by Scott O'Dell
I stood holding tight to my favorite willow lance tipped with Toledo steel. I put it away in the rack and turned around to face my father.
"You intend for me to be with you against the gringo?"
He seemed surprised that I could ask the question. "Where else would you be at a time such as this?"
"What will the men say? Don César and Don Baltasar and the rest?"
"It does not matter what they say. We fight for honor and our lives, not for their plaudits. We will need every lance we can muster."
The lance to me had been something for use in games, in mock battles on horseback against friends, not for use against an enemy, even a gringo enemy. Besides, it angered me that my father thought that my life was his to direct. But I held back my feelings.
"What was the message you sent?" I said.
"The message was brief. I told them what the sheepherder reported. To meet here tomorrow night. To bring their weapons."
"What if they do not come?"
"There is not one who will not come."
"We do not know for certain whether there is an army at the gate," I said. "The sheepherder could be wrong. Or the horsemen he saw could be a company of fur traders."
"Fur traders do not come in great numbers with rifles across their laps and a flag flying. And that many Spaniards are not on a journey."
Then we went to breakfast, but I wasn't hungry. "My cuera, my coat of bullhide, is not in good shape," I said. "It needs stitching."
"Then I will have it stitched and an extra layer of hide will be added. I notice that you do not eat."
"I have no hunger."
"Many times I feel that way myself," my father said. "Without hunger. The last time was when I went in pursuit of the Piutes. We rode to the big river and hid our horses in a cottonwood thicket and poled out to an island in our bull boat. We made a fine fire of driftwood. We had roasted venison over the coals on willow sticks we had peeled, when Don Cesar said, 'Indians.' Just that: 'Indians.' I looked up and there they were, in war feathers, on the riverbank. They had come from somewhere and found our horses in the thicket. They were sitting on the horses now, watching us. I had a piece of venison to my mouth, ready to bite, and I dropped it in the sand. Suddenly, I had no hunger."
My father helped himself to a dipper of frijoles and peppers. "But fear, if you live, you get over. If you do not live, it does not matter." He looked up and smiled. "Now eat your frijoles, Carlota. They are tasty with the peppers."
I ate the frijoles but still I had no hunger.
15
The Peraltas, father and son, answered my father's message. They came that night and we talked until late. The next morning Fernando Soto came. Then that afternoon a vaquero rode in from the Sanchez ranch, which was near Los Angeles, with the news that Señorita Rosa María Sanchez planned to marry a young man named John Harper, a gringo. The vaquero brought the regrets and good wishes of her father, Simón Sanchez.
Don Saturnino groaned at this news and struck his forehead and walked around in a fury, but a little later that afternoon two young men came from the Montoya ranch, leading fresh horses and carrying lances. Though we had never seen them before, we had heard their names. They brought news that Americans were camped in the Oriflame Mountains. One of their vaqueros had made a count; there were one hundred and ten of the enemy. They were camped in a meadow beside a spring and were feasting on roasted sheep.
"We have nine lancers altogether," Don Roberto said. During our talk the night before, Don César and Don Saturnino had placed him in command of our party.
"He is a fine horseman, though not so good in the saddle as you, Carlota," my father had said. "He is also brave. We will require both."
That afternoon another ranchero rode in from the coast, bringing with him two of his vaqueros. When we left the ranch at dusk there were twelve of us with lances.
My father said nothing to Doña Dolores about the gringos camped at the springs. Nor did I. She was in the sala and Rosario was kneeling in front of her when we went to say farewell. She did not look up. She was making one of her cigarillos. She took her time and folded the husk lengthwise and filled the crevice with tobacco. Then she spread the tobacco evenly and made a dimple in the center and used both her thumbs to tuck in the edge of the husk.
Only then did she glance up at my father, holding the half-rolled cigarillo in her hands. She gave Rosario a nudge with her toe and he ran to fetch her a coal. Only when she had licked the edges of the cornhusk and lit the cigarillo did she speak.
"Go," she said, "and get yourselves killed, you and your iron-headed daughter. I would not prevent it if I could."
"Señora Doña Dolores," my father said, "we accept your blessings with gratitude. In return we extend our blessings to you."
He started to back out of the room, but Rosario jumped up and shouted, "Take me with you. Por favor, I—"
"No," my grandmother cried. "Never! They go but you stay. I need you."
Don Saturnino said to Rosario, "It is your duty to take care of the eagle and Señora Doña, in that order."
He left the room quickly and I followed him. I don't think my grandmother was as angry as she appeared to be, for when we rode away she stood at her window and waved us goodbye. I think she was as confused as I was. It was my father who lit the flame and kept it burning, out of anger and Spanish pride.
The war was really over. And in California it had never been a real war. In other places, but not here among the Californians. We all hated the men who ruled us from Mexico City and we would have revolted against them if the gringos had just left us alone to go our way. But now, as we were to learn later, General Kearny and his soldiers did not know that the war in California was finished. It was a misfortune that they didn't know.
The twelve of us took to the trail at dusk. There was an early moon and we rode by its light until we came to Aguanga, which is a small Indian village about five leagues from the springs where the gringos were camped.
