Читать книгу The Tide of Empire - Peter B. Kyne - Страница 4

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A horse-race was to take place at the rancho of Don Emilio Espinosa near the Mission San Juan Bautista. Don Emilio was the owner of a black gelding of unrecorded breeding, but undoubtedly a splendid grade-thoroughbred, and known throughout California as Rey Del Mundo—King of the World. For more than a year, because of the disturbed political conditions incident to the Conquest and the Revolution, and the apparent impossibility of finding an opponent worthy to oppose this acknowledged champion of champions, Rey Del Mundo had not raced.

But lately Don José Guerrero, of the Rancho Arroyo Chico in Alta California, had purchased from a Kentuckian, who had ridden her from that state, a black thoroughbred mare that answered to the comparatively commonplace name of Kitty. After weeks of training and tryouts against the fleetest quarter-horses in Alta California, Don José had tried Kitty at the half-mile, then the three-quarter and finally the mile, and was thrilled beyond measure when his stop-watch told him she was as fast as, if not faster than Rey Del Mundo. Forthwith Don José, seething with an uncontrollable desire to challenge Don Emilio Espinosa to a match race, promptly dispatched a courier bearing the challenge.

Now, for many months no social affair of any import had occurred in the Santa Clara Valley; consequently the receipt of Don José’s challenge fell upon the restless souls of Don Emilio Espinosa and his friends and relatives with something of the effect of a gentle rainfall over a district hitherto arid.

They had heard rumors of the prowess of the mare Kitty and had hoped for a match race; and as the wager proposed by Don José—five thousand head of three-year-old steers—was in consonance with the importance of such a sporting event, Don Emilio promptly accepted the challenge on condition that the race be held at his rancho, which, situated as it was approximately in the center of the state, entailed no unfair journey on the part of the gente de razón who would attend.

Moreover, the acceptance of this stipulation would enable Don Emilio to dispense hospitality on the lavish scale that always delighted him. He at once dispatched a courier to the south as far as San Diego to carry the news of the impending race and extend invitations to the leading families to attend as his guests.

As to the weights to be carried, neither Don Emilio nor Don José entered any stipulation, since horse-racing in those days was not hedged about and safe-guarded by the multitude of rules and regulations that distinguish the sport of kings in this decadent age. It was common knowledge that Rey Del Mundo never raced at less than a mile on a straightaway course—in this instance a well-harrowed road.

A mutual friend would act as starter and his labors in this connection would be perfunctory, since there would be no jockeying for position; neither would there be interference or fouling; if, inadvertently, such occurred, the race would merely be run again, and when the winner should have been declared, the vaqueros of the vanquished would comb the plains and draws for the long-horned cattle that had been bet and lost and deliver them to the victor—a task, in this case, that would not be completed until fall!

Three weeks before the day set for the race El Camino Real was thronged with Californians en route to the hacienda of Don Emilio Espinosa. Mounted on their best horses bearing their gayest and most expensive harness, the dons and their ladies, followed by their retainers, jogged along the dusty, rutty trail. From Sonoma came the Vallejos; from Contra Costa, the Trujillos; from Alameda, the Peraltas and Alvisos; from the Mission San José, the Michelorenas; from the Mission Dolores, the Sanchez; from the Rancho Corral de Tierra Palomares, the De Haros; from the Rancho Canyada at San Mateo, the Miramontes; from the Santa Clara Valley, the American John Gilroy, the Zabalas and the Cotas; from Salinas, the Artelans; from Paso Robles, the Villareals. From San Diego came the Estudillos and Bandinis; from Santa Ana, the Sepulvedas; from San Gabriel, the Lugos; and from Los Angeles, the Dominquez.

In ancient, high-wheeled buggies, rockaways, and victorias drawn by skittish four-in-hands with postilions up, on sleek mules, on burros, the elderly women came. In heavy, rumbling, ox-drawn carretas the peones and their families rode, just behind the hundreds of gaily appointed vaqueros. All were in holiday garb.

With the exception of the first families, who found unstinted welcome in the haciendas along the route when night overtook them, these joyous pilgrims camped under the stars and slept in the sweet grasses. A steer, hastily driven in, was slaughtered, barbecued and eaten with tortillas made on the spot, the rude meal washed down with wine furnished by the hacendado; to the tinkling of guitars and the mellow piping of flutes these children of the sun danced and laughed and loved, happily unmindful of the great tragedy that even then was closing in around them, coincident with the discovery the preceding February, in the race at Sutter’s sawmill on the American River, of a medium of exchange which within the year was to replace that of cattle.

