Elsie seemed almost as strong as any of the other girls now, and could enter with zest into all their amusements. The appetite of a young bear, the sound, dreamless sleep of a baby, and the constant breathing in of the pure, life-giving air had made her a new creature. Mrs. Howard and Jack felt, day by day, that a burden of dread was being lifted from their hearts; and Mrs. Howard especially felt that she loved every rock and tree in the cañon.

It was a charming morning, and Polly was seated at the dining-room table, deep in the preparation of a lesson in reading and pronunciation for Hop Yet. Her forehead was creased with many wrinkles of thought, and she bit the end of her lead-pencil as if she were engaged in solving some difficult problem; but, if that were so, why did the dimples chase each other in and out of her cheeks in such a suspicious fashion? She was a very gentle, a very sedate Polly, these latter days, and not only astonished her friends, but surprised herself, by her good behaviour, her elegant reserve of manner, her patience with Jack, and her abject devotion to Dicky.

“I’m afraid it won’t last,” she sighed to herself occasionally. “I’m almost too good. That’s always the way with me—I must either be so bad that everybody is discouraged, or else so good that I frighten them. Now I catch Bell and Elsie exchanging glances every day, as much as to say, ‘Poor Polly, she will never hold out at this rate; do you notice that nothing ruffles her—that she is simply angelic?’ As if I couldn’t be angelic for a fortnight! Why I have often done it for four weeks at a stretch!”

Margery was in the habit of giving Hop Yet an English lesson every other day, as he had been very loath to leave his evening school in Santa Barbara and bury himself in a cañon, away from all educational influences; but she had deserted her post for once and gone to ride with Elsie, so that Polly had taken her place and was evolving an exercise that Hop Yet would remember to the latest day of his life. It looked simple enough:—

1. The grass is dry.

2. The fruit is ripe.

3: The chaparral is green.

4. The new road is all right.

5. The bay-“rum” tree is fresh and pretty.

But as no Chinaman can pronounce the letter “r,” it was laboriously rendered thus, when the unhappy time of the lesson came:

1. The-glass-is-dly.

2. The-fluit-is-lipe.

3. The-chap-lal-is-gleen.

4. The-new-load-is-all-light-ee.

5. The bay-lum-tlee-is-flesh-and-plitty.

Finally, when she attempted to introduce the sentence, “Around the rough and rugged rock the ragged rascal ran,” Hop Yet rose hurriedly, remarking, “All lightee; I go no more school jus’ now. I lun get lunchee.”

Bell came running down the path just then, and linking her arm in Polly’s said, “Papa has the nicest plan. You know the boys are so disappointed that Colonel Jackson didn’t ask them over to that rodeo at his cattle ranch—though a summer rodeo is only to sort out fat cattle to sell, and it is not very exciting; but papa promised to tell them all about the old-fashioned kind some night, and he has just remembered that to-morrow is Admission Day, September 9, so he proposes a real celebration round the camp-fire to amuse Elsie. She doesn’t know anything about California even as it is now, and none of us know what it was in the old days. Don’t you think it will be fun?”

“Perfectly splendid!”

“And papa wants us each to contribute something.”

“A picnic!—but I don’t know anything.”

“That’s just what I’m coming to. I have such a bright idea. He said that we might look in any of his books, but Geoff and Jack are at them already, and I’d like a surprise. Now Juan Capistrano, an old vaquero of Colonel Jackson’s, is over here. He is a wonderful rider; papa says that he could ride on a comet, if he could get a chance to mount. It was he who told the boys that the rodeo was over. Now I propose that we go and interview Pancho and Juan, and get them to tell us some old California stories. They are both as stupid as they can be, but they must have had some adventures, I suppose, somewhere, sometime. I’ll translate and write the things down, for my part, and you and Margery can tell them.”

“Lovely! Oh, if we can only get an exciting grizzly story, so that

Every one’s blood upon end it will stand,
And the hair run cold in their veins!

And was Dr. Paul out here when California was admitted into the Union—1850, wasn’t it?”

“Of course; why, my child, he was one of the delegates called by General Riley, the military governor, to meet in convention at Monterey and make a State constitution. That was September, too—the first day of September 1849. He went back to the East some time afterwards, and stayed ten or fifteen years; but he was a real pioneer and ‘forty-niner’ all the same.