Here we ate our supper of jerky and yucca cakes. The night before, the chief of the Indians told us, gringos had come looking for horses and had driven off a dozen of his mesteños.
"They are getting ready to go somewhere," he said. "They have been resting at the springs, eating much, gathering horses. We have watched them. They will go soon, perhaps tomorrow."
Late that night, while we were sitting by the fire and talking, a party of rancheros rode in. They had gathered at San Juan Capistrano two days before. They had heard that we were on the trail and had followed us. Their leader was a lithe young man named Andrés Pico, the son of the Mexican governor of California, Pío Pico. There were twenty-one in his party and each man carried a lance.
It was agreed between Don Roberto and him that we would remain two parties, but that Pico would be in command when we met the gringos.
While we were sitting by the fire, off to ourselves and talking, my father said, "All of the men in our party know you. And the new ones, those who have come now with Pico, have heard of you. Do not worry, therefore, about this business, about anything."
I was wearing my deerskin trousers and jacket. My long hair, braided and held with iron pins, was bound in a black handkerchief and pushed up under my hat. I looked like a boy but I didn't feel like one.
"I do not worry," I said, to make him feel happy.
We had heavy ponchos and we slept with them over us, with our saddles for pillows. The earth was hard. Many times in the night I wished that I were in my bed at home.
Early in the morning Don Andrés Pico and Don Roberto sent three Indians on fast horses to Agua Caliente, where the gringos were camped. The Indians came back at noon and reported that the gringos were marching down the valley, westward toward the sea, with flags flying. Some of their horses were fresh but many were thin and stumbling. That all the soldiers carried long rifles and the officers carried pistols and swords. They were also dragging two small cannon.
"We could use a dozen rifles," Don André
s, the captain, said.
"How about the swords?" someone asked.
"And the pistols?"
"How about a cannon?"
"Even so much as a flag?"
"You will catch flies in your big mouths," Don Andrés said, "as well as other things. We have no rifles or pistols or swords or cannon. We can have a flag. Make one, Señorita Carlota, out of this." He took off his green scarf and tossed it to me. "We will have a flag and for every man a lance and some to spare. Be content."
To the mutter of leather and the song of metal crickets many of the horses wore on their headstalls, carrying the green flag I had made, we rode down the valley in a direction close to the one the gringos had taken. Most of the rancheros had silver on their bridles and pommels and their hooded stirrups. Andrés Pico had silver everywhere, even on the broad band of his sombrero.
We rode at a quick trot through the mist, down the valley between the dripping trees, on our way to intercept—that was the word my father used—to cut off the gringo soldiers at San Pasqual. It was the first time since the day word had come about the gringos, since the hour that we had left Dos Hermanos, that I felt good. It was exciting to ride through the mist, with the sound of hoofs and the jingle of harness. Though no one was watching, it was like riding in a parade.
16
Late in the afternoon it began to rain, a soft rain from the sea. We pulled our sombreros down over our eyes and huddled deep in our ponchos. The green flag got wet, and hung down from its staff like a string.
The canyon that ran westward out of the meadow was heavily wooded and narrow. A stream ran through it and this we followed. Where the canyon suddenly widened we found two old shacks connected by a portale that the Indians had abandoned. Here we tethered our horses and made ready for the night.
One of the men had lassoed a wild goat on our way down the canyon, so we all looked forward to something besides the jerky we had been eating. Vaqueros brought in armloads of dead manzanita roots and made a fire out of the rain under the portale.
My father skinned the goat and twisted the hind legs, folding them over the back, the front legs over the head. The whole thing he firmly worked down on a skewer, solid and flat. Then two vaqueros squatted opposite each other and turned the goat slowly over the fire.
The Indians came riding into our camp while the goat was roasting. They brought word that the gringo soldiers were camped nearby, some in small tents and others without tents.
"How far?" Don Andrés Pico said.
"Close," both of the Indians answered.
"How long on a horse?"
"Part of a morning," one of the Indians said.
"What part? Large or small?"
"Small," both of the Indians said.
We were all sitting around the fire, trying to dry out.
Don Roberto said, "The two trails, the one we traveled and the one the gringos travel, join here at the head of the meadow. The gringos are on their way to San Diego. They will need to pass this place to get there."
"Yes, there is no other trail," my father said. "They must pass here. They have no choice."
"But what if the gringos are not going to San Diego?" Don Andrés Pico said.
"Where else?" my father said. "They do not travel just to travel. They are on their way somewhere. That place must be San Diego."
"There are American warships in the harbor at San Diego," one of the rancheros said. "They are going there to meet the ships."
"They could be going to pueblo Los Angeles," Don Andrés said.
"Not on this trail," my father answered. "From the springs they would have gone northward if they were going to the pueblo."
"What happens if they want us to think that they are going to San Diego when they are not? When they are really going to Los Angeles or somewhere else? To Santa Barbara, perhaps."
It was not settled where the gringos meant to go, but it was settled that they would need to pass the place where we were now camped. There was no other way out of the mountains.
