Читать книгу Folded Hills - Stewart Edward White - Страница 12

Table of Contents

The rodeo at Folded Hills was the last of the spring gatherings. At its conclusion Andy rode to Monterey. He had there certain business to accomplish concerning hides and flour. Carmel accompanied him. It was their first excursion to the capital since their marriage. They had a good time and were much dined and fêted. Andy renewed his few old acquaintances and made many new ones. But Figueroa he saw only briefly and formally, for by now the governor’s health had much declined; Alvarado was away; and Thomas Larkin was so busy with new commercial ventures that for some days he did not come to any extended discussion with his astute countryman. Thus he missed at first the significances of a piece of news that much interested the society of the capital.

This was the arrival of a body of colonists from Mexico organized and conducted by José María Padres and José María Hijar. The astonishing thing was that these were people of good quality. Past attempts at colonization had been mainly recruited from convicts. Nobody in Monterey had seen many of the newcomers. They had, most of them, proceeded to the Sonoma country, where they were establishing themselves more or less under the protection or surveillance of Guadalupe Vallejo. But they were obviously gente de razón. There were various rumors about. The first that gained currency was that Hijar, with Padres under him as second, had secretly been appointed as civil governor, and had subsidized his colonists to assure his rights, but that Figueroa had refused to recognize his authority; that was why the newcomers had retired, almost in a body, to Sonoma, to consolidate their strength by alliance with the wild tribes. A fillip of reality was given this yarn by the arrival of Rafael Amador. He had come on horseback, alone, from Mexico City, over the Anza Trail in just forty days, a phenomenal, nay, a miraculous journey. Don Rafael brought dispatches for the governor, which he delivered, and then slept two days. Before retiring, however, he was said to have remarked to someone that the Mexican government had changed; whereupon the wise ones placed finger by nose and deduced that Figueroa was not to be supplanted after all. Certainly the governor was more complacent after receiving the dispatches.

There were other rumors, differently directed. One theory, reputed to be held by Vallejo, Osio, Alvarado, and others of their group was that the true object was the spoiling of the missions. For a number of years the process of secularization had been under way. Andy’s ignorance of the subject was complete, but his interest was aroused by the garbled and conflicting but lazily indifferent arguments he heard. To his astonishment he learned that general opinion was that the power of the missions was crumbling. His few personal experiences—at Soledad, at San Juan, and especially at Santa Clara where the spell of Viador had drawn him into the Church—had given him an impression of enduring solidity and strength. He cast about for someone who could talk with authority, and bethought him of Thomas Larkin, his compatriot, whose good sense and keenness of observation had so impressed him. So one afternoon, at the hour of siesta for all the California-born, he plowed through the powdery dust of the plaza to the long low adobe Larkin had built for himself and his Santa Barbara bride on the side hill overlooking the bay.

As he had surmised, the American was awake and alone, sitting in the cool of his library, reading a book, which he laid aside as Andy entered.

“I heard you were in town, and intended to pay my respects to the señora,” he said, a smile of genuine welcome illuminating his dark thin face, “but I awaited the subsidence of the first exuberance of welcome. Sit there. Will you drink something? No?” as Andy shook his head, “Well, I think myself it is not the time of day. I am glad you have come. It is always a pleasure to see a fellow countryman. It is long since we met. Almost two years, isn’t it? Tell me of yourself.”

“Why, there isn’t much to tell,” said Andy.

“No?” Larkin smiled amusedly. “But it seems to me there is. You have a son, haven’t you?”

Andy nodded.

“That’s fine!” said Larkin heartily. “And how about all those other wonderful things I hear of—a flour mill and grain fields and so on?”

Andy merely nodded again. His eyes were roving about the room. He had never seen so many books, and said so. Larkin was pleased.

“Why, yes,” he acknowledged, as though to a compliment. He arose and walked across the room to lay his hand on a row of fat volumes. “Here is a complete set of Scott. You like to read?”

“Why, sir,” confessed Andy, “I’ve never had a chance to read—not since I was a boy,” he amended. “There wa’n’t many books in the Indian country,” he added, with his engaging grin.

Larkin selected two of the fat volumes and placed them in Andy’s hands.

“You take these with you,” he commanded. “No, I insist. You can bring them back, or send them.”

“I’m scared something will happen to them,” said Andy. He turned them over in his strong hands, spelling out their titles letter by letter with visible movements of his lips. “Ivanhoe and The Talisman,” he then pronounced aloud. “And what might they be about?”

“They are stories about people who lived a good many hundreds of years ago. You’ll like them.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Andy submissively, but without conviction. He laid them on his knees.

“You read them,” insisted Larkin.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Now what’s on your mind? I can see there’s something. Anything I can do for you?”