by Scott O'Dell
Halfway up the rise was a zanja, a ditch filled with water that came from the river and that we used to irrigate our garden of corn, frijoles, and chili. I could have jumped it with ease on Tiburón, but the gelding I was not sure of, so I waded through the ditch. This cost me time, for all the other riders jumped it except a boy I had never seen before, who landed on his back in the middle of the ditch.
At the top of the rise I was in the lead by more than a hundred varas. The gelding was running well and I was sure he had strength for the race across the mesa. He would not be so fast as Don Roberto's horse—no other horse in California del Sur was—so I needed a good lead to win.
8
When we entered the chaparral I slowed Sixto to a pasotrote, the best gait for threading your way through the dense thicket of manzanita, ribbon-wood, and mountain mahogany. When I came near to the last of the chaparral, I used spurs on the gelding and he responded, raising his head and snorting.
Tiburón would have spied the coyote hole. He would have shied away from it and reared on his hind legs, as he sometimes did when he saw a tumbleweed coming toward him. Or when he came suddenly upon a coiled rattlesnake.
Sixto did not see the hole. Nor did I. I was glancing back at that instant to see where the other riders were. Sixto went into the hole with his left forefoot and lurched sidewise and came to a halt. I went over his head, and the next thing I knew I was lying in a thorny tangle.
Much of my breath had been knocked out of me, but somehow I managed to get on my feet. The gelding stared around, wild-eyed. He had a notion to bolt, leaving me there, shoulder-deep in chaparral, but I went toward him slowly, and called his name softly. Fortunately, he was not hurt.
At the last moment, as the gelding was about to change his mind and bolt, I grabbed for the reins and caught them. I sidled over to a mesquite bush, got one foot in a stirrup, and swung up.
I flicked Sixto with the Spanish spurs, which had wheels bigger than my hand, and we went out, crashing through the last of the chaparral and onto the open mesa. I glanced back at the other riders, hoping that none of them had seen me fall. They were just coming into view.
I flicked Sixto again, this time with both spurs, and gave him all his head. I raised myself a little in the saddle and leaned low and far out over the gelding's neck. I could hear hoofs behind me now. I held my breath.
We were better than halfway across the mesa when I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a silver-studded jacket and a flash of red pantaloons. Far off in front of me I saw a crowd in front of the big gate. Then I heard the sound of cheering.
The thud of hoofs was now close upon me. It could be no one except Don Roberto. In spite of his fat little hands he was a fine rider. How he would love to beat me! I still wondered if he had seen me tossed into the chaparral. It would be a shame to lose the race because of this mischance. A good horseman would never let his horse blunder into a coyote's hole.
The cheering grew louder. I could see my father now; at least the broad sombrero with the silver spangles on it. I thought I felt the hot breath of Don Roberto's horse. This could not be. It must be my own breath that I felt. Then I no longer heard the thud of hoofs. I glanced back, but Don Roberto was still there, not gaining on me, not losing either.
His horse came on steadily, close, closer, then even with my gelding's flank. I could have reached back and touched its nose. I could have given his horse a backhanded slap with my braided quirt. But I held the quirt in the hand the burro clam had injured.
"Hola!" shouted Don Roberto.
The shout seemed to sound in my ear, but I still was in the lead by half a length. The hitching rack was near. It was hidden by the guests, who were waving their hats and handkerchiefs. The race would not be decided until the horses were tied to the hitching rack. This meant that I must ride as close as I could to the rack and lead the horse the rest of the way. If I were riding Tiburón, this part would be easy.
The crowd began to scatter, leaving the space in front of the rack empty. Don Roberto's horse came up even with me. Don Roberto shouted words that I couldn't catch, but it was a taunt of some kind.
I made a tight half-circle and pulled up when I was still a dozen paces from the hitching rack. My gelding's hoofs slid on the loose earth and a small cloud of dust flew up and blinded me for a moment. I held the reins in my good hand and turned the gelding toward the rack.
