PEDRO ZELAYA BRINGS IMPORTANT NEWS
"On with the green boughs, Anselmo. Now, you, Francisco, the
turpentine in plenty. Pronto! hombre. Pronto! Hasten! Diablo!"
The wind from the Yerba Buena side blew more and more strongly, and
finally stiffened to a quarter gale.
"It is useless, Señor Zelaya," said the peon Anselmo. "The breeze from
the bay so fans the blaze that there is no smoke at all, but all flame."
Don Pedro Zelaya and his peons were on a pinnacle of one of the high
hills which skirt the eastern side of San Francisco harbor. Away at
the south somewhere was the hacienda of Mendoza. On the roof of
Mendoza's hacienda house by night and by day watchers scanned the north
horizon for fire or smoke signals telling that the British fleet had
sailed, and announcing, in the devious ways known to such
signal-makers, the direction the ships had taken, together with other
apt information.
"Caramba! Caramba!" stormed little Zelaya. "Bring more green leaves.
Give over using that turpentine now. Perhaps we'll get some smoke
after all."
The keen air breathed through the heaping leaves with a bellowslike
sound. The fierce heat exuded the oil from the fiber and the flames
roared with added vigor.
"Bring water!" commanded Zelaya. "We must have a signal-smoke here, or
it means a wild dash on horseback to Mission San José. Bring water, I
say."
"There is no water within a league, Señor Zelaya. Besides, the high
wind would blow the smoke along the mountain top, not letting it form a
column that would reach upward."
The excitable Zelaya ran to his horse tied to some brush near by.
Taking his canteen from the saddle he poured the contents, a quart or
so of water, on the blazing fire. There was a splutter, a sizzle, and
the leaves burned as furiously as before.
The sun was just peeping over the eastern horizon. Zelaya looked
intently, listening expectantly. When the wind lulled for a moment
there came swelling over the hills the reenforced bellowings from tens
of thousands of cattle throats.
"Ah! the herds are at last coming in from the San Joaquin bottoms.
Well, we have other fish to fry besides thinking of that. Say! you,
Anselmo, and you, Francisco, are you sure you caught all the signals
right? No danger of mistake? Are you sure?"
The small black eyes of the peons glittered. "We wish we were as sure
of heaven, Señor Zelaya. Our men saw the signal fire on the high
mountains east of San José last night; saw the answer on Tamalpais.
This morning at daybreak they saw the great white birds swim out in the
direction of the south wind. Our young master, Roberto Morago, said
that only cannon and heaps of cannon balls were on the decks. He saw
it through his field glass from his station on the flank of Mount
Diablo. We have brought you his word, Señor Zelaya, and our telling is
true. It's no use; we cannot send a smoke signal in this wind."
Zelaya was already astride his mount. "It means a couple of hours'
delay," he muttered, "a couple of hours which we can in no way afford."
He rode his horse furiously. The wind sang in his ears as he swept
along. His face was set and hard, his eyes narrowing to burning sparks.
"So, the English ships have sailed southward, with decks cleared for
action!" he thought. "Word must be given to Mendoza and the American
commodore at once." Then with an oath: "What misfortune this strong
wind was blowing on this of all mornings! Well, I'll get to Mission
San José with the news if my horse holds out! or," he half laughed, "if
he fails, I'll lasso a bull and press him into service."
The horseman slipped down the steep grades, passed the rancho of his
neighbor, Señor Peralta; rode through the foothills comprising part of
the grant of Don Luis Castro, and into the confines of his own
property, the Rancho Arroyo San Lorenzo. Here he reined in for a
moment, and allowed the animal to lope, an easy canter much affected in
early-California days.
"Now, for Arroyo Seco, Mendoza's outpost! I'll find a fresh horse
there in his corrals."
He spurred his horse which dashed along the foothills toward Mission
San José. The bellowing of the returning cattle became plainer and
plainer. The vanguard of the herds was already dotting the higher
levels above him.
"Caramba! I'm none too far away, if I wish to avoid being caught in
the press."
With word and quirt and spur he urged his horse forward. Mile after
mile sped past.
"You, poor fellow, are pretty well done," to his animal as it labored
along. "Well, I see Mendoza's corrals ahead. I'll leave you there in
good hands, and get my saddle on another racer."
Many cattle and horses in the marshes adjacent on the bay had not been
rounded up in the spring when the droves had been formed for the San
Joaquin. They had swum across the intervening sloughs to the
salt-grass pastures where fodder was more plentiful. After the rains
had come these animals had returned to the valley lands and had grown
fat.
Each stallion is a general having under him his lieutenants who, with
him, form a guard for the protection of the mothers and foals of the
family. As it is with the horse so is it with the cattle. The cows
and calves follow the mighty leaders that afford them safety.
