Chapter XIII: Returning From the Ball

"My Captain, it has been a goodly night, one long to be remembered."

Señora Valentino and Captain Morando were riding along the rolling highway which led southerly from the Mission San José. A large portion of the company that had attended the ball traveled this same road, the men on their mounts, the women-folks mostly in carretas, though two or three, like Señora Valentino, preferred horseback.

"Our Mendoza is a lavish host. He does nothing by halves, like the worthy Californian that he is."

"Ah! yes. A wonderful man! A wonderful man!"

The señora reined in her horse. A rabbit, pursued by a hawk, was running toward them from the underbrush at the side. Double and dodge as it might, the little beast could not rid itself of its persecutor. Finally it lay, a little crumpled heap, not far from the señorita's horse, squealing for mercy. It found none, for the bird of prey drove its talons into the fur and started to carry away its victim.

The señora swung her horse in wide curve and struck the hawk with her riding-whip. It dropped the rabbit and flew fiercely at her. She struck it again, this time with the butt of the whip. It circled away, but returned to the attack and was hovering over the lady when Morando killed it with a pistol shot.

It was the occurrence of a moment; but the angry challenge of the hawk and the report of the firearm called the attention of the horseback riders as well as the dozing occupants of the carretas. Men shouted and women screamed. The peon riflemen came hurrying up, ready for battle.

"Señora, are you hurt?" solicitously inquired Morando.

"Nothing much. A little scratch."

"Let us dismount. You are pale. Let me assist you."

She gave him her uninjured hand and loosed her feet from the stirrup. Twilight fell across her eyes, resolving into huge, unsteady clouds swimming around and around her with increasing velocity. In dead faint she sank into Morando's arms.

The Captain removed the señora's long riding-glove, and found her wrist profusely bleeding from a small, but deep, perforation. The hawk had driven its talon in, full length.

"Come, amigos," Morando cried, "prepare a temporary couch for Señora Valentino by the roadside."

A dozen ponchos fell from caballeros' shoulders, and the women improvised a comfortable bed from them on the thickly interwoven green grass, the soldier holding the insensible woman in his arms the while. He laid her, still fainting, on the bed, softly odorous of the growing things about.

In tiny pulsings the blood flowed, reddening her light-colored riding-habit, and spattering the costly fabric of the ponchos.

The Captain bound his handkerchief tightly around her arm midway between wrist and elbow. The bleeding ceased.

"Señors, who among you has a flask of aguardiente?"

Several were offered.

"Will one of the ladies bathe her face and forehead with the liquor?"

Señora Higuera did the service.

Morando was tightly bandaging the injured member with strips torn from handkerchiefs when the patient opened her eyes.

"My arm feels asleep, Don Alfredo," she murmured. "Where am I?"

"With your friends, and safe," replied Morando.

Color gradually came into her face and lips. Her breath no longer fluttered.

"O, the poor little fellow so wanted to save his life that I couldn't see him lose it," she murmured. "The hawk passed blow for blow with me. His talon pricked through my glove."

Word of the mishap had gone to Señor and Señora Barcelo, who were riding in the vanguard of the procession. The complaining of the Barcelo carreta mingled with the puffing of the Colonel's horse as the two raced back.

"O, Silvia! Silvia! What dreadful thing has happened?" wailed Señora Barcelo.

"What has happened is over, sister mine. Thanks to our friends here, and Captain Morando in particular, I am nothing the worse."

"Doubtless! Doubtless! How clumsy your arm looks tied up that way! Well, a peon reported you stricken down by an attacking eagle. How about it?" inquired Barcelo.

Señora Valentino quickly detailed the story.

"Humph! A pretty state of affairs! Come, shall we be going? Matters of great importance wait my arrival at the capitol."

"There is no reason to wait. I am able to travel. Amigos, adelante!" playfully waving her hand toward the south.

Riders and carretas set out, Señora Valentino moving slowly, the soldier by her side. The Colonel, making sure all was well with his sister-in-law, insisted on traveling at full speed. His wife's carreta plunged and squeaked and rolled after him.

"My dear," called Señora Higuera, in a little while, "you are growing pale again. Stay with us at Aguas Calientes until you feel stronger. We'll send a peon messenger on a swift horse, to reach your sister with explanations. Come, Señora Valentino, we are at the turn of the road."