Although the germs of the gold-fever were abroad in the land, these people did not know it, or knowing it, did not believe it, or believing it, attached no importance to it. All they knew or cared was that on the following Sunday a great sporting event was to be decided. Next to their kith and kin they loved a horse, and with the devotion of loyal subjects they journeyed with light feet and light hearts to the coronation of a new king of the California turf.

At the fandango to follow the race—a fandango which would, doubtless, last not less than two weeks—new loves would be awakened, new family alliances made; relatives would be met with again, gossip would be exchanged, trades consummated, betrothals arranged by the old folks, the prices of hides and tallow would be discussed, and perchance some effort made to stabilize them.

What a golden age was that in California prior to the discovery of gold! Even to men whose brown palms had never closed over a gold coin poverty was unknown; no man went without food or shelter in that land where glad giving was almost a religion, where the meanest crime of all was to be niggardly.

Don Emilio Espinosa, standing at the entrance to the long avenue of palm-trees that led to his hacienda, welcomed each arrival with gracious words; when he quitted his post for any reason, one of his sons took his place, since to the high task of dispensing an invitation to the hospitality of the rancho no hireling might be assigned.

Following his courtly greeting to each new arrival, whether previously known to the don or not, ensued, after the California habit, some words of light badinage, of grave merriment, a sly dig, perhaps, as to the quality of the horse the stranger bestrode, a mild complaint of visits made too few and far between. Then the visitor would dismount, to be greeted at the hacienda by the don’s family, while Indian servants took charge of his horse and equipment.

When all of the guest-rooms of the rambling old hacienda had been filled, the overflow was accommodated in tents and light-built outhouses thatched with palm-leaves.

At the entrance to the palm-lined avenue at sunset of the day preceding the great race, Don Emilio and his son Tomas waited to greet two late arrivals. “Yonder,” quoth Don Emilio, “comes our good friend Carlos Montalvo, of San Miguel, and with him rides a gringo.”

“And before them they herd two laden mules, my father. Assuredly this gringo can be no friend of our friend. It must be that he is a chance traveler met on the road.”

A slight frown passed over Don Emilio’s countenance. The insolence of Frémont and Commodore Stockton, so much in evidence following the raising of the American flag at Monterey, and the violence and degradation visited upon his kinsman Vallejo, during the Bear Flag revolt at Sonoma, were still fresh in his memory. He had learned to distrust foreigners, and Americans in particular.

“They come,” he growled in his beard. “There must be a thousand of these Americans in California now. But yesterday we were their hosts. Today they bear themselves as conquerors. Bustling, eager, acquisitive, ruthless, they despise us because we are not as they. I like them not.”

Don Carlos waved his plumed hat, trotted ahead of his companion, dismounted and embraced his friends.

“You have a companion, Carlos?” Don Emilio queried, his tone indicating a doubt that the man was a friend or social equal yet voicing a willingness to receive him in whatever relation he might occupy.

“A friend,” Don Carlos corrected. “A well-bred man of gentle manner when not aroused; when he is, I verily believe, a devil. He has been my guest for the past month and I have made bold to bring him with me.”

The slight frown faded from the host’s fine face. Montalvo presented Dermod D’Arcy, who dismounted and proffered his hand to father and son.

“You are welcome, my friend,” the former assured him. “For your own sake as well as that of Don Carlos. My son and I regret that we do not speak English.”

“It is a regret wasted, señor. I speak Spanish.”

“So? I had thought our guest an American.”

It was patent to D’Arcy that Don Emilio was experiencing a modicum of relief in his disillusionment. “Although Irish, I have sworn allegiance to the American flag, señor. And I should regret,” he added, “to think that I might be judged by some Americans I have met since entering California.”

Don Emilio covered the situation adroitly. “What says the old Greek philosopher, my friend? ‘We dislike people because we do not know them and we do not know them because we dislike them.’”

Retainers relieved them of their horses and the pack-mules, while D’Arcy unbuckled the belt containing his knife and pistol and handed it to Don Emilio, since he would not be so gross as to come armed into this peaceful and hospitable home. Father and son exchanged glances, for they judged men by such evidences of culture.

