A bad beginning did not make
a good ending of the Senora Moreno’s sheep-shearing
this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against
Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would
have found, in the way things fell out, ample reason
for a belief that the Senora was being punished for
having let all the affairs of her place come to a
standstill, to await the coming of an old monk.
But the pious Senora, looking at the other side of
the shield, was filled with gratitude that, since
all this ill luck was to befall her, she had the good
Father Salvierderra at her side to give her comfort
and counsel.
It was not yet quite noon of the first
day, when Felipe fainted and fell in the wool; and
it was only a little past noon of the third, when
Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation,
had taken Senor Felipe’s place at the packing,
fell from the cross-beam to the ground, and broke
his right leg,-a bad break near the knee;
and Juan Canito’s bones were much too old for
fresh knitting. He would never again be able
to do more than hobble about on crutches, dragging
along the useless leg. It was a cruel blow to
the old man. He could not be resigned to it.
He lost faith in his saints, and privately indulged
in blasphemous beratings and reproaches of them, which
would have filled the Senora with terror, had she
known that such blasphemies were being committed under
her roof.
“As many times as I have crossed
that plank, in my day!” cried Juan; “only
the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and
there was that whole box of candles I paid for with
my own money last month, and burned to Saint Francis
in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He
may sit in the dark, for all me, to the end of time!
He is no saint at all! What are they for, if
not to keep us from harm when we pray to them?
I’ll pray no more. I believe the Americans
are right, who laugh at us.” From morning
till night, and nearly from night till morning, for
the leg ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned
and grumbled and swore, and swore and grumbled and
groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita
said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself.
There was no pleasing him, whatever you did, and his
tongue was never still a minute. For her part,
she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends
had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had
had their reasons for leaving him to his fate.
A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up in the
minds of all the servants towards him. His own
reckless language, combined with Margarita’s
reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believing
that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that
the Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which
was very hard for the old man, in addition to all
the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation
he had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants,
men and women, drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat
with him, telling him all that was going on; and when
by degrees they dropped off, coming more and more
seldom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether,
it was the one drop that overflowed his cup of misery;
and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling,
and spoke only when he must.
This phase frightened Margarita even
more than the first. Now, she thought, surely
the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the
Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she
went through the needful ministrations for him each
day. Three months, at least, the doctor, who
had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must
lie still in bed and be thus tended. “Three
months!” sighed Margarita. “If I
be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of
that be come!”
The Senora was too busy with Felipe
to pay attention or to give thought to Juan.
Felipe’s fainting had been the symptom and beginning
of a fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying
in his bed, tossing and raving in delirium, always
about the wool.
“Throw them faster, faster!
That’s a good fleece; five pounds more; a round
ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro!
Captain!-Jesus, how this sun burns my head!”
Several times he had called “Alessandro”
so earnestly, that Father Salvierderra advised bringing
Alessandro into the room, to see if by any chance
there might have been something in his mind that he
wished to say to him. But when Alessandro stood
by the bedside, Felipe gazed at him vacantly, as he
did at all the others, still repeating, however, “Alessandro!
Alessandro!”
“I think perhaps he wants Alessandro
to play on his violin,” sobbed out Ramona.
“He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro
played, and said he would have him up on the veranda
in the evening to play to us.”
“We might try it,” said
Father Salvierderra. “Have you your violin
here, Alessandro?”
“Alas, no, Father,” replied
Alessandro, “I did not bring it.”
“Perhaps it would do him good
it you were to sing, then,” said Ramona.
“He was speaking of your voice also.”
“Oh, try, try.” said the
Senorita, turning to Alessandro. “Sing
something low and soft.”
Alessandro walked from the bed to
the open window, and after thinking for a moment,
began a slow strain from one of the masses.
At the first note, Felipe became suddenly
quiet, evidently listening. An expression of
pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned
his head to one side, put his hand under his cheek
and closed his eyes. The three watching him looked
at each other in astonishment.
“It is a miracle,” said
Father Salvierderra. “He will sleep.”
“It was what he wanted!” whispered Ramona.
The Senora spoke not, but buried her
face in the bedclothes for a second; then lifting
it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying
to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe,
and sang lower and lower, till the notes sounded as
if they came from afar; lower and lower, slower; finally
they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance.
As they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
“Oh, go on, go on!” the
Senora implored in a whisper shrill with anxiety.
“Do not stop!”
Alessandro repeated the strain, slow,
solemn; his voice trembled; the air in the room seemed
stifling, spite of the open window; he felt something
like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to
sleep by reason of the notes of his voice. There
had been nothing in Alessandro’s healthy outdoor
experience to enable him to understand such a phenomenon.
Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regularly;
soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing stopped;
Felipe did not stir.
“Can I go?” whispered Alessandro.
“No, no.” replied the Senora, impatiently.
“He may wake any minute.”
Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed
his head submissively, and remained standing by the
window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on one
side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at
the foot,-all praying; the silence was
so great that the slight sounds of the rosary beads
slipping against each other seemed loud. In a
niche in the wall, at the head of the bed, stood a
statue of the Madonna, on the other side a picture
of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before
each. The long wicks smouldered and died down,
sputtering, then flared up again as the ends fell
into the melted wax. The Senora’s eyes were
fixed on the Madonna. The Father’s were
closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming
down her face as she mechanically told her beads.
“She is his betrothed, no doubt,”
thought Alessandro. “The saints will not
let him die;” and Alessandro also prayed.
But the oppression of the scene was too much for him.
Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he vaulted
over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the
sound, “I will not go away, Senorita, I will
be close under the window, if he awakes.”
Once in the open air, he drew a long
breath, and gazed bewilderedly about him, like one
just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then
he threw himself on the ground under the window, and
lay looking up into the sky. Capitan came up,
and with a low whine stretched himself out at full
length by his side. The dog knew as well as any
other one of the house that danger and anguish were
there.
One hour passed, two, three; still
no sound from Felipe’s room. Alessandro
rose, and looked in at the window. The Father
and the Senora had not changed their attitudes; their
lips were yet moving in prayer. But Ramona had
yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into
a sitting posture, with her head leaning against the
post of the bedstead, and fallen asleep. Her
face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and heavy
circles under her eyes told how tired she was.
For three days and nights she had scarcely rested,
so constant were the demands on her. Between
Felipe’s illness and Juan Can’s, there
was not a moment without something to be done, or
some perplexing question to be settled, and above
all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona
was broken down with grief at the thought of Felipe’s
death. She had never known till she saw him lying
there delirious, and as she in her inexperience thought,
dying, how her whole life was entwined with his.
But now, at the very thought of what it would be to
live without him, her heart sickened. “When
he is buried, I will ask Father Salvierderra to take
me away. I never can live here alone,” she
said to herself, never for a moment perceiving that
the word “alone” was a strange one to have
come into her mind in the connection. The thought
of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations
of the future which so smote her with terror.
In the Senora’s presence, Ramona always felt
herself alone.
Alessandro stood at the window, his
arms folded, leaning on the sill, his eyes fixed on
Ramona’s face and form. To any other than
a lover’s eyes she had not looked beautiful
now; but to Alessandro she looked more beautiful than
the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond.
With a lover’s instinct he knew the thoughts
which had written such lines on her face in the last
three days. “It will kill her if he dies,”
he thought, “if these three days have made her
look like that.” And Alessandro threw himself
on the ground again, his face down. He did not
know whether it were an hour or a day that he had lain
there, when he heard Father Salvierderra’s voice
speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old
monk standing in the window, tears running down his
cheeks. “God be praised,” he said,
“the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat
has broken out on his skin; he still sleeps, but when
he wakes he will be in his right mind. The strength
of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we know
not how to spare you. Can you not let the men
go without you, and remain here? The Senora would
like to have you remain in Juan Can’s place
till he is about. She will give you the same wages
he had. Would it not be a good thing for you,
Alessandro? You cannot be sure of earning so
much as that for the next three months, can you?”
While the Father was speaking, a tumult
had been going on in Alessandro’s breast.
He did not know by name any of the impulses which
were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were,
by their pulling in opposite directions; one saying
“Stay!” and the other saying “Go!”
He would not have known what any one meant, who had
said to him, “It is danger to stay; it is safety
to fly.” All the same, he felt as if he
could do neither.
“There is another shearing yet,
Father,” he began, “at the Ortega’s
ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as
I had finished here, and they have been wroth enough
with us for the delay already. It will not do
to break the promise, Father.”
Father Salvierderra’s face fell.
“No, my son, certainly not,” he said;
“but could no one else take your place with the
band?”
Hearing these words, Ramona came to
the window, and leaning out, whispered, “Are
you talking about Alessandro’s staying?
Let me come and talk to him. He must not go.”
And running swiftly through the hall, across the veranda,
and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro’s
side in a moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly,
she said: “We can’t let you go, Alessandro.
The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your
place with the shearers. We want you to stay here
in Juan Can’s place till he is well. Don’t
say you can’t stay! Felipe may need you
to sing again, and what would we do then? Can’t
you stay?”
“Yes, I can stay, Senorita,”
answered Alessandro, gravely. “I will stay
so long as you need me.”
