I.

As Father Felipe slowly toiled up the dusty road towards the Rancho of

the Blessed Innocents, he more than once stopped under the shadow of a

sycamore to rest his somewhat lazy mule and to compose his own

perplexed thoughts by a few snatches from his breviary. For the good

padre had some reason to be troubled. The invasion of Gentile

Americans that followed the gold discovery of three years before had

not confined itself to the plains of the Sacramento, but stragglers had

already found their way to the Santa Cruz Valley, and the seclusion of

even the mission itself was threatened. It was true that they had not

brought their heathen engines to disembowel the earth in search of

gold, but it was rumored that they had already speculated upon the

agricultural productiveness of the land, and had espied "the fatness

thereof." As he reached the higher plateau he could see the afternoon

sea-fog--presently to obliterate the fair prospect--already pulling

through the gaps in the Coast Range, and on a nearer slope--no less

ominously--the smoke of a recent but more permanently destructive

Yankee saw-mill was slowly drifting towards the valley.

"Get up, beast!" said the father, digging his heels into the

comfortable flanks of his mule with some human impatience, "or art

THOU, too, a lazy renegade? Thinkest thou, besotted one, that the

heretic will spare thee more work than the Holy Church."

The mule, thus apostrophized in ear and flesh, shook its head

obstinately as if the question was by no means clear to its mind, but

nevertheless started into a little trot, which presently brought it to

the low adobe wall of the courtyard of "The Innocents," and entered the

gate. A few lounging peons in the shadow of an archway took off their

broad-brimmed hats and made way for the padre, and a half dozen equally

listless vaqueros helped him to alight. Accustomed as he was to the

indolence and superfluity of his host's retainers, to-day it

nevertheless seemed to strike some note of irritation in his breast.

A stout, middle-aged woman of ungirt waist and beshawled head and

shoulders appeared at the gateway as if awaiting him. After a formal

salutation she drew him aside into an inner passage.

"He is away again, your Reverence," she said.

"Ah--always the same?"

"Yes, your Reverence--and this time to 'a meeting' of the heretics at

their pueblo, at Jonesville--where they will ask him of his land for a

road."

"At a MEETING?" echoed the priest uneasily.

"Ah yes! a meeting--where Tiburcio says they shout and spit on the

ground, your Reverence, and only one has a chair and him they call a

'chairman' because of it, and yet he sits not but shouts and spits even

as the others and keeps up a tapping with a hammer like a very pico.

And there it is they are ever 'resolving' that which is not, and

consider it even as done."

"Then he is still the same," said the priest gloomily, as the woman

paused for breath.

"Only more so, your Reverence, for he reads nought but the newspaper of

the Americanos that is brought in the ship, the 'New York 'errald'--and

recites to himself the orations of their legislators. Ah! it was an

evil day when the shipwrecked American sailor taught him his uncouth

tongue, which, as your Reverence knows, is only fit for beasts and

heathen incantation."

"Pray Heaven THAT were all he learned of him," said the priest hastily,

"for I have great fear that this sailor was little better than an

atheist and an emissary from Satan. But where are these newspapers and

the fantasies of publicita that fill his mind? I would see them, my

daughter."

"You shall, your Reverence, and more too," she replied eagerly, leading

the way along the passage to a grated door which opened upon a small

cell-like apartment, whose scant light and less air came through the

deeply embayed windows in the outer wall. "Here is his estudio."

In spite of this open invitation, the padre entered with that air of

furtive and minute inspection common to his order. His glance fell

upon a rude surveyor's plan of the adjacent embryo town of Jonesville

hanging on the wall, which he contemplated with a cold disfavor that

even included the highly colored vignette of the projected Jonesville

Hotel in the left-hand corner. He then passed to a supervisor's notice

hanging near it, which he examined with a suspicion heightened by that

uneasiness common to mere worldly humanity when opposed to an unknown

and unfamiliar language. But an exclamation broke from his lips when

he confronted an election placard immediately below it. It was printed

in Spanish and English, and Father Felipe had no difficulty in reading

the announcement that "Don Jose Sepulvida would preside at a meeting of

the Board of Education in Jonesville as one of the trustees."

"This is madness," said the padre.

Observing that Dona Maria was at the moment preoccupied in examining

the pictorial pages of an illustrated American weekly which had

hitherto escaped his eyes, he took it gently from her hand.