Don Roberto had ridden a few steps past me. He brought his horse up stiff-legged, and was on the ground at once. There was a din of voices, but I made out my father's voice shouting, "Andale, andale!" at me.
Don Roberto would have won the race if his gelding had not reared as he jumped to the ground. I reached the hitching rack and tied the reins in a hard knot before he could quiet his horse. He smiled and held out his hand. I was surprised at what a nice smile he had. I had not noticed it before.
My father rushed over to kiss me. He put an arm around my shoulder and led me to where his friend Don César stood.
"When do you deliver the cows and horses?" my father said.
"How many did we wager?" Don César asked, as if he didn't know and didn't care.
"Twelve good riding horses," Don Saturnino said. "Three hundred and fifty cattle."
"Three hundred," Don César corrected him.
"Three hundred, but no boneyards."
I wondered what use we would have for three hundred cattle. We already had more than seven thousand. And a cow was selling for only fifty centavos. But Don César owned a herd of fine brood mares, and somehow I would try to get one or two. Perhaps we could trade some of the cattle or all of them for one good mare.
9
After the race the alcalde cleared everyone from the field in front of the gate and ten of the young men jousted with lances.
I was good with the lance—I had three of them, all made of black walnut wood and tipped with Toledo steel. I wanted to joust but my hand would not stand the hard thrusts that were required, so I had to sit by and watch.
The baile that night was very pretty, with colored lanterns, which had been strung across the courtyard, giving off a golden light, and the musicians, from their platform of pine boughs, playing many jotas and Aragonese waltzes and bambas.
To please my grandmother I wore the dress she had bought for me the year before. It was of black bombazine with ruffles at the hem and cuffs and neckline. I felt uncomfortable in it, used as I was to the feel of leather. Two of the Yorbas and Doña María of the Palomareses said it was very becoming to me. But none of the men said anything. I think, perhaps, it was because I had beaten Don Roberto in the race. Or just that for some reason they were afraid of me.
Anyway, I didn't dance much, except once with my father and once with Don Manuel of El Nido and once with Don Roberto, who, like me, was a better horseman than a dancer.
"I would like to race you again," Don Roberto said.
"It will be a better race if I ride Tiburón," I said.
"I would have won," said my new brother-in-law, "had my horse not balked at the last minute, just as I was reaching out to tie him. I don't like the tying. It is not good for true racing."
I agree.
"Then we will race again?" Don Roberto said.
"Soon," I said, "and you will give me a handicap."
I thought this would please him, and it did.
"Fifty varas," he said, puffing out his round cheeks. "Unless you desire more."
"No. Fifty varas is sufficient."
I would tell my father so that he could make another bet with his friend César Peralta. In the meantime, there was something else.
Don Manuel of El Nido I had not met before. He had come after the games were over. His long sideburns were gray and he was handsome and a very good dancer. Once he had been a soldier in Spain, before the King gave him a grant of nine thousand acres to the south of our ranch. His wife had died on their way here, to New Spain, and he had not married again.
"I am sorry that I did
not see you in the race this afternoon," he said. "It pleases me that you beat the young caballeros. An arrogant group. You gave them a good lesson, which they need and deserve. It surprises me, since they carry themselves with such airs and arrogance, why they do not go north to fight the gringo."
"That trouble is mostly over," I said.
"It would not be if they and others of their kind would give up their easy ways and take to the saddles. They act like children whose mothers still need to change their pants."
I wondered, because Don Manuel was once a soldier, why he did not take to the saddle himself. Then I thought that he must be like my father, like all the rest of the Spanish landholders, who were certain that the gringo would win the last battle. Should they oppose the Americans, they would end by losing their lands and perhaps their lives.
When I was dancing with Don Manuel I saw my grandmother watching us. She nodded her head in approval, and when the dance was finished and I went to sit with her, she asked me if I liked Don Manuel.