“Oh, thank you, Alessandro!”
Ramona cried. “You are good, to stay.
The Senora will see that it is no loss to you;”
and she flew back to the house.
“It is not for the wages, Senorita,”
Alessandro began; but Ramona was gone. She did
not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of humiliation.
“I don’t want the Senorita to think that
it was the money kept me,” he said, turning
to Father Salvierderra. “I would not leave
the band for money; it is to help, because they are
in trouble, Father.”
“Yes, yes, son. I understand
that,” replied the monk, who had known Alessandro
since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors
of San Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there.
“That is quite right of you, and the Senora
will not be insensible of it. It is not for such
things that money can pay. They are indeed in
great trouble now, and only the two women in the house;
and I must soon be going on my way North again.”
“Is it sure that Senor Felipe
will get well?” asked Alessandro.
“I think so,” replied
Father Salvierderra. “These relapses are
always worse than the first attack; but I have never
known one to die, after he had the natural sweat to
break from the skin, and got good sleep. I doubt
not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and
there will be much to be seen to. It was an ill
luck to have Juan Can laid up, too, just at this time.
I must go and see him; I hear he is in most rebellious
frame of mind, and blasphemes impiously.”
“That does he!” said Alessandro.
“He swears the saints gave him over to the fiends
to push him off the plank, and he’ll have none
of them from this out! I told him to beware,
or they might bring him to worse things yet if he
did not mend his speech of them.”
Sighing deeply as they walked along,
the monk said: “It is but a sign of the
times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The
people are being corrupted. Keeps your father
the worship in the chapel still, and does a priest
come often to the village?”
“Only twice a year,” replied
Alessandro; “and sometimes for a funeral, if
there is money enough to pay for the mass. But
my father has the chapel open, and each Sunday we
sing what we know of the mass; and the people are
often there praying.”
“Ay, ay! Ever for money!”
groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the latter
part of the sentence. “Ever for money!
It is a shame. But that it were sure to be held
as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once
in three months; but I may not. The priests do
not love our order.”
“Oh, if you could, Father,”
exclaimed Alessandro, “it would make my father
very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference
he sees between the words of the Church now and in
the days of the Mission. He is very sad, Father,
and in great fear about our village. They say
the Americans, when they buy the Mexicans’ lands,
drive the Indians away as if they were dogs; they
say we have no right to our lands. Do you think
that can be so, Father, when we have always lived on
them, and the owners promised them to us forever?”
Father Salvierderra was silent a long
time before replying, and Alessandro watched his face
anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for words
to convey his meaning. At last he said: “Got
your father any notice, at any time since the Americans
took the country,-notice to appear before
a court, or anything about a title to the land?”
“No, Father,” replied Alessandro.
“There has to be some such paper,
as I understand their laws,” continued the monk;
“some notice, before any steps can be taken to
remove Indians from an estate. It must be done
according to the law, in the courts. If you have
had no such notice, you are not in danger.”
“But, Father,” persisted
Alessandro, “how could there be a law to take
away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us
forever?”
“Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show
it?”
“No, no paper; but it is marked
in red lines on the map. It was marked off by
Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all
the boundaries of Senor Valdez’s estate.
They had many instruments of brass and wood to measure
with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped
them carry. I myself saw it marked on the map.
They all slept in my father’s house,-Senor
Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures.
He hired one of our men to carry his instruments,
and I went to help, for I wished to see how it was
done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose told
me a man must study many years to learn the way of
it. It seemed to me our way, by the stones, was
much better. But I know it is all marked on the
map, for it was with a red line; and my father understood
it, and Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both pointed
to it with their finger, and they said, ‘All
this here is your land, Pablo, always.’
I do not think my father need fear, do you?”
“I hope not,” replied
Father Salvierderra, cautiously; “but since the
way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken
away, I have small faith in the honesty of the Americans.
I think they will take all that they can. The
Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands.”
“That is what my father says,”
replied Alessandro. “He says, ’Look
at San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard
left, of all their vast lands where they used to pasture
thirty thousand sheep. If the Church and the
Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians
do?’ That is what my father says.”
“True, true!” said the
monk, as he turned into the door of the room where
Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing
to see Father Salvierderra’s face coming in.
“We are all alike helpless in their hands, Alessandro.
They possess the country, and can make what laws they
please. We can only say, ‘God’s will
be done,’” and he crossed himself devoutly,
repeating the words twice.
Alessandro did the same, and with
a truly devout spirit, for he was full of veneration
for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked
on towards the shearing-shed he thought: “Then,
again, how can it be God’s will that wrong be
done? It cannot be God’s will that one man
should steal from another all he has. That would
make God no better than a thief, it looks to me.
