Chapter Thirty Six.
A Neglected Dwelling.
A Country-House some ten miles from San Francisco, in a south-westerly direction. It stands inland about half-way between the Bay and the Pacific shore, among the Coast Range hills.
Though a structure of mud-brick—the sort made by the Israelites in Egypt—and with no pretension to architectural style, it is, in Californian parlance, a hacienda. For it is the headquarters of a grazing estate; but not one of the first-class, either in stock or appointments. In these respects, it was once better off than now; since now it is less than second, showing signs of decay everywhere, but nowhere so much as in the dwelling itself, and the enclosures around. Its walls are weather-washed, here and there cracked and crumbling; the doors have had no paint for years, and opening or shutting, creak upon hinges thickly-coated with rust. Its corrals contain no cattle, nor are any to be seen upon the pastures outside. In short, the estate shows as if it had an absentee owner, or none at all.
And the house might appear uninhabited, but for some peons seen sauntering listlessly around, and a barefoot damsel or two, standing dishevelled by its door, or in the kitchen kneeling over the metate, and squeezing out maize-dough for the eternal tortillas.
However, despite its neglected appearance, the hacienda has an owner; and with all their indolence, the lounging leperoa outside, and slatternly wenches within, have a master. He is not often at home, but when he is they address him as “Don Faustino.” Servants rarely add the surname.
Only at rare intervals do his domestics see him. He spends nearly all his time elsewhere—most of it in Yerba Buena, now named San Francisco. And of late more than ever has he absented himself from his ancestral halls; for the hacienda is the house in which he was born; it, with the surrounding pasture-land, left him by his father, some time deceased.
Since coming into possession, he has neglected his patrimony; indeed, spent the greater portion of it on cards, and evil courses of other kinds; for the dueno of the ill-conditioned dwelling is Faustino Calderon.
As already hinted, his estate is heavily mortgaged, the house almost a ruin. In his absence, it looks even more like one; for then his domestics, having nothing to do, are scarce ever seen outside, to give the place an appearance of life. Fond of cards as their master, they may at most times be observed, squatted upon the pavement of the inner court, playing monté on a spread blanket, with copper clacos staked upon the game.
When the dueno is at home, things are a little different; for, Don Faustino, with all his dissipation, is anything but an indulgent master. Then his muchuchos have to move about, and wait upon him with assiduity. If they don’t, they will hear carajos from his lips, and receive cuts from his riding-whip.
It is the morning after that night when the “El Dorado” monté bank suspended play and pay; the time, six o’clock a.m. Notwithstanding the early hour, the domestics are stirring about the place, as if they had something to do, and were doing it. To one acquainted with their usual habits, the brisk movement will be interpreted as a sure sign that their master is at home.
And he is; though he has been there but a very short while—only a few minutes. Absent for more than a week, he has this morning made his appearance just as the day was breaking. Not alone; but in the company of a gentleman, whom all the servants know to be his intimate friend and associate—Don Francisco de Lara.
The two have come riding up to the house in haste, dropped the bridles on the necks of their horses, and, without saying a word, left these to the care of a couple of grooms, rudely roused from their slumber.
The house-servants, lazily drawing the huge door of the saguan, see that the dueno is in ill-humour, which stirs them into activity; and in haste, they prepare the repast called for—desayuno.
Having entered and taken seats, Don Faustino and his guest await the serving of the meal.
For some time in silence, each with an elbow rested on the table, a hand supporting his head, the fingers buried in his hair.
The silence is at length broken; the host, as it should be, speaking first.
“What had we best do, De Lara? I don’t think ’twill be safe staying here. After what’s happened, they’re sure to come after us.”
“That’s probable enough. Caspita! I’m puzzled to make out how that fellow who called out our names could have known we were there. ‘Crusaders’ he said they were; which means they were sailors belonging to the English warship. Of course the boat’s crew that was waiting. But what brought them up; and how came they to arrive there and then, just in the nick of time to spoil our plans? That’s a mystery to me.”
“To me, too.”
“There were no sailors hanging about the hotel that I saw; nor did we encounter any as we went through the streets. Besides, if we had, they couldn’t have passed us, and then come on from the opposite side, without our seeing them—dark as it was. ’Tis enough to make me believe in second-sight.”
“That appears the only way to explain it.”
“Yes; but it won’t, and don’t. I’ve been thinking of another explanation, more conformable to the laws of nature.”
“What?”
“That there’s been somebody under that old boat. We stood talking there like four fools, calling out one another’s names. Now, suppose one of those sailors was waiting by the boat as we came along, and seeing us, crept under it? He could have heard everything we said; and slipping off, after we went to the wall, might have brought up the rest of the accursed crew. The thing seems odd; at the same time it’s possible enough, and probable too.”
“It is; and now you speak of it. I remember something. While we were under the wall, I fancied I saw a man crouching along the water’s edge, as if going away from the boat.”
