The Valiant Runaways [0]
The Valiant Runaways
By GERTRUDE ATHERTON
TO
GEORGE AND GILBERT JONES
Of New York
WITHOUT WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT THIS YARN WOULD
NEVER HAVE BEEN FINISHED
The Valiant Runaways
I
Roldan Castanada walked excitedly up and down the verandah of his
father's house, his thumbs thrust into the red silk sash that was
knotted about his waist, his cambric shirt open at the throat as if
pulled impatiently apart; the soft grey sombrero on the back of his
curly head making a wide frame for his dark, flushed, scowling face.
There was nothing in the surroundings to indicate the cause of his
disturbance. The great adobe house, its white sides and red tiles
glaring in the bright December sun, would have been as silent as a tomb
but for the rapid tramping of Roldan and the clank of his silver spurs
on the pavement. On all sides the vast Rancho Los Palos Verdes cleft the
horizon: Don Mateo Castanada was one of the wealthiest grandees in the
Californias, and his sons could gallop all day without crossing the
boundary line of their future possessions. The rancho was as level as
mid-ocean in a calm; here and there a wood or river broke the sweep;
thousands of cattle grazed. Now and again a mounted vaquero, clad in
small-clothes vivified with silver trimmings, dashed amongst tossing
horns, shouting and warning.
But Roldan saw none of these things. There was reason for his disquiet.
News had arrived an hour before which had thrown his young mind into
confusion: the soldiers were out for conscripts, and would in all
probability arrive at the Rancho Los Palos Verdes that evening or the
following morning. Roldan, like all the Californian youth, looked
forward to the conscription with apprehension and disgust. Not that he
was a coward. He could throw a bull as fearlessly as his elder brothers;
he had ridden alone at night the length of the rancho in search of a pet
colt that had strayed; and he had once defended the women of the family
single handed against a half dozen savages until reinforcements had
arrived. Moreover, the stories of American warfare which he had managed
to read, despite the prohibition of the priests, had stirred his soul
and fired his blood. But army life in California! It meant languishing
in barracks, hoping for a flash in the pan between two rival houses, or
a possible revolt against a governor. If the Americans should come with
intent to conquer! Roldan ground his teeth and stamped his foot. Then,
indeed, he could not get to the battlefield fast enough. But the United
States would never defy Mexico. They were clever enough for that. His
anger left him, and he gave a little regretful sigh. Not only would he
like that kind of a battle, but it would be great fun to know some
American boys. Then he shook his head impatiently and dismissed these
tourist thoughts. The present alone was to be considered.
There were two ways to avoid conscription. One was to marry--Roldan
sniffed audibly; the other lay in flight and eluding the men until their
round was over for the year.
Roldan did not like the idea of running away from anything; he and
several of his father's vaqueros had once made an assault upon a band of
cattle thieves and hunted them into the mountains: that was much more to
his taste. Nevertheless there was one thing he liked less than showing
his heels, and that was giving up his liberty. Not to gallop at will
over the rancho, or sleep in a hammock, to coliar the bulls and shout
with the vaqueros at rodeo, to be the first at the games and the races,
to wear his silken clothes and lace ruffles, and eat the delightful
dishes his mother's cooks prepared! And then he was a very high-spirited
young gentleman. Although the same obedience, almost reverence, was
exacted of him by his parents that was a part of the household religion
in California, yet as the youngest child, who had been delicate during
his first five years, he had managed to get very badly spoiled. He did
not relish the idea of leading a life of monotony and