; for the _dueno_ of the ill-conditioned dwelling is Faustino
Calderon.
As already hinted, his estate is heavily mortgaged, the house almost a
ruin. In his absence, it looks even more like one; for then his
domestics, having nothing to do, are scarce ever seen outside, to give
the place an appearance of life. Fond of cards as their master, they
may at most times be observed, squatted upon the pavement of the inner
court, playing _monte_ on a spread blanket, with copper _clacos_ staked
upon the game.
When the _dueno_ is at home, things are a little different; for, Don
Faustino, with all his dissipation, is anything but an indulgent master.
Then his _muchuchos_ have to move about, and wait upon him with
assiduity. If they don't, they will hear _carajos_ from his lips, and
receive cuts from his riding-whip.
It is the morning after that night when the "El Dorado" _monte_ bank
suspended play and pay; the time, six o'clock a.m. Notwithstanding the
early hour, the domestics are stirring about the place, as if they had
something to do, and were doing it. To one acquainted with their usual
habits, the brisk movement will be interpreted as a sure sign that their
master is at home.
And he is; though he has been there but a very short while--only a few
minutes. Absent for more than a week, he has this morning made his
appearance just as the day was breaking. Not alone; but in the company
of a gentleman, whom all the servants know to be his intimate friend and
associate--Don Francisco de Lara.
The two have come riding up to the house in haste, dropped the bridles
on the necks of their horses, and, without saying a word, left these to
the care of a couple of grooms, rudely roused from their slumber.
The house-servants, lazily drawing the huge door of the _saguan_, see
that the _dueno_ is in ill-humour, which stirs them into activity; and
in haste, they prepare the repast called for--_desayuno_.
Having entered and taken seats, Don Faustino and his guest await the
serving of the meal.
For some time in silence, each with an elbow rested on the table, a hand
supporting his head, the fingers buried in his hair.
The silence is at length broken; the host, as it should be, speaking
first.
"What had we best do, De Lara? I don't think 'twill be safe staying
here. After what's happened, they're sure to come after us."
"That's probable enough. _Caspita_! I'm puzzled to make out how that
fellow who called out our names could have known we were there.
`_Crusaders_' he said they were; which means they were sailors belonging
to the English warship. Of course the boat's crew that was waiting.
But what brought them up; and how came they to arrive there and then,
just in the nick of time to spoil our plans? That's a mystery to me."
"To me, too."
"There were no sailors hanging about the hotel that I saw; nor did we
encounter any as we went through the streets. Besides, if we had, they
couldn't have passed us, and then come on from the opposite side,
without our seeing them--dark as it was. 'Tis enough to make me believe
in second-sight."
"That appears the only way to explain it."
"Yes; but it won't, and don't. I've been thinking of another
explanation, more conformable to the laws of nature."
"What?"
"That there's been somebody under that old boat. We stood talking there
like four fools, calling out one another's names. Now, suppose one of
those sailors was waiting by the boat as we came along, and seeing us,
crept under it? He could have heard everything we said; and slipping
off, after we went to the wall, might have brought up the rest of the
accursed crew. The thing seems odd; at the same time it's possible
enough, and probable too."
"It is; and now you speak of it. I remember something. While we were
under the wall, I fancied I saw a man crouching along the water's edge,
as if going away from the boat."
"You did?"
"I'm almost certain I did. At the time, I thought nothing of it, as we
were watching for the other two; and I had no suspicion of any one else
being about. Now, I believe there was one."
"And now, I believe so too. _Carramba_! that accounts for everything.
I see it all. That's how the sailor got our names, and knew all about
our design--that to do--_murder_! You needn't start at the word, nor
turn pale. But you may at the prospect before us. _Carrai_! we're in
danger, Calderon;--no mistake about it. Why the devil didn't you tell
me of it--at the time you saw that man?"
"Because, as I've said, I had no thought it could be any one connected
with them."
"Well, your thoughtlessness has got us into a fix indeed--the worst I've
ever been in, and I can remember a few. No use to think about duelling
now, whoever might be challenger. Instead of seconds, they'd meet us
with a posse of sheriff's officers. Likely enough they'll be setting
them after us before this. Although I feel sure our bullets didn't hit
either, it'll be just as bad. The attempt will tell against us all the
same. Therefore, it won't do to stay here. So direct your servants not
to unsaddle. We'll need to be off, soon as we've swallowed a cup of
chocolate."
