The Valiant Runaways [46]
find us gone, he would follow at
once."
"Where shall we go?" asked the others, who, however, felt a quickening
of blood and muscle at the thought that the priest might be under their
feet even then.
"How near is the next rancho, and whose is it?"
"A league beyond the Mission grant. It is Don Juan Ortega's."
"Very well, we go there and ask for horses."
The boys made their way rapidly down the slope, which after all was only
that of a foot-hill. Beyond were other foot-hills, and they skirted
among them, finally entering a canon. It was as dark and cold and damp
as the last hour of the tunnel had been, but the narrow river, roaring
through its middle, had caught all the snow, and there was scarce a
fleck on the narrow tilted banks. The hill opposite was the last of the
foot-hills; but how to reach it? The current was very swift, and boys
knew naught of the art of swimming in that land of little water.
Suddenly Roldan raised his hand with an exclamation of surprise and
pointed to a ledge overhanging the stream. A hut stood there, made of
sections of the redwood and pine. From its chimney, smoke was curling
upward.
The boys were too hungry to pause and reflect upon the possibility of a
savage inmate; they scrambled up the bank and ran along the ledge to the
hut. The door was of hide. They knocked. There was no response. They
flung the door aside and entered. No one was in the solitary room of the
hut, but over a fire in the deep chimney place hung a large pot, in
which something of agreeable savour bubbled.
Roldan glanced about. "I'd rather be invited," he said doubtfully.
But Adan had gone straight for the pot. He lifted it off the fire,
fetched three broken plates and battered knives and forks from a shelf,
and helped his friends and himself. Then he piously crossed himself and
fell to. It was not in human necessities to withstand the fragrance of
that steaming mess of squirrel, and the boys had disposed of the entire
potful before they raised their eyes again. When they did, Rafael, who
sat opposite the door, made a slight exclamation, and the others turned
about quickly. A man stood there.
He was quite unlike any one they had ever seen. A tall lank man with
rounded shoulders, lean leather-like cheeks, a preternatural length of
jaw, drab hair and chin whiskers, and deeply-set china-blue eyes, made
up a type uncommon in the Californias, that land of priest, soldier,
caballero, and Indian. He was clad in coyote skins, and carried a gun in
his hand, a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder. He did not speak
for some seconds, and when he did, it was to make a remark that was not
understood. He said: "Well, I'll be durned!"
His expression was not forbidding, and Roldan recovered himself at once.
He stood up and bowed profoundly.
"Senor," he said, "I beg that you will pardon us. We would have craved
your hospitality had you been here, but as it was, our hunger overcame
us: we have not eaten for many hours. But I am Roldan Castanada of the
Rancho de los Palos Verdes, senor, and I beg that you will one day let
me repay your hospitality in the house of my fathers."
"Holy smoke!" exclaimed the man, "all that high-falutin' lingo for a
potful of squirril. But you're welcome enough. I don't begrudge anybody
sup." Then he broke into a laugh at the puzzled faces of his guests, and
translated his reply into very lame Spanish. The boys, however, were
delighted to be so hospitably received, and grinned at him, warm,
replete, and sheltered.
The man began at once to skin a rabbit. "Seein' as how you haint left me
nothin', I may as well turn to," he said. "And it ain't every day I'm
entertainin' lords."
The boys did not understand the words, but they understood the act, and
reddened.
"I myself will cook the rabbit for you, senor," said Adan.
"Well, you kin," and the man nodded acquiescence.
"You are American, no?" asked Roldan.
"I am, you bet."
"From Boston, I suppose?"
The man guffawed. "Boston ought to hear that. She'd faint. No, young
once."
"Where shall we go?" asked the others, who, however, felt a quickening
of blood and muscle at the thought that the priest might be under their
feet even then.
"How near is the next rancho, and whose is it?"
"A league beyond the Mission grant. It is Don Juan Ortega's."
"Very well, we go there and ask for horses."
The boys made their way rapidly down the slope, which after all was only
that of a foot-hill. Beyond were other foot-hills, and they skirted
among them, finally entering a canon. It was as dark and cold and damp
as the last hour of the tunnel had been, but the narrow river, roaring
through its middle, had caught all the snow, and there was scarce a
fleck on the narrow tilted banks. The hill opposite was the last of the
foot-hills; but how to reach it? The current was very swift, and boys
knew naught of the art of swimming in that land of little water.
Suddenly Roldan raised his hand with an exclamation of surprise and
pointed to a ledge overhanging the stream. A hut stood there, made of
sections of the redwood and pine. From its chimney, smoke was curling
upward.
The boys were too hungry to pause and reflect upon the possibility of a
savage inmate; they scrambled up the bank and ran along the ledge to the
hut. The door was of hide. They knocked. There was no response. They
flung the door aside and entered. No one was in the solitary room of the
hut, but over a fire in the deep chimney place hung a large pot, in
which something of agreeable savour bubbled.
Roldan glanced about. "I'd rather be invited," he said doubtfully.
But Adan had gone straight for the pot. He lifted it off the fire,
fetched three broken plates and battered knives and forks from a shelf,
and helped his friends and himself. Then he piously crossed himself and
fell to. It was not in human necessities to withstand the fragrance of
that steaming mess of squirrel, and the boys had disposed of the entire
potful before they raised their eyes again. When they did, Rafael, who
sat opposite the door, made a slight exclamation, and the others turned
about quickly. A man stood there.
He was quite unlike any one they had ever seen. A tall lank man with
rounded shoulders, lean leather-like cheeks, a preternatural length of
jaw, drab hair and chin whiskers, and deeply-set china-blue eyes, made
up a type uncommon in the Californias, that land of priest, soldier,
caballero, and Indian. He was clad in coyote skins, and carried a gun in
his hand, a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder. He did not speak
for some seconds, and when he did, it was to make a remark that was not
understood. He said: "Well, I'll be durned!"
His expression was not forbidding, and Roldan recovered himself at once.
He stood up and bowed profoundly.
"Senor," he said, "I beg that you will pardon us. We would have craved
your hospitality had you been here, but as it was, our hunger overcame
us: we have not eaten for many hours. But I am Roldan Castanada of the
Rancho de los Palos Verdes, senor, and I beg that you will one day let
me repay your hospitality in the house of my fathers."
"Holy smoke!" exclaimed the man, "all that high-falutin' lingo for a
potful of squirril. But you're welcome enough. I don't begrudge anybody
sup." Then he broke into a laugh at the puzzled faces of his guests, and
translated his reply into very lame Spanish. The boys, however, were
delighted to be so hospitably received, and grinned at him, warm,
replete, and sheltered.
The man began at once to skin a rabbit. "Seein' as how you haint left me
nothin', I may as well turn to," he said. "And it ain't every day I'm
entertainin' lords."
The boys did not understand the words, but they understood the act, and
reddened.
"I myself will cook the rabbit for you, senor," said Adan.
"Well, you kin," and the man nodded acquiescence.
"You are American, no?" asked Roldan.
"I am, you bet."
"From Boston, I suppose?"
The man guffawed. "Boston ought to hear that. She'd faint. No, young