"I fear, señora, your arm is swelling. It will be better to dismount at the Higuera hacienda house and have the wound carefully bathed in warm water," counseled Morando.

The house of the Higueras was but a few hundred paces from the road, but Señora Valentino was able to negotiate the distance only with greatest difficulty.

The señora's wrist had swelled considerably. Morando removed a small portion of the riding-glove driven in by the bird's claw. Good wife Higuera bathed the wound in warm water, after which a soothing lotion of herbs diminished the pain greatly.

"Come," said Señora Valentino, rising from the couch whither Morando had carried her, "it is time for me to be going."

"Impossible, my lady," remonstrated Higuera. "My house and all in it are at your disposal. Rest to-day. Last night was a gay one, but a merry night means a weary morning. To-morrow, or the day after, you can continue your way. A proper guard will attend you. Besides, your arm may require further treatment. We have an Indian woman on the hacienda who is only less skillful than the Captain," bowing to Morando.

"Thank you, amigos. My sister rests at the Calderon hacienda, near San José pueblo. I can easily reach there in an hour. The scratch on my arm is nothing. I am ashamed of having shown weakness over it. Misericordia! am I sugar that I melt if a cupful of water reaches me?"

Despite all protestations she insisted on starting forth.

"Take a carreta, my dear heart," urged Señora Higuera. "Come, we'll fill the body of the vehicle with blankets and have all as soft as down for you. What differs an hour more or less in the journey if you can be more comfortable? Let me make ready for you."

The señora would not listen to it. She mounted her horse gracefully, despite her bandaged arm, waved adios to the Higueras, and set out toward San José attended by Captain Morando.

"Be sure to stop if you feel weak," called Señora Higuera. "A peon will make his house yours, as well will any ranchero."

"Never fear, good friends; I have strength and to spare for the journey."

The rest of the merrymakers were well ahead. The señora and the Captain rode alone over a virgin meadow. Mountain and valley smiled. The sun, giving promise of a perfect day, crystallized his light in myriad dewdrops hanging on flower petal and grass leaf. The morning breeze carried the sweet voices of the hill blooms as they sang in fragrance. Mingled with it was the pungent tang of wild mustard bursting into gold. Great stretches of wild oats eddied and billowed away, an emerald sea meeting the outposts of the coast range; or, dropping across the valley, lost itself in the misty, opalescent sky line. High aloft the lark was warbling his joy of living. The blackbird in the meadows trilled love songs to his mate.

The man and woman turned their horses and looked along the way they had come. The San Francisco Bay reached in silvery arc to the horizon. The great white buildings of the Mendoza hacienda, stippled with the gray of peon dwellings, rested against the hills. Stray cattle and horses made their way body-deep in the luxuriant grass-growth, while the mountains echoed the bleating of the Mission's sheep. It was a picture of pastoral California, rich and splendid.

The lady showed no trace of her accident of an hour before. Color was in her face and animation in her tones as she said: "Captain Morando, let us look our fill on this scene. The future will see a panorama here less wild, less beautiful, perhaps, but of greater usefulness." She turned her horse again southward.

Morando rode by her side, not speaking for several moments. Finally: "Señora, you have deep interest in these Californias."

"You have said it, señor Captain. I have, indeed, a deep interest in the province." As he said nothing she continued: "I have a kindred interest in the 'province of hearts' here also--to quote our host."

He laughed.

"Really, Captain, it would not surprise me if Señor Mendoza's ball brought about half a dozen weddings. The setting for love-making was exquisite. It might have been fashioned after some fairy scene, so delicately were light and color blended, with that delicious music of the natives permeating it all. Madrid would have gone wild over it! Even the most watchful mamma and dueña felt the spell and laughed and looked away while some fair one allowed the brave Don Juan to hold her hand and murmur nothings to her. Why, even señoritas and young sparks betrothed in childhood by their parents yielded to the passion divine, as if their love was at first sight." She laughed gently.

"Was it so? I am too little acquainted with the families of Alta California to know of the young men and women so engaged."

The señora's laugh was now merry, as she replied: "I sit much with the old wives and know all the gossip. I can tell you all about it. There are Patricio Martinez and Alfredo Castro. Their families intermarried in Spain before the new world was thought of, continued in intermarriage in Mexico, and will not desist in California. Then, there are Lucinda Higuera and Aviel Soto; Lolita Hernandez and young Julius Belden--part gringo he is, as they term it here--and--and--yes, Tula Rosa and Pancho Laynez."