The next night, September 9th, was so cool that the camp-fire was more than ordinarily delightful; accordingly they piled on more wood than usual, and prepared for a grand blaze. It was always built directly in front of the sitting-room tent, so that Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Winship could sit there if they liked; but the young people preferred to lie lazily on their cushions and saddles under the oak-tree, a little distance from the blaze. The clear, red firelight danced and flickered, and the sparks rose into the sombre darkness fantastically, while the ruddy glow made the great oak an enchanted palace, into whose hollow dome they never tired of gazing. When the light streamed highest, the bronze green of the foliage was turned into crimson, and, as it died now and then, the stars winked brightly through the thousand tiny windows formed by the interlacing branches.

“Well,” said the doctor, bringing his Chinese lounging-chair into the circle, and lighting his pipe so as to be thoroughly happy and comfortable, “will you banish distinctions of age and allow me to sit among you this evening?”

“Certainly,” Margery said; “that’s the very point of the celebration. This is Admission Day, you know, and why shouldn’t we admit you?”

“True; and having put myself into a holiday humour by dining off Pancho’s dish of guisado (I suppose to-night of all nights we must call beef and onion stew by its local name), I will proceed to business, and we will talk about California. By the way, I shall only conduct the exercises, for I feel rather embarrassed by the fact that I’ve never killed, or been killed by, a bear, never been bitten by a tarantula, poisoned by a rattlesnake, assaulted by a stage-robber, nor anything of that sort. You have all read my story of crossing the plains. I even did that in a comparatively easy and unheroic fashion. I only wish, my dear girls and boys, that we had with us some one of the brave and energetic men and women who made that terrible journey at the risk of their lives. The history of the California Crusaders, the thirty thousand or more emigrants who crossed the plains in ’48, more than equals the great military expeditions of the Middle Ages, in magnitude, peril, and adventure. Some went by way of Santa Fé and along the hills of the Gila; others, starting from Red River, traversed the Great Stake Desert and went from El Paso del Norte to Sonora; others went through Mexico, and, after spending over a hundred days at sea, ran into San Diego and gave up their vessels; others landed exhausted with their seven months’ passage round the Horn; and some reached the spot on foot after walking the whole length of the California peninsula.”

“What privations they must have suffered!” said Mrs. Howard. “I never quite realised it.”

“Why, the amount of suffering that was endured in those mountain passes and deserts can never be told in words. Those who went by the Great Desert west of the Colorado found a stretch of burning salt plains, of shifting hills of sand, with bones of animals and men scattered along the trails; of terrible and ghastly odours rising in the hot air from the bodies of hundreds of mules, and human creatures too, that lay half-buried in the glaring white sand. A terrible journey indeed; but if any State in the Union could be fair enough, fertile enough, and rich enough to repay such a lavish expenditure of energy and suffering, California certainly was and is the one. Now who can tell us something of the name ‘California’? You, Geoffrey?”

“Geoffrey has crammed!” exclaimed Bell, maliciously. “I believe he’s been reading up all day and told papa what question to ask him!”

“I’ll pass it on to you if you like,” laughed Geoffrey.

“No—you’d never get another that you could answer! Go on!”

“In 1534, one Hernando de Grijalva was sent by Hernando Cortez to discover something or other, and it was probably he who then saw the peninsula of California; but a quarter of a century before this a romance called Esplandian had appeared in Spain, narrating the adventures of an Amazonian queen who brought allies from ‘the right hand of the Indies’ to assist the infidels in their attack upon Constantinople—by the way I forgot to say that she was a pagan. This queen of the Amazons was called Calafia, and her kingdom, rich in gold and precious stones, was named California. The writer of the romance derived this name, perhaps, from Calif, a successor of Mohammed. He says: ‘Know that on the right hand of the Indies there is an island named California, very close to the Terrestial Paradise, and it was peopled by black women without any man among them, for they lived in the fashion of the Amazonia. They were of strong and hardy bodies, of ardent courage, and of great force. Their island was the strongest in all the world, with its steep cliffs and rocky shore. Their arms were all of gold, and so was the harness of the wild beasts which they tamed and rode. For in the whole island there was no metal but gold. They lived in caves wrought out of the rocks with much labour, and they had many ships with which they sailed out to other countries to obtain booty.’ Cortez and Grijalva believed that they were near the coast of Asia, for they had no conception of the size of the world nor of the vastness of the Pacific Ocean; and as the newly-discovered land corresponded with the country described in the romance, they named the peninsula California.”