Thus, from the valley came hundreds of horses and cattle to meet the
homecomers. They had scented their fellows from afar, and flew madly
to the foothills, to do them battle. The vaqueros were miles away, in
the rear of the swarming, home-coming herds. In time they would make
peace by clubbing the fighting leaders over nose or horn with their
heavy whip-stocks.
Zelaya was within half a mile of the Mendoza corral when a drove of
fifty or more horses, led by a splendid dapple-gray stallion, came
thundering from a deep hollow directly in front of him. The leader
disdained battle with a single stranger and rushed by like the wind.
Don Pedro turned rein and ran with the drove for safety. Little by
little he lessened speed; then, as the way opened, he left the company
forced on him and again turned toward the Mendoza corrals.
A hundred paces to the side a herd of cattle, led by an immense bull,
was charging in the foothills. The leader saw the horseman and made
for him viciously. The Spaniard waved his reata and shouted, "Hoop-la!
Hoop-la!" after the manner of the vaquero. The herd paused, snorted;
then, with head and tail up, looked on while their protector fought the
enemy.
The bull lowered its head and rushed at him, roaring a tremendous bass
defiance. The Spaniard swung his horse to one side, and the beast
stumbled past him. Again and again was this repeated. Finally, the
horse stepped into a hole and fell. The rider came to the ground on
his feet, moved quickly aside, in time to avoid a furious rush from the
tormentor. As the bull stopped in preparation for another attack Don
Pedro sprang on its back.
"I have for myself a merienda," he thought, grimly, remembering the day
when he had ridden the bull at the Calaveras picnic ground.
"Come, come, run to the corral, my lordly beast!"
The animal ran around and around in a circle, roaring terrifically.
"Carrajo! Carrajo! 'twill not do," called the rider. "I must make the
corral. Go, now, you son of an imp! Run as I direct!"
Climbing out well on the shoulders he managed to reach the beast's nose
with his spur. First kicking it on one side of the muzzle, then on the
other, he succeeded in getting it started toward the corral.
"Grande! Grande!" he shouted. "You make not badly the mount.
Hoop-la! Hoop-la! Pronto! Pronto!"
The bull ran under some trees, endeavoring to free itself from the
incumbrance. Zelaya drew himself up into the branches.
"It is again the merienda, as I have said. Now, farewell, toro mio, I
go to the corral and stables for a mount superior even to you."
The bull hurried back to his bellowing herd, and soon together they
were tearing onward to the hills, to fight the myriad homecomers.
"A thousand and one devils! A thousand and one devils!" exclaimed
Zelaya a few moments later. The corrals and stables were empty. The
peon cots were vacant. Evidently, Mendoza had sent all available
horses and men to the San Joaquin to bring home his grazing stock.
The little man did not hesitate. Off came his embroidered jacket, his
outer, as well as his inner, shirt, then his long riding boots. He
tossed his sombrero, heavy with gold, to one side.
"Behold! 'twould not be so bad, if I only had my running shoes."
The morning sun fell on his muscular torso, the runner's flat abdomen
and well-sinewed limbs discernible through the knee-pants and leggings.
For an instant he pulled his short mustachios savagely. "I may meet
more bulls and their families, and I have now no spurs," glancing at
his discarded boots. "Well, if a bull chases me toward Mission San
José I shall reach my goal all the quicker."
It was three leagues good, as the bird flies, to the Mendoza hacienda
house, at the Mission. Don Pedro set off across country at a long,
swinging gait which ate the miles like fire. For nearly a league he
ran along cattle paths in the tall oats and drying mustard. Then he
struck the main-traveled road. Here he rested for a moment.
"Diablo!" standing first on one foot, then on the other. "That dried
grass has the edge of a knife!"
The roaring of cattle and the raucous threatening of a stallion sent
him flying along instantly.
"A pest on it! I prefer the sharp grass edge to these infernal
stones," the ragged pebbles in the road bruising and tearing his feet,
while the dry grass had cut cleanly. Still he did not waver. Bright
red spots showed on his cheeks; his breath came in quick gasps, but he
did not slacken the wonderful pace he had set for himself.
Once a bull compelled him to climb a tree, and once he hid under a bank
while a stallion led his squadron past. "I take the rest whether or no
I need it," was his laconic thought at these times.
Finally he came in sight of the towers of Mendoza's house. It was yet
a league away, and more. Don Pedro tightened his belt, looked at his
bleeding feet, then at the mansion gleaming white in the sun. He
surveyed the landscape in search of a horseman, but in vain.
He bathed his feet in a streamlet, then darted along the rough road at
a speed that might, indeed, be fitly described as only less than that
of a fast-galloping horse.
