The Valiant Runaways [35]
who had
been more than once to Mexico.
"The white against the bronze, senor," he said. "Twenty otter skins to
the six doubloons of Mexico."
"Done, your reverence. I am honoured that you bet with me. But the
white--have you thought well, my father?"
"She breathes well, and her legs are very clean."
"True, my father, but look at the muscles of the little bronze. How they
swell! And the fire in the nostrils!"
"True, Don Jaime; and if she wins, the skins are yours."
As the horses darted down the track almost neck to neck, the excitement
routed Spanish dignity. The dons stood up in their saddles, shouting and
betting furiously. The women clapped their white idle hands, and
cheered, and bet--but with less recklessness: a small jewel or a second-
best mantilla. As they could not remember what they had bet when the
excitement was over, these debts were never paid; but it pleased them
mightily to make their little wagers. The men were betting ranchitas,
horses, cattle, and, finally, their jewels and saddles and serapes. For
each horse represented a different district of the Department, and there
was much rivalry.
The priest did not shout, and he made no more bets, but his eyes never
left those figures speeding like arrows from the bow, the riders
motionless as if but the effigies of men strapped to the creatures of
fire beneath. Sometimes the black gained then the little bronze; once
the white dashed a full three yards beyond his fellows, and Roldan saw
the great hands of the priest, which had been clinched against his
shoulders, open spasmodically, then close harder than ever as the white
quickly dropped back again.
It was a very close race. The excitement grew tense and painful. Even
Roldan felt it finally, and forgot the priest. The big bronze had quite
dropped out of it and was lagging homeward, hardly greeted by a hiss.
The others were almost neck and neck, the little bronze slightly in the
lead. "She wins," thought Roldan, "No! No! The black! the black! Ay, no,
the bronze! but no! no! Ay! Ay! Ay!" A roar went up that ended in a
shriek. The black had won.
Roldan looked at the priest. His skin was livid, his nostrils twitching.
But his mouth and eyes told nothing.
The crowd rode home, still excited, gay, cheerful. Their losses mattered
not. Were not their acres numbered by the hundred thousand? Did they not
have more horses and cattle than they would ever count? In those days of
pleasure and plenty, of luxury and unconsidered generosity, a rancho, a
caponara the less, meant a loss neither to be felt nor remembered.
After the bountiful supper the guests loitered for a time in the
courtyard, then the sala was cleared and the dance began. Several of the
girls danced alone, while the caballeros clapped and shouted. Then all
waltzed or took part in their only square dance, the contradanza. They
kept it up until morning. Needless to say, our heroes went to bed at an
early hour.
They were up the next morning with the dawn, and in company with Rafael
and the other guests of their own age, went for their canter. This time
they avoided the hills behind the Mission, as they had no wish to share
their secret, and a chance word might divulge all. They rode toward the
hills at the head of the valley. Roldan was still the hero of the hour,
and Rafael, although the most generous of boys, resented it a little. He
was not without ambitions of his own, and determined to seize the first
opportunity to remind his companions that the son of Don Tiburcio
Carillo, the greatest ranchero of that section of the Californias, had
not the habit to occupy the humble position of tag-behind even to so
brilliant and adventurous a guest as Roldan Castanada.
He soon found his opportunity.
As they reached the first hill they saw a bull feeding on its summit.
"Aha!" cried the young don of the Rancho Encarnacion. "Now I will make
for you a little morning entertainment, my friends. Coliar! coliar!"
"No! no!" cried the boys. "The hill is too steep. It is like the side of
a
been more than once to Mexico.
"The white against the bronze, senor," he said. "Twenty otter skins to
the six doubloons of Mexico."
"Done, your reverence. I am honoured that you bet with me. But the
white--have you thought well, my father?"
"She breathes well, and her legs are very clean."
"True, my father, but look at the muscles of the little bronze. How they
swell! And the fire in the nostrils!"
"True, Don Jaime; and if she wins, the skins are yours."
As the horses darted down the track almost neck to neck, the excitement
routed Spanish dignity. The dons stood up in their saddles, shouting and
betting furiously. The women clapped their white idle hands, and
cheered, and bet--but with less recklessness: a small jewel or a second-
best mantilla. As they could not remember what they had bet when the
excitement was over, these debts were never paid; but it pleased them
mightily to make their little wagers. The men were betting ranchitas,
horses, cattle, and, finally, their jewels and saddles and serapes. For
each horse represented a different district of the Department, and there
was much rivalry.
The priest did not shout, and he made no more bets, but his eyes never
left those figures speeding like arrows from the bow, the riders
motionless as if but the effigies of men strapped to the creatures of
fire beneath. Sometimes the black gained then the little bronze; once
the white dashed a full three yards beyond his fellows, and Roldan saw
the great hands of the priest, which had been clinched against his
shoulders, open spasmodically, then close harder than ever as the white
quickly dropped back again.
It was a very close race. The excitement grew tense and painful. Even
Roldan felt it finally, and forgot the priest. The big bronze had quite
dropped out of it and was lagging homeward, hardly greeted by a hiss.
The others were almost neck and neck, the little bronze slightly in the
lead. "She wins," thought Roldan, "No! No! The black! the black! Ay, no,
the bronze! but no! no! Ay! Ay! Ay!" A roar went up that ended in a
shriek. The black had won.
Roldan looked at the priest. His skin was livid, his nostrils twitching.
But his mouth and eyes told nothing.
The crowd rode home, still excited, gay, cheerful. Their losses mattered
not. Were not their acres numbered by the hundred thousand? Did they not
have more horses and cattle than they would ever count? In those days of
pleasure and plenty, of luxury and unconsidered generosity, a rancho, a
caponara the less, meant a loss neither to be felt nor remembered.
After the bountiful supper the guests loitered for a time in the
courtyard, then the sala was cleared and the dance began. Several of the
girls danced alone, while the caballeros clapped and shouted. Then all
waltzed or took part in their only square dance, the contradanza. They
kept it up until morning. Needless to say, our heroes went to bed at an
early hour.
They were up the next morning with the dawn, and in company with Rafael
and the other guests of their own age, went for their canter. This time
they avoided the hills behind the Mission, as they had no wish to share
their secret, and a chance word might divulge all. They rode toward the
hills at the head of the valley. Roldan was still the hero of the hour,
and Rafael, although the most generous of boys, resented it a little. He
was not without ambitions of his own, and determined to seize the first
opportunity to remind his companions that the son of Don Tiburcio
Carillo, the greatest ranchero of that section of the Californias, had
not the habit to occupy the humble position of tag-behind even to so
brilliant and adventurous a guest as Roldan Castanada.
He soon found his opportunity.
As they reached the first hill they saw a bull feeding on its summit.
"Aha!" cried the young don of the Rancho Encarnacion. "Now I will make
for you a little morning entertainment, my friends. Coliar! coliar!"
"No! no!" cried the boys. "The hill is too steep. It is like the side of
a