“My book,” said Philip, “declared that the derivation of the name was very uncertain, and that it was first bestowed on one of the coast bays by Bernal Diaz.”

“Now, Philip!” exclaimed Margery, “do you suppose we are going to believe that, after Geoff’s lovely story?”

“Certainly not; I only thought I’d permit you to hear both sides. I knew of course that you would believe the prettier story of the two—girls always do!”

“That isn’t a ‘pretty story’—your remark, I mean, so we won’t believe it; will we, girls?” asked Bell.

“Now, Polly, your eyes sparkle as if you couldn’t wait another minute; your turn next,” said Dr. Winship.

“I am only afraid that I can’t remember my contribution, which is really Bell’s and still more really Pancho’s, for he told it to us, and Bell translated it and made it into a story. We call it ‘Valerio; or, The Mysterious Mountain Cave.’”

“Begins well!” exclaimed Jack.

“Now, Jack, you must be nice. Remember this is Bell’s story, and she is letting me tell it so that I can bear my share in the entertainment.”

“Pancho believes every word of it,” added Bell, “and says that his father told it to him; but as I had to change it from bad Spanish into good English, I don’t know whether I’ve caught the idea exactly.”

“Oh, it will do quite nicely, I’ve no doubt,” said Jack, encouragingly. “We’ve often heard you do good English into bad Spanish, and turn and turn about is only fair play. Don’t mind me, Polly; I will be gentle!”

“Jack, if you don’t behave yourself I’ll send you to bed,” said Elsie; and he ducked his head obediently into her lap, as Polly, with her hands clasping her knees, and with the firelight dancing over her bright face, leaned forward and told the Legend of

VALERIO; OR, THE MYSTERIOUS MOUNTAIN CAVE.

“A long time ago, before the settlement of Santa Barbara by the whites, the Mission padres had a great many Indians under their control, who were known as peons, or serfs. They were given enough to eat, were not molested by the outside Indians, and were entirely peaceable. There were so few mountain passes by which to enter Santa Barbara that they were easily held, and of course the padres were anxious to keep their Indians from running away, lest they should show the wilder tribes the way to get in and commit depredations. These peaceable Indians paid tribute to intermediary tribes to hold the passes and do their fighting. Those about the Mission gave corn and cereals and hides and the products of the sea, and got in exchange piñones (pine nuts). One of these Indians, named Valerio, was a strong, brave, handsome youth, whose haughty spirit revolted at his servitude, and, after seeking an opportunity for many weeks he finally escaped to the Santa Ynez mountains, where he found a cave in which he hid himself, drawing himself up by a rope and taking it in after him. The Indians had unlimited belief in Valerio’s mysterious and wonderful powers. Pancho says that he could make himself invisible at will, that locks and keys were powerless against him; and that no one could hinder his taking money, horses, or food. All sorts of things disappeared mysteriously by day and by night, and the robberies were one and all laid to the door of Valerio. But after a while Valerio grew lonely in his mountain retreat. He longed for human companionship, and at length, becoming desperate, he descended on the Mission settlement and kidnapped a young Indian boy named Chito, took him to his cave, and admitted him into his wild and lawless life. But Chito was not contented. He liked home and comfortable slavery better than the new, strange life; so he seized the first opportunity, and being a bright, daring little lad, and fleet of foot, he escaped and made his way to the Mission. Arriving there he told wonderful stories of Valerio and his life; how his marvellous white mare seemed to fly, rather than gallop, and leaped from rock to rock like a chamois; and how they lived upon wheat-bread, cheeses, wine, and other delicacies instead of the coarse fare of the Indians. He told them the location of the cave and described the way thither; so the Alcalde (he was the mayor or judge, you know, Elsie), got out the troops with their muskets, and the padres gathered the Mission Indians with their bows and arrows, and they all started in pursuit of the outlaw. Among the troops were two hechiceros (wizards or medicine-men), whose bowed shoulders and grizzled beards showed them to be men of many years and much wisdom. When asked to give their advice, they declared that Valerio could not be killed by any ordinary weapons, but that special means must be used to be of any avail against his supernatural powers. Accordingly, one of the hechiceros broke off the head of his arrow, cast a charm over it, and predicted that this would deal the fatal blow. The party started out with Chito as a guide, and, after many miles of wearisome travel up rugged mountain sides and over steep and almost impassable mountain trails, they paused at the base of a cliff, and saw, far up the height, the mouth of Valerio’s cave, and, what was more, Valerio himself sitting in the doorway fast asleep. Alas! he had been drinking too heavily of his stolen wine, or he would never have so exposed himself to the enemy. They fired a volley at him. One shot only took effect, and even this would not have been possible save that the spell was not upon him because of his sleep; but the one shot woke him and, half rising, he staggered and fell from the mouth of the cave to a ledge of rocks beneath. He sprang to his feet in a second and ran like a deer towards a tree where his white mare was fastened. They fired another volley, but, though the shots flew in every direction, Valerio passed on unharmed; but just as he was disappearing from view the hechicero raised his bow and the headless arrow whizzed through space and pierced him through the heart. They clambered up the cliffs with shouts of triumph and surrounded him on every side, but poor Valerio had surrendered to a more powerful enemy than they! Wonderful to relate, he still breathed, though the wound should have been instantly fatal. They lifted him from the ground and tied him on his snow-white mare, his long hair reaching almost to the ground, his handsome face as pale as death, the blood trickling from his wound; but the mysterious power that he possessed seemed to keep him alive in spite of his suffering. Finally one of the hechiceros decided that the spell lay in the buckskin cord that he wore about his throat—a rough sort of necklace hung with bears’ claws and snake rattles—and that he never would die until the magic cord was cut. This, after some consultation, was done. Valerio drew his last breath as it parted asunder, and they bore his dead body home in triumph to the Mission.