But how can it happen, if it is not God’s will?”
It does not need that one be educated,
to see the logic in this formula. Generations
of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro,
had grappled with the problem in one shape or another.
At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found
his men in confusion and ill-humor. The shearing
had been over and done by ten in the morning, and
why were they not on their way to the Ortega’s?
Waiting all day,-it was now near sunset,-with
nothing to do, and still worse with not much of anything
to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder.
The economical Juan Can, finding that the work would
be done by ten, and supposing they would be off before
noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the
day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda,
getting her cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles
than the family needed themselves; so the poor shearers
had indeed had a sorry day of it, in no wise alleviated
either by the reports brought from time to time that
their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under
Senor Felipe’s window, and must not be spoken
to.
It was not a propitious moment for
Alessandro to make the announcement of his purpose
to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it
in few words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment
from himself by setting them immediately to voting
for a new captain to take his place for the remainder
of the season.
“Very well!” they said
hotly; “captain for this year, captain for next,
too!” It wasn’t so easy to step out and
in again of the captaincy of the shearers!
“All right,” said Alessandro;
“please yourselves! It is all the same
to me. But here I am going to stay for the present.
Father Salvierderra wishes it.”
“Oh, if the Father wishes it,
that is different.” “Ah, that alters
the case!” “Alessandro is right!”
came up in confused murmur from the appeased crowd.
They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula
men, and would never think of going against the Father’s
orders. But when they understood that Alessandro’s
intention was to remain until Juan Canito’s
leg should be well enough for him to go about again,
fresh grumblings began. That would not do.
It would be all summer. Alessandro must be at
home for the Saint Juan’s Day fête, in midsummer,-no
doing anything without Alessandro then. What
was he thinking of? Not of the midsummer fête,
that was certain, when he promised to stay as long
as the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro
had remembered nothing except the Senorita’s
voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had
had a hundred engagements for the summer, he would
have forgotten them all. Now that he was reminded
of the midsummer fête, it must be confessed he was
for a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that
was a time, when, as he well knew, his father could
not do without his help. There were sometimes
a thousand Indians at this fête, and disorderly whites
took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and encourage
all sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro’s
clear path of duty lay at Temecula when that fête
came off. That was certain.
“I will manage to be at home
then,” he said. “If I am not through
here by that time, I will at least come for the fête.
That you may depend on.”
The voting for the new captain did
not take long. There was, in fact, but one man
in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando,
the only old man in the band; all the rest were young
men under thirty, or boys. Fernando had been
captain for several years, but had himself begged,
two years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro
in his place. He was getting old, and he did
not like to have to sit up and walk about the first
half of every night, to see that the shearers were
not gambling away all their money at cards; he preferred
to roll himself up in his blanket at sunset and sleep
till dawn the next morning. But just for these
few remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the
office again. And Alessandro was right, entirely
right, in remaining; they ought all to see that, Fernando
said; and his word had great weight with the men.
The Senora Moreno, he reminded them,
had always been a good friend of theirs, and had said
that so long as she had sheep to shear, the Temecula
shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful
now if they did not do all they could to help her
in her need.
The blankets were rolled up, the saddles
collected, the ponies caught and driven up to the
shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at
full speed from the house.
“Alessandro! Alessandro!”
cried Ramona, out of breath, “I have only just
now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day.
I am ashamed; but you know it would not have happened
except for the sickness in the house. Everybody
thought they were going away this morning. Now
they must have a good supper before they go.
It is already cooking. Tell them to wait.”
Those of the men who understood the
Spanish language, in which Ramona spoke, translated
it to those who did not, and there was a cordial outburst
of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were
only too ready to wait for the supper. Their
haste to begin on the Ortega sheep-shearing had suddenly
faded from their minds. Only Alessandro hesitated.
“It is a good six hours’
ride to Ortega’s,” he said to the men.
“You’ll be late in, if you do not start
now.”
“Supper will be ready in an
hour,” said Ramona. “Please let them
stay; one hour can’t make any difference.”
Alessandro smiled. “It
will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are off,”
he said; “but it shall be as you wish, and many
thanks to you, Senorita, for thinking of it.”
“Oh, I did not think of it myself,”
said Ramona. “It was Margarita, here, who
came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed
to have the shearers go away hungry. I am afraid
they are very hungry indeed,” she added ruefully.
“It must be dreadful to go a whole day without
anything to eat; they had their breakfast soon after
sunrise, did they not?”
“Yes, Senorita,” answered
Alessandro, “but that is not long; one can do
without food very well for one day. I often do.”