My father scraped some fat from the goathide and fastened it on a stick and held it in the fire until it blazed. He then put the fat over the turning goat and let it dribble and spread. The meat grew brown and crackled and gave off little spurts of fire.
The rain had ceased but wet fog had come. We could not see much beyond the ring of the fire. When the goat was done, each of us took our knife and cut off a slice of meat. None of the men stood aside for me. I took my place with the others at the feast, which made me feel better. But no one had remembered to bring salt, so the meat tasted flat. It was good that my grandmother was not there.
One of the vaqueros thought he heard something and got up and left the fire. He was gone for a while and came back and said, "Nada," and sat down.
"I would like to send someone up the trail to see what goes on with our gringo friends," Don Andrés said. "But he could lose himself in the fog and fall into trouble."
"They are where the Indians said they were," Don Roberto said. "They do not like the fog much either."
"They see no better in the fog than we," my father said.
"It would be good, however, to know," said Don Andrés. "And perhaps from that what they intend."
That night we kept the fire burning because it was cold. About midnight we all heard sounds in the brush. Two of the vaqueros and an Indian went out to look around. They were gone a long time, but when they came back they said they had found no signs of the enemy. We later learned that General Kearny had sent out a party to scout our camp. The sounds we heard in the brush were made by gringo scouts.
When the vaqueros who went to see about the sounds came back, Don Andrés got to his feet. He was tall and thin and had a pigtail, which he bound in a handkerchief. He looked serious in the firelight. He waited until everyone had quit talking.
He said, "We have been two parties. Now we are one and I am the leader of the one. My commands are to be obeyed promptly, without fail. Our lives and our fortunes depend upon it. The gringos will march in the morning, whether at sunup or afterward there is no telling. We are to be prepared for both, all gear in readiness, the horses fed and saddled. Juan Aguilar carries a musket, which he can use if the opportunity arises. The rest of us will rely upon our lances."
He stopped to listen and we waited. One of our horses had gotten loose and was wandering around in the fog.
Don Andrés said, "We are outnumbered four to one. We must, therefore, strike fast and then retreat. Then turn at my signal and attack again, then again retreat. I have no need to tell you how to use the lance; being Spaniards, you know already. But it is well to remember that you ride low, in the fashion of the Indians, and strike for the body, for the body alone. Two quick thrusts, more if possible."
I was sitting across the fire from Don Andrés. Suddenly I felt cold though the logs were glowing hot.
"Señorita," he said, looking down at me, "there are seven horses to spare. These we will tie and put in your hands. You are to remain with them at a place I will show you in the morning."
My father sat next to me, muffled in his poncho. He groaned as Don Andrés spoke to me. He was thinking of Carlos. He was sad beyond the use of words that his son was not there beside him, waiting for the dawn and the battle.
Overhead the fog had lifted a little. I could see racing clouds and a few stars. I was scared. I wondered if everyone else was scared, too.
17
Dawn broke slowly. A cold breeze moved through the brush, but the valley below us was shrouded in mist. We had kept logs burning through the night and, having saddled the horses and put everything in readiness, we waited around the fire.
Don Andrés said to me, pointing down the valley, "Over against the hill is a clump of oaks." He waited until I made them out through the mist. "Take seven horses and ride now and quickly. Tether the horses there, in the trees, as much as possible out of sight of the enemy."
He paused and glanced over at my stallion. "It might be better if you rid
e something easier to handle. One of the spare geldings, say."
"I can handle the stallion," I said.
"In battle?"
"Anywhere," I said, though I was not sure. "In battle or out of battle."
"Very well," Don Andrés said, giving me a curious look. "Buena suerte."
"Thank you, sir, for your wish of good luck," I said.
"Por nada," Don Andrés said.
The seven horses we tied one to the other. I said goodbye to my father and led the horses at a quick trot out of the camp to the clump of trees against the hill.
The sun shone somewhere beyond the mountain rim, but here below, the mist was cold and heavy. I sat on Tiburón and kept my eyes on the place, which was close by, where the trail led out of the canyon. Far off I could see the fire of our camp and the men standing around it.
I heard no sound, nothing, as the first gringo rode out of the brush. He was seated on a small gray horse and he had braid on his hat and on his shoulders. He held the reins in one hand. A scabbard and sword hung from his saddle horn. I had no idea then, as he rode slowly past me, that he was General Kearny of the American Army.
From where I stood under the oak trees on a little rise, the valley stretched before me. On my right hand was the narrow ravine down which General Kearny came and his officers and men would come. The ravine led into a valley, off to my left, that was about three leagues in length and about a league in width, shallow and rolling. A stream that wandered through it was marked by willows and sycamore trees.
Across the valley, where we had camped that night, I saw our men run for their horses. Before the officer on the gray gelding had gone more than a dozen steps, they rode out of the camp and raced at a hard gallop away from him, down the valley.
More officers now came into view, riding in single file. Among them I recognized the man on the spotted horse who had stopped at Dos Hermanos, Lieutenant Carson.
With Don Andrés and Don Roberto in the lead, our men were fleeing. Or so I thought. I guess that the gringos thought so too, for at once they set off in pursuit.