“This will be cared for in the room where we store our arms, señor,” the don murmured, and handed the belt to a servant. “A very necessary equipment when one is on the road, but an annoyance when one is not. Carlos, I will escort you to your quarters. Tomas, I leave Señor D’Arcy to your care.”

Tomas led his charge to a tent, in one corner of which was a pile of new clean hay and two brightly colored blankets. The only other furnishings were a rude bench, which held a basin, a water olla, soap, and towels.

“My parents are desolated to have to offer you this rude shelter,” the boy explained. “At any other time we could accommodate you in the manner to which you are accustomed, but tonight we have many guests.”

“It is a better shelter, with the exception of the room I occupied at Señor Montalvo’s ranch, than I have been accustomed to for a year. By the way, are there many Americans here?”

“Perhaps fifty, señor. They are camped yonder. The majordomo looks after them.”

D’Arcy smiled faintly, aware that his host was not averse to giving him to understand that he was being accepted as one of the gente de razón.

“When you have washed the dust of travel from yourself, señor, come to the colonnade of the hacienda—the west side. I shall be there to present you to our friends and to see that you do not retire to this horse’s bed hungry.” He bowed, showed his white teeth in a winning smile, and withdrew.

D’Arcy gazed after him. Tomas Espinosa was arrayed in the height of the fashion affected by the Hispano-California dandy of that day. His hat of black beaver had a high, conical crown and wide, upturned brim, to which were appended tiny silver bells that tinkled as he walked. His shirt, of white linen, fastened with diamond studs, was surmounted by a lace stock; his bolero jacket, of black velvet with a double row of silver buttons down the front, fitted him tightly; his pantaloons of the same material were skin-tight to the calf of his leg, but broke into a wide flare above the ankles and were there inset with a triangle of white buckskin; his gaiters were of fine, brilliant black leather, hand-made in the City of Mexico; a pair of beaded and fringed white buckskin gauntlets were tucked into a scarlet sash, the long fringed ends of which dangled at his side.

He presented a gay and colorful appearance and walked with the short, somewhat mincing step of the man whose life is spent largely in the saddle.

“A nice, courteous, friendly boy,” D’Arcy soliloquized. “Pure Asturian stock, I take it.” He sighed. “A wonderful people doomed to oppression and extinction as surely as the Indian. All that these Californians desire from strangers is courtesy and a square deal; dwelling here in pastoral peace, practically without government, dependent upon a code of gallant human conduct, they will be as helpless in the hands of the eager, greedy, empire-building Anglo-Saxon as a sheep in the maw of a tiger. For the wonderful dolce far niente spirit that is theirs they will be hated by men who know not how to suck the sweetness from life; for their lack of industry and commercial shrewdness they will be despised as weaklings, regarded as ripe fruit to be plucked and wasted. Poor Tomas! Poor Don Emilio!”

An Indian approached bearing a leathern hat-box and a plethoric valise. He opened it and laid out upon the blankets toilet articles, a change of linen and a suit of clothing of the style worn by well-dressed Americans of that period. D’Arcy fastened the flaps of his tent, shaved and gave himself a sponge bath; half an hour later he emerged from his quarters and strolled over to the hacienda just as a bell pealed loudly for the evening meal.

Passing through a heavy door set into the high adobe wall that surrounded the hacienda, D’Arcy found himself in the patio, which was given over entirely to what nowadays would be termed an old-fashioned garden. A graveled path led from the entrance to the broad, arched colonnade of the long, low, single-storied adobe dwelling-house, in its progress flanking on each side a rude fountain built of granite cobble-stones and cement.

The patio was resplendent in variegated flowers which added their fragrance to the heavy perfume of lime and orange blossoms; athwart the front of the hacienda passion-flower vines and bougainvillea clambered; humming-birds flitted from flower to flower, and from the topmost bough of a tiny scrub-oak a Spanish mocking-bird was indulging himself in his not inconsiderable repertoire.

Dermod D’Arcy paused to gaze with approval upon the peaceful scene. From the cloistered shadows of the colonnade voices reached him, a girl’s melodious laughter rising at intervals from the deeper diapason of masculine speech. Then the shuffle of many feet along the tiled floor warned him that the exodus to the dining-hall had commenced and with the feeling that he might appear to be lacking in courtesy by being tardy, he hastened up the path to the colonnade.

