Читать книгу Ranchero - Stewart Edward White - Страница 15

Table of Contents

This they proceeded to do. Ramón reminded Andy of the necessity.

“I say, long time ago, that we ride together for better acquaintance,” said he. “It is time. Do you know, amigo, that it is foolish, but I do not even know your name.”

“Andrew Burnett,” supplied Andy.

“Andr-rew Burnett.” The Californian savored this. “Don Andrés. But still I think you are Don Largo—the tall one. Me, I am Ramón Rivera, to serve you. I have still other names, but they do not matter. And how, Don Largo, you must tell me where you ride.”

Andy shook his head.

“I do not know, Don Ramón,” he confessed. “I had thought to go to San Gabriel—to the mission.” He hesitated, unable in a momentary return of his old controlled taciturnity immediately to bestow entire confidence. Then he met Ramón’s eyes fixed on his. “I wanted to rest,” he said finally.

“Ah,” the Californian’s voice was low and understanding, “you have sorrow, amigo. Tell me.”

And, to his own great surprise, Andy obeyed. He found himself talking, talking freely to this stranger of only a few hours ago, telling him of the old life beyond the mountains, of the Blackfeet, of Kiasax his Indian friend, and of Nit-o-ke-man and the Little Warrior, of Joe Crane and Flying Woman, and finally of Joe’s murder and the great battle and massacre that had taken from him the last of his friends. He poured it all out in a torrent of long-pent feeling, and Ramón listened, his head bent, holding the proud-stepping palomino to the slower pace of the Indian pony. And abruptly the iron hand of his mountain taciturnity fell across his speech. He stopped.

“Now I understand—Cortilla,” Ramón nodded slowly. “And that I did not understand before. Pobre amigo.”

At the tone of the young man’s voice Andy’s eyes filled with tears. Instantly he brushed them away angrily, with an uprush of contempt at himself. Was he a woman or a child?

“I had intended,” he said in a hard and matter-of-fact voice, “to live here. But now——”

“Now you would be more like to live in the cuartel, at San Blas.” Ramón laughed mockingly, quick to understand his companion’s reaction of mood. “I do not think Cortilla, and his Mexican friends would welcome you with open arms as a californio. And our governors are from Mexico, you understand. Some day we shall change that,” he added.

“I know that. So I go to the Sierra. After that, I do not know.”

“That we shall see,” said Ramón, “but for now there is no haste. One of the ranchos of my family lies over the hills but a few leagues from here. It is not much. Nobody but a Rivera would have it at all, for it is far from the presidios and the gente de razón, and very near the wild country and los Indios. I think the Indians steal from it as many horses and more cattle than we keep. Is it not so, Panchito?”

“Sí, señor,” agreed the vaquero.

“It is of little worth. I think my family keeps it for two reasons, both of them excellent, however. The one is that others are afraid to keep it, and the Riveras have always had a foolish idea to do what others fear. That is one reason.”

“And the other?” asked Andy, to end the pause.

Ramón threw back his head and laughed.

“The other? Why, I think the other is that they wish a place of a certain remoteness to which to banish their dear son, Ramón Julián Antonio de Quadra y Rivera, when from him, as at present, they withhold entire confidence. And now,” he added, “you have heard all my names.”

He glanced mischievously at Andy.

“I will tell you my story,” he offered. “You are curious; that I see!”

Andy, embarrassed, muttered a disclaimer.

“Oh, it is not painful, I assure you!” cried Ramón. “Except, of course, to my excellent family. Know, then, that I am conspirator, traitor to my people! Yes, it is so, listen. I have fought against them, been in great battles. It was last year. Mexico sent us a new governor. They always send us new governors. What do Mexicans know of Californians? Always we try to get them to appoint a Californian. They will not do so. Me, I think it does not matter that!” He snapped his fingers. “They live at Monterey; they talk. The rancheros know nothing of them. This new governor is name Victoria. He is a soldier, and he gives orders. The California people do not like orders. He gives high offices to Mexicans and small offices to Californians. He puts young silly ones, like Cortilla, in command, and makes old Californians, whose beards have grown gray, to serve under them. He sends some people he does not like to San Blas. Me, I think perhaps most of them better at San Blas. A lot of people do not like him. Hear them talk, you think him an ogre with two tails. José Carillo, Juan Bandini, Pío Pico. They make a war against him down south. They think they put back the old governor, Echeandia.”

“Is Echeandia a Californian?” asked Andy.

“No; that is the joke. He is Mexican, too. But he has been here a long while. And he is tall, and thin, and cold all the time, and thinks all the time how he is sick.” Ramón laughed joyously. “He live near a fire, and he give very few orders, and everybody do what he like. So they have a battle near Cahuenga, and José Avila kill Ronaldo Pachecho, and Victoria is hurt bad with lances, and when he get well he go back to Mexico, and everybody go home, and now they send us a new governor, Figueroa.”

“But you——”

“Oh, yes, me. Well, you see, I go with Victoria in his army, and my family and all the Californians are on the other side, and that makes me not so dear with my family, so they send me here.” He chuckled. “I ver’ bad boy.”

“But I don’t understand,” persisted Andy, pardonably confused. “Why did you join Victoria? I thought you said he was a Mexican and——”

“Well,” said Ramón, “all these others with Echeandia are south, long ways away, and Victoria, he’s up north and near by. Too far to go to join these others. So I go with Victoria. He’s lots of fun, these war.”

Andy’s jaw dropped. This was too much for him.

“But,” he stammered at last, then gave up the main question, “but how would you feel if you’d killed some of your own people or friends?”

“Oh, I kill nobody,” disclaimed Ramón airily, “and nobody want to kill me. For why? What difference who is governor? Juan Bandini and Carillo and some of those men very fierce and angry, surely; and the Mexicans. All right. Let them kill each other if they want. But not we others. No-no-no!”

Andy reined in his horse.

“Well, what, in the name of common sense, did you do? Run away?” he cried, startled into rudeness.

But Ramón was not affronted. He relapsed into Spanish, the better to express himself.

“No, of course not,” said he. “That would be to miss all the fun. One rides, and one shouts, and one shoots the escopeta, and,” he chuckled, “if one can catch the hind leg of a horse with this,” he touched the reata, “then there is a great fall and laughter. I think,” said he, “that if I had not so upset my very solemn uncle in a so very deep hole of mud I might even yet, Don Largo, be sleeping at the hacienda.” Ramón chuckled at the recollection; and the iron-faced vaqueros chuckled with him.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Andy could not quite gather his wits after these disclosures. Ramón sobered.

“You think that is not war, amigo,” said he. “That is true; I know that. All the young men know that, too. It is only the few old serious ones, and those who wish to hold power. They are not many, and they are always very angry. It is only people who care much who make war.” He fell thoughtful. “I think all people do not know this, as I do, who have been educated outside and who knows the world there. But so it is. One does not kill friends and parientes for a small idea. And, at bottom, as long as the cattle eat, and the warm sun shines, and the señoritas have bright eyes, what matter who is governor or what he does?”

“Then,” asked Andy sensibly, “why mix up in it at all, and get sent out here, as you say, away from it all?”

“Ah,” sighed Ramón, “there you are right. But these war is such fun! And soon they will miss Ramón and his palomino at the rodeo and the matanza, and soon the señoritas at baile and merienda will say, ‘Where is that Ramón and his guitar?’ and, poof! all will be forgive!” He laughed lightly. “But see, Don Largo, if it had not been thus, we should not have met. So I am glad of it and not sorry!”

“So am I,” returned Andy sincerely.

“For tonight you will ride with me to the rancho, and we will talk of what is to be done.”