"I suppose there is the history of a family tree connected with each of these betrothals!"

"There surely is. I actually ache down to the tips of my fingers," holding up her injured hand, "trying to remember it all. But come," checking her horse sharply, in sudden remembrance, "there was one account most interesting, or, rather, more interesting, even, than others. Who was it that told me? I think, Señora Valdez, or, perhaps, Señora Sanchez. No, it must have been the very aged Señora Hernandez, Don Marcel's mother."

"My interest is aroused almost beyond bounds," he laughed.

She returned the laugh. "Well, whoever it was that told me, I remember the story. It relates to our host of last night, Señor Mendoza, and Señor Peralta, father of that splendid young cavalier, Don Abelardo."

The soldier's interest was now aroused in earnest.

"The friendship of Mendoza and of the Señor Peralta, so the story goes, had beginning in old times. Both were soldiers, daring and efficient, and a common cause, that of freeing Spain from French dominance, led to mutual liking. They campaigned together for years.

"A few hours' journey from Madrid, near Talavera city, is a long bluff which Colonel Mendoza held, with English troops, against the fury of Joseph Bonaparte's veterans. It was the pivotal center of the Iron Duke's position--of course, this Iron Duke was just Sir Arthur Wellesley then. This much is history."

"I have read of Señor Mendoza's notable part in that great battle."

"Well, in the charge, the second day, when the French line was breaking, Mendoza's horse was shot and it fell, pinning him beneath. Peralta saved him from death at the hands of a Toulousan lancer. The Colonel mounted another horse, nothing the worse for his experience. Twice before nightfall did he again owe his life to his friend Peralta. This, according to my informant."

Morando said nothing. The lady continued:

"Administrator Mendoza was instrumental in having a grant of land made to Señor Peralta, who came here to occupy it. He married and had a son, Abelardo. Later, the Administrator married, and his daughter Carmelita came to bless his home."

Morando was looking intently at the speaker.

"One night the renegades from the eastern valleys drove away many horses and cattle after maltreating the attending peons. Mendoza and Peralta, with their fighting Indians, pursued the fleeing miscreants. An arrow pierced Peralta's body, and he would have fallen to the ground had not Mendoza caught him. Under the protection of a branching oak, on the primeval hillside, the end came. The dying man's head lay on Mendoza's lap, their hands clasped together, while the sturdy Mendoza was weeping. Peralta spoke faintly:

"'The soldier dies from a savage's arrow, after years of service on the field. Well, mio amigo, be a friend to my wife and boy.'

"'You have my word of honor,' replied Mendoza.

"Peralta continued: 'And--and--yes. My senses are leaving me. I must speak quickly. Let our lifetime of friendship live after us, in the union of our children when they are grown.'

"There, in the shade of nature, the greater shadow of death hovering near, was the betrothal agreement made. The Indian riflemen stood around, sombreros in hand, their weapons lying on the turf, to do homage to death, the final conqueror. Señor Mendoza still held in his arms the clay of his friend, still his tears were falling. 'The Peralta and Mendoza friendship shall live on in our children,' he said in broken voice. 'The living and the dead make this consecration.'"

Morando's horse reared to perpendicular line. Unconsciously the Captain had gripped him with the spurs. The animal sprang from the beaten road through dense masses of underbrush, to the grassy field beyond. It required several minutes before Morando could bring the creature back to the señora's side. It still champed the bit, while its eyes flashed from the sting of the insult.

"Your horse is restive, señor soldier. Perhaps we have loitered along the way. Come, we can reach the Calderon home before the sun is warm."

They cantered in silence for a while.

"Let us go slowly for a few minutes," she said. "I find I am not so strong as I thought."

Paleness was again creeping into her face.

Morando quickly led her horse by the bridle to the door of a peon's cot near the wayside, and assisted her to dismount. The Indian wife came curtsying out, full of welcome.

"My house is yours," she insisted, bowing again and again. "Your visit will be long remembered. I am sorry my man is away and cannot help to receive you."

"Some warm water in a basin," said the soldier. "The señora has had an accident to her arm and it needs attention."

Morando unbandaged the arm, bathed it in tepid water, and rebandaged it more loosely.

The house was a one-room building, made of adobe, whitewashed outside and inside, with a red tile roof. The floor was earthen. A half dozen children tumbled about. The Indian woman sat on a rude settee and looked interestedly at the two occupying a similar piece of furniture.