It was empty save for two people, Tomas Espinosa and a girl seated in a rope hammock. Tomas, standing before her, turned at the sound of D’Arcy’s footsteps; immediately he hastened to meet him and present him to the girl.

“Señorita Josepha Guerrero, may I have the honor to present our guest, Señor Dermod D’Arcy?”

As D’Arcy bowed profoundly the girl nodded with a sort of birdlike toss of her head; her brown eyes roved coolly over him. Intuitively D’Arcy realized that gringos were not popular with Señorita Guerrero and his response to the introduction—“I am the señorita’s debtor for her charity in permitting Don Tomas to present me to her”—sounded lame and trite in his own ears.

The girl’s ivory-tinted face flushed faintly, for she sensed irony and resentment in the words and knew that the hostility in her heart had radiated to his. “Ah,” she breathed. “So we have here, Tomas, an American who speaks Spanish in a manner not to shock one’s ears.”

A disarming smile beat out of D’Arcy’s face the flush of his sudden embarrassment. “I am forgiven, perhaps, for being an American, señorita?”

“You are forgiven because you are an American who might be suspected of understanding our people.”

They appraised each other in a single swift glance. What Señorita Guerrero saw was a young man who, in girth and stature, might have made two of Tomas Espinosa; indeed, had he been dressed in the prevailing mode of the Hispano-Californians, he might readily have passed for one of them—an illusion due to his black hair, dark brown eyes and reddish-brown complexion.

His head was large, his brow high and wide, denoting intelligence, and his eyes seemed a trifle heavy with their long black lashes, for they closed the tiniest bit, thus lending to his gaze a suggestion of sleepiness, of laziness, of a whimsicality that contrived, somehow, to be direct and fearless—belligerent almost. His mouth was generous, his teeth white, even and strong, his lower lip a bit too full and boyish for the firm, square chin and powerful jaws.

A pillar of a neck to hold up that head of a leader, wide shoulders, slim waist, broad hips and sturdy graceful legs marked him as one of gentle breeding, a man of whom might have been written:

So brave and bowld his bearin’, bhoy,

Should ye meet him onward farin’, bhoy,

In Lapland’s snow,

Or Chile’s glow,

Ye’d say: “What news from Erin, bhoy?”

He was the first of his race Señorita Guerrero had ever seen.

“You speak Spanish, señor, like a Spaniard. There is but the faint accent to denote that Spanish is not your mother tongue,” the girl remarked.

“I studied Spanish and French in Trinity College, Dublin, señorita,” he informed her. “A German taught me Spanish, an Irishman taught me French, and my nurse taught me Gaelic. A knowledge of foreign languages was always regarded by my father as an asset, for when other sources of income fail it may mean bread and butter.”

“But you speak also the Mexican patois,” the girl reminded him. She had caught him using the colloquial form of the noun “butter.”

“Because I have observed that many Californians employ the patois,” he admitted. “I was a soldier during the war between the United States and Mexico.”

“Ah, a Yankee soldier,” Señorita Guerrero murmured, and D’Arcy had a feeling that matters between them were now at an impasse.

“One fights for one’s country,” Tomas murmured, in an effort to minimize the situation. “It was the fortune of war that our people were not the conquerors. In what branch of the American army did the señor have the honor to serve?”

“I was a captain of cavalry, Señor Espinosa.”

Tomas was interested. “I marked the horse you rode today, señor. I said to my father: ‘That horse is a horse!’”

“I would, for sport and a small stake, challenge the winner of the race tomorrow, señor,” D’Arcy replied.

“Your horse would be beaten,” the girl informed him with considerable finality. “No gringo’s horse has ever beaten Kitty or Rey Del Mundo.”

“You have the unusual experience, señorita, of knowing one gringo who does not brag.”

Her nose went up a thousandth of an inch. “And you are prepared to bet on your horse?”

“All I possess—including the horse.”

“But you have never seen our horses run!”

“True. And I have heard that they are the fleetest in California and run best at a mile. Nevertheless, I would take great pleasure in pitting my horse against either, provided the matter can be arranged.”

“It can be arranged,” the girl replied proudly. “Kitty is owned by my father. I will speak to him of your desires.”

“Then,” Tomas advised gaily, “the match is as good as made, for I shall speak to my father, who owns Rey Del Mundo.”