“But he is not forgotten. Stories are still told of his wonderful deeds, and people still go in search of money that he is supposed to have hidden in his cave. The Mexican women who tell suertes, or fortunes, describe the location of the money; but, as soon as any one reaches the cave, he is warned away by a little old man who stands in the door and protects the buried treasure. An Indian lad, who was riding over the hills one day with his horse and his dogs, dismounted to search for his moccasin, when he suddenly noticed that the dogs had chased something into a cave in the rocks. He followed, and, peering into the darkness, saw two gleaming eyes. He thrust his knife between them, but struck the air; and, though he had been standing directly in front of the opening, so that nothing could have passed him, yet he heard the clatter of hoofs and the tinkle of spurs, and, turning, saw a mysterious horseman, whose pale face and streaming hair melted into the mountain mist, as it floated down from the purple Santa Ynez peaks into the lap of the vine-covered foot-hills below.”

CHAPTER X
MORE CAMP-FIRE STORIES

“Fresh horses so soon?” said Mrs. Howard. “I thought the mustangs were tough, hardy little beasts, that would go all day without dropping.”

“Yes, so they are; but you always have to begin to ‘part out’ the cattle with the freshest and best-trained horses you have. The owners and their best vaqueros now go into the immense band of cattle, and try to get the cows and the unbranded calves separated from the rest. You can imagine what skilful engineering this takes, even though you never saw it. Two work together; they start a certain cow and calf and work them through the band of cattle until they near the outside, and then ‘rush’ them to a place three or four hundred yards beyond, where other vaqueros are stationed to receive and hold them. Of course the cattle don’t want to leave the band, and of course they don’t want to stay in the spot to which they are driven.”

“I don’t blame them!” cried Bell impetuously. “Probably the cows remember the time when they were branded themselves, and they don’t want their dear little bossies put through the same operation.”

“Very likely. Then more cows and calves are started in the same way; the greatest difficulty being had with the first lot, for the cattle always stay more contentedly together as the group grows larger. Occasionally one ‘breaks’ and runs off on the hills, and a vaquero starts after him, throws the reata and lassos him, or ‘lass’s’ him, as the California boys say.”

“There must be frightful accidents,” said Mrs. Winship.