"Pardon, your Reverence," she said with slightly acidulous deprecation,

"but thanks to the Blessed Virgin and your Reverence's teaching, the

text is but gibberish to me and I did but glance at the pictures."

"Much evil may come in with the eye," said the priest sententiously,

"as I will presently show thee. We have here," he continued, pointing

to an illustration of certain college athletic sports, "a number of

youthful cavaliers posturing and capering in a partly nude condition

before a number of shameless women, who emulate the saturnalia of

heathen Rome by waving their handkerchiefs. We have here a companion

picture," he said, indicating an illustration of gymnastic exercises by

the students of a female academy at "Commencement," "in which, as thou

seest, even the aged of both sexes unblushingly assist as spectators

with every expression of immodest satisfaction."

"Have they no bull-fights or other seemly recreation that they must

indulge in such wantonness?" asked Dona Maria indignantly, gazing,

however, somewhat curiously at the baleful representations.

"Of all that, my daughter, has their pampered civilization long since

wearied," returned the good padre, "for see, this is what they consider

a moral and even a religious ceremony." He turned to an illustration

of a woman's rights convention; "observe with what rapt attention the

audience of that heathen temple watch the inspired ravings of that

elderly priestess on the dais. It is even this kind of sacrilegious

performance that I am told thy nephew Don Jose expounds and defends."

"May the blessed saints preserve us; where will it lead to?" murmured

the horrified Dona Maria.

"I will show thee," said Father Felipe, briskly turning the pages with

the same lofty ignoring of the text until he came to a representation

of a labor procession. "There is one of their periodic revolutions

unhappily not unknown even in Mexico. Thou perceivest those complacent

artisans marching with implements of their craft, accompanied by the

military, in the presence of their own stricken masters. Here we see

only another instance of the instability of all communities that are

not founded on the principles of the Holy Church."

"And what is to be done with my nephew?"

The good father's brow darkened with the gloomy religious zeal of two

centuries ago. "We must have a council of the family, the alcalde, and

the archbishop, at ONCE," he said ominously. To the mere heretical

observer the conclusion might have seemed lame and impotent, but it was

as near the Holy inquisition as the year of grace 1852 could offer.

A few days after this colloquy the unsuspecting subject of it, Don Jose

Sepulvida, was sitting alone in the same apartment. The fading glow of

the western sky, through the deep embrasured windows, lit up his rapt

and meditative face. He was a young man of apparently twenty-five,

with a colorless satin complexion, dark eyes alternating between

melancholy and restless energy, a narrow high forehead, long straight

hair, and a lightly penciled moustache. He was said to resemble the

well-known portrait of the Marquis of Monterey in the mission church, a

face that was alleged to leave a deep and lasting impression upon the

observers. It was undoubtedly owing to this quality during a brief

visit of the famous viceroy to a remote and married ancestress of Don

Jose at Leon that the singular resemblance may be attributed.

A heavy and hesitating step along the passage stopped before the

grating. Looking up, Don Jose beheld to his astonishment the slightly

inflamed face of Roberto, a vagabond American whom he had lately taken

into his employment.

Roberto, a polite translation of "Bob the Bucker," cleaned out at a

monte-bank in Santa Cruz, penniless and profligate, had sold his

mustang to Don Jose and recklessly thrown himself in with the bargain.

Touched by the rascal's extravagance, the quality of the mare, and

observing that Bob's habits had not yet affected his seat in the

saddle, but rather lent a demoniac vigor to his chase of wild cattle,

Don Jose had retained rider and horse in his service as vaquero.

Bucking Bob, observing that his employer was alone, coolly opened the

door without ceremony, shut it softly behind him, and then closed the

wooden shutter of the grating. Don Jose surveyed him with mild

surprise and dignified composure. The man appeared perfectly

sober,--it was a peculiarity of his dissipated habits that, when not

actually raving with drink, he was singularly shrewd and practical.

"Look yer, Don Kosay," he began in a brusque but guarded voice, "you

and me is pards. When ye picked me and the mare up and set us on our

legs again in this yer ranch, I allowed I'd tie to ye whenever you was

in trouble--and wanted me. And I reckon that's what's the matter now.

For from what I see and hear on every side, although you're the boss of

this consarn, you're surrounded by a gang of spies and traitors. Your

comings and goings, your ins and outs, is dogged and followed and blown

upon. The folks you trust is playing it on ye. It ain't for me to say

why or wherefore--what's their rights and what's yourn--but I've come

to tell ye that if you don't get up and get outer this ranch them d--d

priests and your own flesh and blood--your aunts and your uncles and

your cousins, will have you chucked outer your property, and run into a

lunatic asylum."