D’Arcy bowed his thanks. “I shall have to trespass on your good nature, Don Tomas, and beg you to provide me with a capable boy to ride my horse. The race might be horse for horse, but if my opponent should not care to bet his horse I will be enabled to wager some gold.”

“The wager will be what you please, señor.”

“I am a poor man, señorita, but if desired I will race my horse for the pleasure of the guests here assembled—for the sport of a race. It would be a great pleasure,” he added, turning to young Tomas, “if I might, without undue forwardness, contribute to the joy of this occasion.”

Tomas was delighted. “I will ask you to await the bell for the second table, Señor D’Arcy. Our table will accommodate but thirty persons, and must be set thrice for our guests this evening. Meanwhile we enjoy ourselves, I trust.”

From between his drowsy lids D’Arcy bent upon the girl, in the course of their conversation, a scrutiny so casual that even she did not suspect his interest.

Like most women of her race she was small—five feet three, perhaps, wiry, dainty. Her thick black hair was parted in the middle and drawn tightly back above her ears to form at her nape a roll of such unusual proportions as to seem unwieldy. A high tortoise-shell comb, set with diamonds and rubies, crowned the small, perfect head with an air distinctly regal.

Her face was small and oval, her eyes large, brown, and alert as a frightened deer’s, her nose thin, high, slightly aquiline, her mouth firm above a firm chin, her carmine lips forming a line of singular sweetness. Not a particularly beautiful face, he reflected, but good to gaze upon—the face of a woman of character; a face the memory of which might grow upon one, particularly when a smile illumined it, when for a brief space a rare beauty flamed.

Señorita Guerrero was dressed simply but with exquisite taste, and D’Arcy hazarded a guess that everything she wore had been imported from the City of Mexico. She was, undoubtedly, a pure-bred Castilian. Not a drop of native Indian blood in her, he decided, although even among the gente de razón one could often discern more than a hint of aboriginal ancestry.

He was roused from his reflections by the girl’s voice. “You have ridden far, señor?”

“Very far—perhaps more than two thousand miles. I have been on the road many months, since I did not care to exhaust my horse by pressing him unduly!”

Her fine eyes seemed to gaze within him. “What seeks the señor in California?”

“Gold, señorita.”

A faint grimace of disgust, of disappointment, passed over the girl’s cameolike features. “He is a true gringo, Tomas,” she told her companion. Then turning to D’Arcy: “And when you have found all the gold you desire—if that be possible for an American—what will you do?”

“I shall buy a rancho and build for myself an hacienda and dwell if I may in something of that peace which I have observed is the portion of the Hispano-Californians whose sweet hospitality I have had lavished upon me since entering California. What sane man would make of this paradise a market-place?”

A swift light flashed in the dark eyes; the girl sat up and her little hand fluttered instinctively toward him.

“Ah, you are not, then, greedy,” she breathed. “You do not covet that which is ours.”

“If the gold in the Sierra be yours, then I covet it.”

“It is not ours, señor, nor do we bother ourselves to seek it.”

“Then, señorita, I shall take my fortune from the wilderness.”

“You are bound now for the Sierra?” He nodded. “Poor man! He seeks a chimera, Tomas. For my part you are welcome to California, Señor D’Arcy, since gold is all you seek. I do not like your Yankee traders,” and she grimaced with mild disgust.

He was tempted for an instant to inform her that he was not a Yankee, but decided proudly that it was no affair of his to undertake an education of disillusionment, particularly with one who cherished illusions. “I’m glad I shall not see much of this young woman,” he soliloquized. “Undoubtedly we’d quarrel if I remained here until the end of the fandango. One race with Pathfinder to reestablish my fortunes and I shall be off; but that race I must have, if only to show her a real race-horse.”

At dinner he found himself seated far down the table from her and with a savage joy in his isolation forbore to glance at her until the moment when the gentlemen rose as the ladies left the table. Then his glance, encountered hers fixed steadily on him. He returned her gaze with bold admiration and thrilled to see her lids droop and a faint flush suffuse her old-ivory skin. Yet his bold brown eyes held her, forcing her to look at him again. And when she did, his glance was triumphant, his knowing little smile one of near-possession; he appeared to grant her an equal partnership in the possession of a valuable secret—and her eyes told him she despised him for it.