“Yes; but not so many as you would suppose, for the horsemanship, in its particular way, is something wonderful. When an ugly steer is lassoed and he feels the reata or lariat round his neck, he sometimes turns and ‘makes’ for the horse, and unless the vaquero is particularly skilful he will be gored and his horse too; but he gives a dexterous turn to the lariat, the animal steps over it, gets tangled and thrown. Frequently an animal breaks a horn or a leg. Sometimes one fall is not enough; the steer jumps up and pursues the horse. Then the vaquero keeps a little ahead of him and leads him back to the rodeo-ground, where another vaquero lassos him by the hind legs and throws him, while the reata is taken off his neck.”

“There is another danger, too,” added Dr. Winship. “The vaquero winds the reata very tightly round the pommel of his saddle to hold the steer, and he is likely to have his finger caught in the hair-rope and cut off.”

“Yes, I forgot that. Two or three of the famous old vaqueros about Santa Barbara—José María, José Antonio, and old Clemente—have each lost a finger. Well, the vaqueros at length form in a circle round the band of selected cattle. The ranch owner who gives the rodeo takes his own cattle that he has found—the ones bearing his brand, you know—and drives them in with the ones to be branded, leaving in the rodeo-ground the cattle bearing the brands of all the other rancheros. There has been much drinking of aguardiente (brandy) and everybody by this time is pretty reckless. Then they drive this selected band to the home corral, the vaqueros yelling, the cattle ‘calling,’ and the reatas whizzing and whistling through the air. If any unfortunate tries to escape his fate he is pursued, ‘lass’d,’ and brought back. By this time the cattle are pretty well heated and angry, and when they get into the crowded corral they horn each other and try to gore the horses. A fire is then built in one corner of the corral and the branding-irons are heated.”

“Oh! hold my hand, Polly, if the branding is going to begin, I hate it so,” exclaimed Elsie.

“I won’t say much about it, but it’s no worse than a thousand things that people have to bear every year of their lives. Animals never have to have teeth filled, for instance, nor limbs amputated—”

“Oh, just think of a calf with a wooden leg, or a cow with false teeth! Wouldn’t it be funny?” laughed Bell.

“They don’t have a thousand ills that human flesh is heir to, so they must be thankful they get off so easy. Well! the branding-irons are heated, as I say—each cattle-owner having his special brand, which is properly recorded, and which may be any device not previously used. Two men now catch the calves; one lassoing them by the head, the other by the legs. A third man takes the iron from the fire and brands the chosen letter or hieroglyphic on the animal’s hind quarter.”

“Sometimes on the fore quarter, don’t they?” asked Bell. “I’ve seen brands there,—your horse has two, and our cow has one also.”

“Yes, a brand on the fore quarter shows that the animal has been sold, but it always has the original brand on the hind quarter. When a sale is effected, the new brand is put anywhere in front of the fifth rib, and this constitutes what they call a venta, or sale. If you notice some of the little ‘plugs’ ridden by Santa Barbara boys, you’ll see that they bear half a dozen brands. By the way, if the rodeo has been a very large one, they are several days branding the cattle, so they are turned out to pastorear a little while each day.”

“The brand was absolute sign of ownership, you know, girls,” said Dr. Winship; “and though there was the greatest care exercised in choosing and recording the brands, there was plenty of opportunity for cheating. For instance, a man would often see unbranded cattle when riding about, and there was nothing to prevent his dismounting, building a fire, heating his iron, and putting his own brand on them. Then, at the next rodeo, they were simply turned over to him, for, as I say, the brand was absolute ownership.”

“Whene’er I take my rides abroad,
  How many calves I see;
And, as I brand them properly,
  They all belong to me,”

said Bell.

“How I should like to see a rodeo!” sighed Elsie. “I can’t imagine how the vaqueros can fling the reata while they are riding at full speed.”

“It isn’t so very wonderful,” said Polly, nonchalantly; “the most ordinary people can learn it; why! your brother Jack can lasso almost as well as a Mexican.”

“And I can ‘lass’ any stationary object myself,” cried Bell; “a hitching-post, or even a door-knob; I can do it two or three times out of ten.”