“Often.” exclaimed Ramona;
“but why should you do that?” Then suddenly
bethinking herself, she said in her heart, “Oh,
what a thoughtless question! Can it be they are
so poor as that?” And to save Alessandro from
replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying,
“Come, come, Margarita, we must go and help
at the supper.”
“Will the Senorita let me help,
too,” asked Alessandro, wondering at his own
boldness,-“if there is anything I
can do?”
“Oh, no,” she cried, “there
is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help
carry the things down to the booth; for we are short
of hands now, with Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone
to Ventura for the doctor. You and some of your
men might carry all the supper over. I’ll
call you when we are ready.”
The men sat down in a group and waited
contentedly, smoking, chatting, and laughing.
Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and
the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling
dishes, jingling spoons, frying, pouring water.
Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently
old Marda meant to atone for the shortcoming of the
noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also heard and smelled
what was going on. “May the fiends get
me,” he growled, “if that wasteful old
hussy isn’t getting up a feast for those beasts
of Indians! There’s mutton and onions, and
peppers stewing, and potatoes, I’ll be bound,
and God knows what else, for beggars that are only
too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or
a bowl of acorn porridge at home. Well, they’ll
have to say they were well feasted at the Moreno’s,-that’s
one comfort. I wonder if Margarita’ll think
I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but
it smells well! Margarita! Margarita!”
he called at top of his lungs; but Margarita did not
hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the kitchen;
and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of
the good broth which the doctor had said was the only
sort of food he must eat for two weeks, she had dismissed
him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Margarita
was absent-minded to-night. She was more than
half in love with the handsome Alessandro, who, when
he had been on the ranch the year before, had danced
with her, and said many a light pleasant word to her,
evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now,
that he seemed, when he saw her, as if she were no
more than a transparent shade, through which he stared
at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor
Felipe’s illness, she thought, and the general
misery and confusion, had perhaps put everything else
out of his head; but now he was going to stay, and
it would be good fun having him there, if only Senor
Felipe got well, which he seemed likely to do.
And as Margarita flew about, here, there, and everywhere,
she cast frequent glances at the tall straight figure
pacing up and down in the dusk outside.
Alessandro did not see her. He
did not see anything. He was looking off at the
sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, “I
will call you when we are ready.” But she
did not do as she said. She told Margarita to
call.
“Run, Margarita,” she
said. “All is ready now; see if Alessandro
is in sight. Call him to come and take the things.”
So it was Margarita’s voice,
and not Ramona’s, that called “Alessandro!
Alessandro! the supper is ready.”
But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro
reached the doorway, stood there holding in her arms
a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so roused
poor Juan Can’s longings; and it was Ramona who
said, as she gave it into Alessandro’s hands,
“Take care, Alessandro, it is very full.
The gravy will run over if you are not careful.
You are not used to waiting on table;” and as
she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro’s
eyes,-a little flitting, gentle, friendly
smile, which went near to making him drop the platter,
mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet.
The men ate fast and greedily, and
it was not, after all, much more than an hour, when,
full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses
to set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew
one of them aside. “Jose,” he said,
“whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio’s?”
“Mine,” promptly replied
Jose. “Mine, by a great deal. I will
run Antonio any day he likes.”
Alessandro knew this as well before
asking as after. But Alessandro was learning
a great many things in these days, among other things
a little diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at
the swiftest to Temecula and back. He knew that
Jose’s pony could go like the wind. He also
knew that there was a perpetual feud of rivalry between
him and Antonio, in matter of the fleetness of their
respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for
his messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that
he would urge his horse to its utmost speed.
Whispering in Jose’s ear a few
words, he said, “Will you go? I will pay
you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.”
“I will go,” said Jose,
elated. “You will see me back tomorrow by
sundown.”
“Not earlier?” asked Alessandro.
“I thought by noon.”
“Well, by noon be it, then,” said Jose.
“The horse can do it.”
“Have great care!” said Alessandro.
“That will I,” replied
Jose; and giving his horse’s sides a sharp punch
with his knees, set off at full gallop westward.
“I have sent Jose with a message
to Temecula,” said Alessandro, walking up to
Fernando. “He will be back here tomorrow
noon, and join you at the Ortega’s the next
morning.”
“Back here by noon to-morrow!”
exclaimed Fernando. “Not unless he kills
his horse!”
“That was what he said,”
replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
“Easy enough, too!” cried
Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. “I’d
go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose’s
is no match for her, and never was. Why did you
not send me, Alessandro?”
“Is your horse really faster
than Jose’s?” said Alessandro. “Then
I wish I had sent you. I’ll send you next
time.”