"He is so handsome," she said. "And he has a ranch with many rich acres of bottom land."
"He is twice my age," I said bluntly.
"No difference, my child," she said. "All the ages have their advantages."
The musicians struck up a bamba and drowned out the list of advantages possessed by Don Manuel. She changed the subject by giving me a nudge.
"Dance," she said. "Show the Yorbas and the Bandinis that you can do something besides ride a horse. Also Don Manuel."
I got to my feet. Rosario brought me a glass of water. I set it carefully on top of my head and began the slow steps of the bamba. Then someone brought a handkerchief with two corners tied together and placed it on the ground. As I danced I picked it up with my feet. I did this dance only once because my bones hurt from the fall I had taken in the chaparral thicket.
All the boys began to throw cascarones at me and the other girls—duck eggs filled with perfumed water, some with confetti—while we shouted with delight. Even Don Saturnino's eagle, who had been sitting quietly on his perch, began to scream.
It was a fine wedding. My sister, Yris, looked beautiful. She was happier than I had ever seen her, laughing and kissing everyone. And Don Roberto I liked much more than I had.
10
Late that night, when most of the guests were asleep, a vaquero rode up to the gate. The gate was closed and he beat upon it until my father roused himself. I had stopped on my way to bed for a drink of water from our springhouse. I followed Don Saturnino and watched while he opened the big gate and let the vaquero in.
The vaquero was out of breath. "I come from Rancho El Cajón at the foot of the pass. Do you know Don Francisco, the patron?"
"Certainly, I know him," my father said, with impatience at being disturbed in the middle of the night. "Continue. This is not a social hour."
"Two days ago, at dusk, as the sun set," the vaquero said, "a band of Indians, perhaps from the Mojave tribe, came through the pass."
"Why would the Mojaves use the pass?" my father inquired. "Mojaves always come from the desert, through San Gorgonio."
"They could be one or the other," the vaquero said. "Piutes or the Mojaves."
"But Indians," my father said. "You are sure of that?"
"Indians," said the vaquero. "They came without women."
"Definitely Indians?"
"Yes, seguro que si."
"Without their women?"
"Without."
"Riding?"
"Riding. Two of the horses carried your brand."
My father turned to me. "Bring the young man a bowl of chocolate and a buñuelo."
"Two of the latter," said the vaquero.
But when I returned with the food and drink, he had gone. Thudding hoofs on the trail grew faint and disappeared.
"He has ridden away to spread the word," Don Saturnino said. "But I think he spreads a rumor. I think the Indians have come to trade."
"The last time the Piutes came, they came to steal. They stole twenty-one of our good horses, including my best gelding, Chubasco."
"That is why I think that now they come to trade. And that they are not Mojaves, as the excited young man suggests, but Piutes."
"Do they come to return Chubasco, my black gelding?" I asked.
Piutes or Mojaves, unlike our California Indians, were a serious problem, so in the morning the men got together in the big sala. When they came out it had been decided that we, the de Zubaráns, would gather the vaqueros and accompany our guests to the western boundaries of the ranch, to the King's Highway, where they would be safe.
We had only four good muskets at Dos Hermanos, but the vaqueros fastened their long lances to the saddles.
11
We rode to the King's Highway early the next morning. The sky was cloudy, and patches of pearly fog hung above the meadows. Some of the vaqueros rode in front of our guests, a long procession of horsemen and carts, and other vaqueros rode to the rear. I was near the front, with my father.
Beside the trail where the Road of the Two Brothers met the King's Highway stood a statue of Christ. The statue was made of wood and over it was a roof of pine boughs to protect it from the rain. Someone had picked a small bouquet of wildflowers and placed it at Christ's feet.
The horsemen and carts came up and gathered around the roadside chapel. Letting down the skirts of his robe, which he had tucked up around his knees as he rode, Father Barones left his burro to graze. He had opened his breviary and was about to speak when it happened.