“That shows immense skill,” answered Jack, “but, as the thing you want to ‘lass’ never does stay still, and as it is absolutely necessary to catch it more than three times out of ten, you probably wouldn’t make a name and fortune as a vaquero. Juan Capistrano, by the way, used to be famous with the lariat. I had heard of his adventure with a bull on the island of Santa Rosa, and I asked him about it to-day; but he had so exhausted himself telling stories to Bell that he had very few words for me. You see there was a bull, on Santa Rosa island, so wild that they wanted to kill him; but nobody could do it, though he was a terror to any one who ventured on the island. They called him ‘Antiguelo,’ because of his long horns and long tail. He was such a terrible fighter that all the vaqueros were afraid to lass’ him, for he always broke away with the lariat. You see a horse throws a bull by skill and not by strength, of course. You can choke almost any bull; but this one was too smart! he would crouch on his haunches and pull back until the rope nearly choked him and then suddenly ‘make’ for the horse. Juan Capistrano had a splendid horse—you see as much depends on the horse as the man in such a case—and he came upon Antiguelo on the Cerro Negro and lass’d him. Well, did he fight? I asked. ‘Si, Señor.’ Well, what happened? ‘Yo lo maté’ (I killed him), he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, and that’s all I could get out of Juan regarding his adventure.”

“But you haven’t done your share, you lazy boy,” objected Bell. “You must tell us more.”

“What do you want to hear? I am up on all the animal and vegetable life of Southern California, full of interesting information concerning its old customs, can give you Spanish names for all the things that come up in ordinary conversation, and am the only man present who can make a raw-hide reata,” said Jack, modestly.

“Go on and tell us how, O great and wise reatero,” said Bell.

“I’ll tell you that myself,” said Elsie, “for I’ve seen him do it dozens of times, when he should have been studying his little lessons. He takes a big piece of raw hide, cuts a circle right out of the middle, and then cuts round and round this until he has one long continuous string, half an inch wide. He then stretches it and scrapes the hair off with a knife or a piece of glass, gets it into four strands, and braids it ‘round.’”

“Perhaps you think braiding ‘round’ is easy to do,” retorted Jack, in an injured tone; “but I know it took me six months to learn to do it well.”

“I fail to see,” said his mother, “how a knowledge of ‘braiding round’ and lassoing of wild cattle is going to serve you in your university life and future career.”

“Oh yes, it will. I shall be the Buffalo Bill of Harvard, and I shall give charming little entertainments in my rooms, or in some little garden-plot suitable to the purpose.”

“Shall you make a point of keeping up with your class?” asked Mrs. Winship.

“Oh yes, unless they go too fast. My sports won’t take any more time than rowing or baseball. They’ll be a little more expensive, because I’ll have to keep some wild cattle constantly on hand, and perhaps a vaquero or two; but a vaquero won’t cost any more than a valet.”

“I didn’t intend furnishing you with a valet,” remarked his mother.

“But I shall be self-supporting, mother dear. I shall give exhibitions on the campus, and the gate-money will keep me in luxury.”

“This is all very interesting,” said Polly, cuttingly; “but what has it to do with California, I’d like to know?”

“Poor dear! Your brain is so weak. Can’t you see that when I am the fashion in Cambridge, it will be noised about that I gained my marvellous skill in California? This will increase emigration. I don’t pretend to say it will swell the population like the discovery of gold in ’48, but it will have a perceptible effect.”

“You are more modest than a whole mossy bank of violets,” laughed Dr. Paul. “Now, Margery, will you give us your legend?”

“Mine is the story of Juan de Dios (literally, Juan of God), and I’m sorry to say that it has a horse in it, like Polly’s; only hers was a snow-white mare, and mine is a coal-black charger. But they wouldn’t tell us any romantic love-stories; they were all about horses.”

STORY OF JUAN DE DIOS.

“In early days, when Americans were coming in to Santa Barbara, there were many cattle-buyers among them; and there were large bands of robbers all over the country who were ready to pounce on these travellers on their way to the great cattle ranchos, kill them, and steal their money and clothes, as well as their horses and trappings. No one could understand how the robbers got such accurate information of the movements of the travellers, unless they had a spy somewhere near the Mission, where they often stopped for rest and refreshment.

“Now, there was a certain young Indian vaquero in the employ of the padres at La Mission de la Purísima. He was a wonderful horseman, and greatly looked up to by his brother vaqueros, because he was so strong, alert, and handsome, and because he was always dressed elegantly in rich old Spanish embroideries and velvets, given to him, he said, by men for whom he had done great services.