"Me--Don Jose Sepulvida--a lunatico! You are yourself crazy of drink,

friend Roberto."

"Yes," said Roberto grimly, "but that kind ain't ILLEGAL, while your

makin' ducks and drakes of your property and going into 'Merikin ideas

and 'Merikin speculations they reckon is. And speakin' on the square,

it ain't NAT'RAL."

Don Jose sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down his cell-like

study. "Ah, I remember now," he muttered, "I begin to comprehend:

Father Felipe's homilies and discourses! My aunt's too affectionate

care! My cousin's discreet consideration! The prompt attention of my

servants! I see it all! And you," he said, suddenly facing Roberto,

"why come you to tell me this?"

"Well, boss," said the American dryly, "I reckoned to stand by you."

"Ah," said Don Jose, visibly affected. "Good Roberto, come hither,

child, you may kiss my hand."

"If! it's all the same to you, Don Kosay,--THAT kin slide."

"Ah, if--yes," said Don Jose, meditatively putting his hand to his

forehead, "miserable that I am!--I remembered not you were Americano.

Pardon, my friend--embrace me--Conpanero y Amigo."

With characteristic gravity he reclined for a moment upon Robert's

astonished breast. Then recovering himself with equal gravity he

paused, lifted his hand with gentle warning, marched to a recess in the

corner, unhooked a rapier hanging from the wall, and turned to his

companion.

"We will defend ourselves, friend Roberto. It is the sword of the

Comandante--my ancestor. The blade is of Toledo."

"An ordinary six-shooter of Colt's would lay over that," said Roberto

grimly--"but that ain't your game just now, Don Kosay. You must get up

and get, and at once. You must vamose the ranch afore they lay hold of

you and have you up before the alcalde. Once away from here, they

daren't follow you where there's 'Merikin law, and when you kin fight

'em in the square."

"Good," said Don Jose with melancholy preciseness. "You are wise,

friend Roberto. We may fight them later, as you say--on the square, or

in the open Plaza. And you, camarado, YOU shall go with me--you and

your mare."

Sincere as the American had been in his offer of service, he was

somewhat staggered at this imperative command. But only for a moment.

"Well," he said lazily, "I don't care if I do."

"But," said Don Jose with increased gravity, "you SHALL care, friend

Roberto. We shall make an alliance, an union. It is true, my brother,

you drink of whiskey, and at such times are even as a madman. It has

been recounted to me that it was necessary to your existence that you

are a lunatic three days of the week. Who knows? I myself, though I

drink not of aguardiente, am accused of fantasies for all time.

Necessary it becomes therefore that we should go TOGETHER. My

fantasies and speculations cannot injure you, my brother; your whiskey

shall not empoison me. We shall go together in the great world of your

American ideas of which I am much inflamed. We shall together breathe

as one the spirit of Progress and Liberty. We shall be even as

neophytes making of ourselves Apostles of Truth. I absolve and

renounce myself henceforth of my family. I shall take to myself the

sister and the brother, the aunt and the uncle, as we proceed. I

devote myself to humanity alone. I devote YOU, my friend, and the

mare--though happily she has not a Christian soul--to this glorious

mission."

The few level last rays of light lit up a faint enthusiasm in the face

of Don Jose, but without altering his imperturbable gravity. The

vaquero eyed him curiously and half doubtfully.

"We will go to-morrow," resumed Don Jose with solemn decision, "for it

is Wednesday. It was a Sunday that thou didst ride the mare up the

steps of the Fonda and demanded that thy liquor should be served to

thee in a pail. I remember it, for the landlord of the Fonda claimed

twenty pesos for damage and the kissing of his wife. Therefore, by

computation, good Roberto, thou shouldst be sober until Friday, and we

shall have two clear days to fly before thy madness again seizes thee."

"They kin say what they like, Don Kosay, but YOUR head is level,"

returned the unabashed American, grasping Don Jose's hand. "All right,

then. Hasta manana, as your folks say."

"Hasta manana," repeated Don Jose gravely.

At daybreak next morning, while slumber still weighted the lazy eyelids

of "the Blessed Innocents," Don Jose Sepulvida and his trusty squire

Roberto, otherwise known as "Bucking Bob," rode forth unnoticed from

the corral.