We heard the sound of hoofs before we saw the gray figures come slowly through the fog. There were six of them, six tall figures slouched low over their saddles, like Piutes. They were now at the bottom of a grassy swale, and I could see only their heads and shoulders. Father Barones closed his breviary.
"Indians on a raid would not ride in the open," my father said.
"They look like Piutes," a vaquero said.
"They wear no feathers," someone said.
"That you cannot tell from here," my father said. "Also, I have seen Piutes without the feathers."
"The last time they came," a vaquero said, "they wore no feathers. That was in the year of forty-four, when they set the roof afire with lighted arrows."
The vaqueros went to their horses and took the muskets from the sheaths and stood beside the chapel. Everyone was silent.
The gray figures came out of the fog, riding slowly, with a clatter of harness and gear. They were now less than a hundred varas away. They were not Indians, but six young gringos.
Our procession had taken up all of the ground where the two roads met. A heavy growth of chaparral on the far side of the road made it impossible for the gringos to ride around us. They came to a halt.
The young man in the lead had a bony face and long blond hair whitened by the sun. He was riding a small speckled pony and leading a bay mesteño. Burned on the mesteño's flank was the slash mark with a circle around it, the brand of Don César Peralta.
Don César saw the brand at once. He walked over to where the gringo sat astride the speckled pony.
"There are six of you," Don César said, "and you have twelve horses. The one you ride and the one you lead carry my brand. How many of the others? How many horses have you stolen?"
The young man took his time answering. "None," he said. His lips were cracked by the sun and he seemed to have trouble speaking. "We bought 'em all. Every one."
"Where?" Don César said.
"Down the road." The gringo spoke good Spanish.
The other gringos had come up now and sat lounging in their saddles. They looked like the first one, the one who was speaking. At first glance they might have been brothers. They all had bony faces and streaked hair and blue eyes that were red-rimmed.
Don César said, "At Rancho El Nido?"
"Name don't sound familiar, señor. Down the road, it was. Paid a hundred pesos for the lot."
"The horses carry the Peralta brand," Don César said. "If
you bought them, you bought stolen horses."
"Anyhow, señor, we bought them, stolen or not."
Don César didn't believe the gringo. Nor did any of us. It was the way the gringos acted that made me doubt what they were saying.
The young man took up his reins. "We'll be moving on," he said. "We got a long ways to go."
"You do not go anywhere," Don César said, "until you hand over the horses you lead. The ones you ride, you can keep."
Don César repeated his offer.
None of the horses was worth much. And we had hundreds of them, though many were wild. But what he said to the gringos seemed fair to me.
Juan Palomares said, "We wish to get on the trail. I have much to do when I reach home. Give him the horses."
Matías Yorba echoed his words. As he spoke, the gringo put a spur to his horse and the horse jumped. Sixto was circling around and I had trouble handling him. The big horse reared and I brought him down and made way for the gringo. As he passed by, the gringo reached out and slapped Sixto on the flank.
"Pardon," the gringo said to me. "Pardon, muchacho."
I don't know whether it was that he had given the gelding a slap that made me angry or that he took me for a boy. My grandmother said afterward, when we got back to the ranch, that she didn't blame him for calling me a boy since, with my hair braided up under my sombrero, I looked like one.
I glanced at my father. He looked as angry as I was. With a quick motion of his hand he gave me a signal. I grasped the riata coiled beneath my leg.
Sixto had backed off when the gringo slapped him, and when he came down I turned the gelding. At the same time I unloosed the coiled riata. It was a good one, fashioned of eight strands of leather, and it had taken Sanchez, the saddler, more than a month to make. It was of deerskin and every inch had been carefully chewed by his wife until it was soft. It would handle a bull. It would handle two bulls, one at each end.
When the gringo was beyond me at a dozen paces or so, I let the riata go. It went out slowly at first. The loop was perfect and long. It gained speed and rose in a curve and settled over the gringo's shoulders.