* * * * *
"Commodore Billings, float the stars and stripes over Monterey before
another sun goes out!"
In the Administrator's sitting room were gathered Billings, Hamilton,
O'Donnell, and a score of land barons of the valley.
The American's mouth shut in a straight line. "You Spaniards, save a
handful, are clamoring for English rule. Still, Señor Mendoza, you ask
me to invest the capital of this province with my ships. To what end?"
"To afford our California opportunity to appeal from her inconsiderate
self to her wiser self."
"Mendoza, I represent the United States. My office is to conserve, or
advance, her interests."
"Señor Commodore, California is the key to the vast region north and
east. With this province goes mastery of the Pacific from the Isthmus
to the ice. No small addition to the United States of America."
"California, in her wiser thought, you intimate, would elect to become
a province under my government. I so understand you, señor."
The Administrator nodded affirmatively.
"I am, then, to hold your capital pending this expected change of
attitude?"
Again the affirmation from Mendoza.
"Very well, our Señor Hacendado, suppose the inevitable finds resting
place on the other horn of this dilemma, and your province elects to
become British?"
Several of the men were on their feet, speaking excitedly.
"Señor Billings, not one chance in ten of such an outcome," exclaimed
Fulgencio Higuera. "Geographically we belong to the United States. In
politics we are one with you. Give us time to think and all of us will
say aye to this."
Diego Valencia and others seconded him.
"I voted in haste for English rule," said Luis Castro. "My preference
is for your country, Señor Commodore."
"And I! And I!" from a dozen others.
Billings shrugged. "Your California Baja is solid for England."
"I have letters here from Señor Carillo, the Picos, and others
prominent there, stating that these men will accept what is wisest for
the province," replied Mendoza.
"Well said! Well said!" broke in the heavy voice of O'Donnell.
Billings looked around the room from one face to another. Finally, his
eyes rested on Mendoza. "But there is a possibility if I take your
capital that I may be asked to give it over to the English admiral. Is
that not true? Your people, after all, may vote to become a British
dependency," giving the table beside him a resounding blow with his
clenched hand.
"A bare possibility--nothing more," said Mendoza, quietly.
"In which case I should have my trouble for my pains," asserted the
American.
"You would, then, have aided a sovereign people to exercise their right
of franchise. Surely, your government would uphold you in that.
Besides, the chance is ten to one--yes, a hundred to one--that your
flag will continue flying over the province," argued the Administrator.
Billings's heavy mustachios raised along his face in a peculiar smile.
His bushy eyebrows were elevated. In a moment his features fell into
their usual mold.
"If I do not take Monterey, what then?"
"Then comes England," replied Mendoza, his voice low and even, "and at
the present--the present, mind you, I say--an apparent majority of our
people would welcome her coming. If she comes, she will stay." He
looked steadily at the other. "Señor the Commodore, it may be now or
never for the Americans."
There was a rush of feet in the corridor, a clatter of excited native
voices, angry expostulations, and then there burst into the room a
figure which startled the grave assemblage nearly out of its senses. A
man naked to the waist, his feet cut and bleeding, his face streaked
with dust and perspiration. He was scarcely able to stand.
"Dios!" exclaimed Mendoza. "It's Señor Zelaya. What has happened?"
The perspiring, fainting man partially steadied himself. "The English
fleet sailed--this morning--at daybreak--toward the south--decks
cleared for action----" He collapsed and would have fallen had not
Mendoza caught him.
Zelaya soon recovered. Quickly he told his story.
"By thunder! The English fleet stripped for battle! Hurrying to
Monterey! I'll shoot their infernal rudders off!" cried the Commodore.
Hamilton, unsheathing his sword, bounded to the side of his superior.
Billings's blade gave answering flash.
Excited voices hushed under the swish of steel.
The officers and Mendoza strode from the room.
O'Donnell was already at his horse's side.
"On, for Half Moon Bay! You, O'Donnell, lead the way!" shouted
Billings.
"Faith! Commodore, I'm in for the race, and it's bad luck catch the
hindmost!" as O'Donnell swung to the saddle.
Tomaso and his peons, signaled by Mendoza, came hurrying with horses.
"I too will ride with the Commodore Americano," called Zelaya,
forgetful of his fatigue.
"Not so, Pedro," from Mendoza. "A bed and a surgeon for thee."
The Administrator mounted his prized racer, Mercurio. He waved his
hand. Instantly, Tomaso and his fighting peons reined their horses
behind him in double file. Captain Hamilton stood with toe in stirrup,
looking ruefully enough at the prospect of a jolting ride back to Half
Moon Bay.
"Fall in, Captain!" called Billings.
In a moment the Captain was racing along the road, not second to many
in the run.