A call from Don Faustino brings one of his domestics to the door; then a
word or two sends him off with the order for keeping the horses in hand.
"_Chingara_!" fiercely exclaims De Lara, striking the table with his
shut fist, "everything has gone against us."
"Everything, indeed. Our money lost, our love made light of, our
revenge baffled--"
"No, not the last! Have no fear, Faustino. That's still to come."
"How?"
"How I you ask, do you?"
"I do. I can't see what way we can get it now. You know the English
officers will be gone in a day or two. Their ship is to sail soon.
Last night there was talk in the town that she might leave at any
moment--to-morrow, or it may be this very day."
"Let her go, and them with her. The sooner the better for us. That
won't hinder me from the revenge I intend taking. On the contrary,
'twill help me. Ha! I shall strike this Crozier in his tenderest part!
and you can do the same for Senor Cadwallader."
"In what way?"
"Faustino Calderon, I won't call you a fool, notwithstanding your
behaviour last night. But you ask some very silly questions, and that's
one of them. Supposing these _gringos_ gone from here, does it follow
they'll take everything along with them? Can you think of nothing they
must needs leave behind?"
"Their hearts. Is that what you mean?"
"No, it isn't."
"What then?"
"Their sweethearts, stupid! And that brings me to what I intend telling
you--leastwise to the first chapter of it."
"Which is!"
"That somebody else is going away, too."
"Who?"
"Don Gregorio Montijo!"
"Don Gregorio Montijo?"
"Don Gregorio, daughter and grand-daughter."
"You astonish me! But are they leaving California for good?"
"Leaving it for good."
"That is strange intelligence, startling! Though I can understand the
reason; that's well known."
"Oh, yes; the Don's disgusted with things as they now go here; and I
suppose the senoritas are also. No wonder. Since these ragged and
red-shirted gentry have taken possession of the place, it's not very
agreeable for ladies to show themselves about; nor very safe, I should
say. Good reason for Don Gregorio selling out, and betaking himself to
quieter quarters."
"He has sold out, has he?"
"He has."
"You're sure of it?"
"Quite sure. Rafael Rocas has told me all about it. And for an
enormous sum of money. How much do you suppose?"
"Perhaps 100,000 dollars. His property ought to be worth that."
"Whether it ought to be, or is, it has realised three times the amount."
"_Carramba_! Has Rocas said so?"
"He has."
"Has he told you who the generous purchaser is?"
"Some speculating Yankees, who fancy they see far into the future, and
think Don Gregorio's pasture-land a good investment. There's a
partnership of purchasers, I believe, and they've paid the money down,
in cash."
"Already! What kind of cash?"
"The best kind--doubloons and dollars. Not all in coin. Some of it in
the currency of California--gold-dust and nuggets."
"That's quite as good. _Santissima_! a splendid fortune. All for a
piece of pasture-land, that twelve months ago wasn't worth a tenth part
the amount! What a pity my own acres are already hypothecated! I might
have been a millionaire."
"No! your land lies too far-off. These Yankees have bought Don
Gregorio's land for `town-lots,' as they call them. In due time, no
doubt, they'll cover them with their psalm-singing churches and
schoolhouses--though the first building put up should be a prison."
Both laugh together at this modest _jeu d'esprit_; their mirth having a
double significance. For neither need be over-satisfied with the sight
of a prison.
"By the Virgin!" exclaims Calderon, continuing the conversation; "Don
Gregorio has done well, and he may be wise in quitting California. But
what the devil are we to do about the girls? Of course, as you say,
they're going to!"
"And so it may be. But not before another event takes place--one that
may embarrass, and delay, if it do not altogether prevent their
departure."
"_Amigo_; you talk enigmatically. Will you oblige me by speaking
plainer?"
"I will; but not till we've had our chocolate, and after it a _copita_
of Catalan. I need a little alcohol to get my brain in working order;
for there's work for it to do. Enough now to tell you I've had a
revelation. A good angel--or it may be a bad one--has visited me, and
given it. A vision which shows me at the same time riches and revenge--
pointing the straight way to both."
"Has the vision shown that I'm to be a sharer in these fine things?"
"It has; and you shall be. But only in proportion as you may prove
yourself worthy."
"_Por Dios_! I'll do my best. I have the will, if you'll only instruct
me in the way."
"I'll do that. But I warn you, 'twill need more than will--strength,
secrecy, courage, determination."
"_Desayuno, senores_!"
This from one of the domestics announcing the chocolate served.