“One day a certain traveller, a Spanish official of high degree, came from Monterey to wed his sweetheart, the daughter of the richest cattle-owner in all the country round. His spurs and bit and bridle were of solid silver; his jaquima (halter) was made of a hair rope whose strands had been dyed in brilliant colours; his tapaderos (front of the stirrups), mochilas (large leather saddle flaps), and sudaderos (thin bits of leather to protect the legs from sweat), were all beautifully stamped in the fashion used by the Mexicans; his saddle blankets and his housings were all superb, and he wore a broad sombrero encircled with a silver snake and trimmed with silver lace.

“The traveller stayed at La Purísima all night, and set out early in the morning to ride the last forty miles that separated him from his bride. But Juan and two other robbers were lying in wait for him behind a great rock that stood at the entrance of a lonely cañon. They appeared on horseback, one behind the unfortunate man and two in front, so that he could escape neither way. They finally succeeded in lassoing the horse and throwing him to the ground with his rider, who defended himself bravely with his knife, but was finally killed and robbed, Juan taking his clothes and trappings, and the other two dividing the contents of his purse. They could not have buried their victim as successfully as usual, or else they were surprised, and had to escape, for the body was found; and Juan, whom the padres had begun to view with suspicion, was nowhere to be found about the Mission. Troops were sent out in pursuit of him, for this particular traveller was a high official, and it was necessary that his death should be avenged. They at last heard that Juan had been seen going towards Santa Ynez Mission, and, pursuing him thither, they came upon him as he was driving a band of horses into a corral, and just in the act of catching his own horse, a noble and powerful animal, called Azabache, because of his jet-black colour. The men surrounded the corral, and ordered him to surrender. He begged them to wait until he had saddled Azabache, and then they might shoot them both down together. He asked permission to call three times (pegar tres gritos), and after the third call they were to shoot. His last wish was granted. He saddled and mounted his splendid horse, called once—twice—thrice,—but when the last shout faded in the air, and the troops raised their muskets to fire, behold, there was no Juan de Dios to be seen. They had been surrounding the corral so that no one could have ridden out; they looked among the horses, but Asabache was nowhere to be found.

“Just then a joyous shout was heard, so ringing and triumphant that every man turned in the direction from which it came. There, galloping up the hillside, nearly half a mile distant, was Juan de Dios, mounted on his coal-black Azabache! But it was no common sunshine that deepened the gorgeous colours of his trappings and danced upon his silver spurs till they glistened like two great stars! It was a broad, glittering stream of light such as no mortal had ever seen before and which almost blinded the eyes; and over this radiant path of golden sunbeams galloped Juan de Dios, until he disappeared over the crest of the mountain. Then the light faded; the padres crossed themselves in silence and went home to their Mission! and Juan de Dios never was heard of more.”

Modest little Margery was hailed with such cheers that you could not have seen her cheeks for the blushes; and, just as the party began to think of forsaking the fascinating camp-fire for bed, Bell jumped up impetuously and cried, “Here, Philip, give me the castanets, please. Polly and Jack, you play ‘Las Palomas’ for me, and I’ll sing and show you the dance of that pretty Mexican girl whom I saw at the ball given under the Big Grape Vine. Wait till I take off my hair ribbon. Lend me your scarf, mamma. Now begin!”

LAS PALOMAS. ^[266a]
(THE DOVES.)

It is barely possible, but not likely, that anything prettier than Bell’s Mexican danza was to be seen under the light of the September stars that night; although they were doubtless shining down upon a thousand lovely things. With all the brightness of her loosened hair rising and falling with the motion of her swaying figure—with her twinkling feet, her crimson cheeks and parted lips, she looked the very spirit of the dance, and her enraptured audience only allowed her to stop when she was absolutely breathless.

“Oh what a beautiful evening!” exclaimed Elsie, when the celebration was finally over. “Was there ever such a dear, dear cañon with such dear people in it! If it only wouldn’t rain and we could live here for ever!”

“Rain, rain, stay away!
Come again another day,
Little Elsie wants to play,”

recited Polly, and then everybody went to their straw beds.

CHAPTER XI
BREAKING CAMP