II

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!”

More anxiously than ever now the son regarded his father. His inspection

left no doubt in his mind that the end could not be far off. With great

earnestness he implored him to lie down; but the dying man shook his

head and continued to grow more and more excited.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded. “No--you think you do, but you

don’t. There was a time when I had plenty of money. It pleased me

greatly to pay all your expenses--to see that you received the best

education possible both at home and abroad. Then the gringos came.

Little by little these cursed Americanos have taken all that I had from

me. But as they have sown so shall they reap. I have taken my revenge,

and you shall take more!” He paused to get his breath; then in a

terrible voice he cried: “Yes, I have robbed--robbed! For the last three

years, almost, your father has been a bandit!”

The son sprang to his feet.

“A bandit? You, father, a Ramerrez, a bandit?”

“Ay, a bandit, an outlaw, as you also will be when I am no more,

and rob, rob, rob, these _Americanos_. It is my command

and--you--have--sworn....”

The son’s eyes were rivetted upon his father’s face as the old man fell

back, completely exhausted, upon his couch of rawhides. With a strange

conflict of emotions, the young man remained standing in silence for a

few brief seconds that seemed like hours, while the pallor of death

crept over the face before him, leaving no doubt that, in the solemnity

of the moment his father had spoken nothing but the literal truth. It

was a hideous avowal to hear from the dying lips of one whom from

earliest childhood he had been taught to revere as the pattern of

Spanish honour and nobility. And yet the thought now uppermost in young

Ramerrez’s mind was that oddly enough he had not been taken by surprise.

Never by a single word had any one of his father’s followers given him a

hint of the truth. So absolute, so feudal was the old man’s mastery over

his men that not a whisper of his occupation had ever reached his son’s

ears. Nevertheless, he now told himself that in some curious,

instinctive way, he had _known_,--or rather, had refused to know,

putting off the hour of open avowal, shutting his eyes to the

accumulating facts that day by day had silently spoken of lawlessness

and peril. Three years, his father had just said; well, that explained

how it was that no suspicions had ever awakened until after he had

completed his education and returned home from his travels. But since

then a child must have noted that something was wrong: the grim,

sinister faces of the men, constantly on guard, as though the old

_hacienda_ were in a state of siege; the altered disposition of his

father, always given to gloomy moods, but lately doubly silent and

saturnine, full of strange savagery and smouldering fire. Yes, somewhere

in the back of his mind he had known the whole, shameful truth; had

known the purpose of those silent, stealthy excursions, and equally

silent returns,--and more than once the broken heads and bandaged arms

that coincided so oddly with some new tale of a daring holdup that he

was sure to hear of, the next time that he chanced to ride into

Monterey. For three years, young Ramerrez had known that sooner or later

he would be facing such a moment as this, called upon to make the choice

that should make or mar him for life. And now, for the first time he

realised why he had never voiced his suspicions, never questioned,

never hastened the time of decision,--it was because even now he did not

know which way he wished to decide! He knew only that he was torn and

racked by terrible emotions, that on one side was a mighty impulse to

disregard the oath he had blindly taken and refuse to do his father’s

bidding; and on the other, some new and unguessed craving for excitement

and danger, some inherited lawlessness in his blood, something akin to

the intoxication of the arena, when the thunder of the bull’s hoofs rang

in his ears. And so, when the old man’s lips opened once more, and

shaped, almost inaudibly, the solemn words:

“You have sworn,--” the scales were turned and the son bowed his head in

silence.

A moment later and the room was filled with men who fell on their knees.

On every face, save one, there was an expression of overwhelming grief

and despair; but on that one, ashen grey as it was with the agony of

approaching death, there was a look of contentment as he made a sign to

the padre that he was now ready for him to administer the last rites of

his church.