"My man is absent in San Joaquin," she said. "He is a vaquero for Señor Higuera. We expect the cattle soon to return, and again I will have my husband."

The señora was charmed with the naïveté of the native.

"I'm sure you will be happy then," she said. Color had returned to her cheeks and brightness to her eyes.

"Great people need never be separated," the peona went on. "Now," speaking directly to Señora Valentino, "you had your husband with you when sickness met you, and he drove it away. For me, two, three, moons," counting on her fingers, "I have fought it alone for myself and my pocos niños," pointing to her brood.

The señora smiled. "This señor is not my husband."

The woman looked intently at them. "The spirits of the future speak little here since Padre Lusciano came. He drives them away with the breath of his mouth. Dared they speak--dared they speak"--she laughed quizzically--"they would say--they would say----"

She broke off and motioned to the third finger of the señora's left hand, and simulated placing a ring thereon. She turned to Morando and laughed again.

The señora arose to her feet. "Come, Capitan, let us thank the peona for her kindness and for her suggestion of prophecy, and go on our journey. I trust my strength will not fail again."

Morando offered money to the woman, but she would not accept it.

"The gold is for the ring," she replied with another queer laugh. "Why should I withhold kindnesses?" she asked. "God gives them to me. I should not keep them selfishly."

They thanked her for her good offices and went their way.

Señora Valentino was her buoyant self once more, while Morando, though all courtesy and attention, seemed in a quiet mood.

"Come, soldier mine," she suggested, "let us rejoice with the landscape and sing with the spring." She waited, then laughed gayly. "Perhaps the spirits of the future gave you an unhappy horoscope." Again she gave way to merriment.

His answering laugh had a forced note, as he said: "What a pity the spirits are no longer free to speak without hindrance! In so far, my lady, as the peona spoke for them their message flattered me." He doffed his cap sweepingly.

"Gallant soldier! But I was speaking a while ago of this province of California. Do you realize, Captain, that here is a country exceeding Spain in area and equaling her soil in fertility?"

"I do realize it, indeed, señora. What we see here," indicating the waving valley, "and even after a winter of drought, is a demonstration of most wonderful fertility."

"Under the English flag all old customs will flourish here; the civilization developed will be along Spanish lines. Colonists will come in numbers and a mighty principality will grow--still it will be, in essentials, Spanish. A viceroy will be in power, combining the office of a general with that of governor. These vast haciendas will be fruitful farms supporting more hundreds than they do individuals now."

"What you say, señora, is not impossible."

"What power, what patronage, what opportunity would belong to such a viceroy! It would be well-nigh that of a king."

Her companion made no response.

"My good soldier, of all the men in California who do you think would be chosen to this high office of civil and military leader?"

"Señor Mendoza I believe to be the ablest man in the province. After him, I would say, comes Carillo, in the South."

She smiled into his face.

"The first governor under English rule here will be chosen on recommendation of three people. I am one of those three."

"What can you mean, Señora Valentino?" asked the amazed man.

"I mean this. It is my belief that English governing will be the one most acceptable to the Californians. I have become Great Britain's special representative, and I am laboring to bring about a judicious consummation."

The soldier looked wonderingly at her. "Your words, señora, while surprising me, explain many things."

She went on: "When the British admiral opens in Monterey harbor his sealed advices, he will find a paper appointing as commander of the army and head of this province the man on whom the English consul, Captain Farquharson, and your humble servant have agreed as the right one for that office."

She paused in her remarks, as if expecting him to speak. He did not. She went on: "We have already made our choice." She spoke dispassionately. "Now, who do you think it is?"

"I can still form no idea, unless it be, indeed, Mendoza, or Carillo--or, possibly, one of the Picos."

"It is none other than Capitan Alfredo Morando."

He checked his horse.

She swung her mount to meet him. Neither spoke for several moments.

He bared his head. "Señora Valentino, words fail me to express my gratitude for your high opinion of me. I thank you most cordially and most humbly."

They rode on in silence.

At last they neared the Calderon hacienda house.

"Before long we salute you as 'Your Excellency.'"

"No, señora. As greatly as I prize the honor paid me by you and the other two I shall leave California forever, as soon as I can do so in fairness to my work."

The Calderons were hastening out to meet them. The anxious friends surrounded the señora. Inquiring and welcoming, they bore her away.