“You did?”
“I’m almost certain I did. At the time, I thought nothing of it, as we were watching for the other two; and I had no suspicion of any one else being about. Now, I believe there was one.”
“And now, I believe so too. Carramba! that accounts for everything. I see it all. That’s how the sailor got our names, and knew all about our design—that to do—murder! You needn’t start at the word, nor turn pale. But you may at the prospect before us. Carrai! we’re in danger, Calderon;—no mistake about it. Why the devil didn’t you tell me of it—at the time you saw that man?”
“Because, as I’ve said, I had no thought it could be any one connected with them.”
“Well, your thoughtlessness has got us into a fix indeed—the worst I’ve ever been in, and I can remember a few. No use to think about duelling now, whoever might be challenger. Instead of seconds, they’d meet us with a posse of sheriff’s officers. Likely enough they’ll be setting them after us before this. Although I feel sure our bullets didn’t hit either, it’ll be just as bad. The attempt will tell against us all the same. Therefore, it won’t do to stay here. So direct your servants not to unsaddle. We’ll need to be off, soon as we’ve swallowed a cup of chocolate.”
A call from Don Faustino brings one of his domestics to the door; then a word or two sends him off with the order for keeping the horses in hand.
“Chingara!” fiercely exclaims De Lara, striking the table with his shut fist, “everything has gone against us.”
“Everything, indeed. Our money lost, our love made light of, our revenge baffled—”
“No, not the last! Have no fear, Faustino. That’s still to come.”
“How?”
“How I you ask, do you?”
“I do. I can’t see what way we can get it now. You know the English officers will be gone in a day or two. Their ship is to sail soon. Last night there was talk in the town that she might leave at any moment—to-morrow, or it may be this very day.”
“Let her go, and them with her. The sooner the better for us. That won’t hinder me from the revenge I intend taking. On the contrary, ’twill help me. Ha! I shall strike this Crozier in his tenderest part! and you can do the same for Señor Cadwallader.”
“In what way?”
“Faustino Calderon, I won’t call you a fool, notwithstanding your behaviour last night. But you ask some very silly questions, and that’s one of them. Supposing these gringos gone from here, does it follow they’ll take everything along with them? Can you think of nothing they must needs leave behind?”
“Their hearts. Is that what you mean?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“What then?”
“Their sweethearts, stupid! And that brings me to what I intend telling you—leastwise to the first chapter of it.”
“Which is!”
“That somebody else is going away, too.”
“Who?”
“Don Gregorio Montijo!”
“Don Gregorio Montijo?”
“Don Gregorio, daughter and grand-daughter.”
“You astonish me! But are they leaving California for good?”
“Leaving it for good.”
“That is strange intelligence, startling! Though I can understand the reason; that’s well known.”
“Oh, yes; the Don’s disgusted with things as they now go here; and I suppose the señoritas are also. No wonder. Since these ragged and red-shirted gentry have taken possession of the place, it’s not very agreeable for ladies to show themselves about; nor very safe, I should say. Good reason for Don Gregorio selling out, and betaking himself to quieter quarters.”
“He has sold out, has he?”
“He has.”
“You’re sure of it?”
“Quite sure. Rafael Rocas has told me all about it. And for an enormous sum of money. How much do you suppose?”
“Perhaps 100,000 dollars. His property ought to be worth that.”
“Whether it ought to be, or is, it has realised three times the amount.”
“Carramba! Has Rocas said so?”
“He has.”
“Has he told you who the generous purchaser is?”
“Some speculating Yankees, who fancy they see far into the future, and think Don Gregorio’s pasture-land a good investment. There’s a partnership of purchasers, I believe, and they’ve paid the money down, in cash.”
“Already! What kind of cash?”
“The best kind—doubloons and dollars. Not all in coin. Some of it in the currency of California—gold-dust and nuggets.”
“That’s quite as good. Santissima! a splendid fortune. All for a piece of pasture-land, that twelve months ago wasn’t worth a tenth part the amount! What a pity my own acres are already hypothecated! I might have been a millionaire.”
“No! your land lies too far-off. These Yankees have bought Don Gregorio’s land for ‘town-lots,’ as they call them. In due time, no doubt, they’ll cover them with their psalm-singing churches and schoolhouses—though the first building put up should be a prison.”
Both laugh together at this modest jeu d’esprit; their mirth having a double significance. For neither need be over-satisfied with the sight of a prison.
“By the Virgin!” exclaims Calderon, continuing the conversation; “Don Gregorio has done well, and he may be wise in quitting California. But what the devil are we to do about the girls? Of course, as you say, they’re going to!”
“And so it may be. But not before another event takes place—one that may embarrass, and delay, if it do not altogether prevent their departure.”
“Amigo; you talk enigmatically. Will you oblige me by speaking plainer?”
“I will; but not till we’ve had our chocolate, and after it a copita of Catalan. I need a little alcohol to get my brain in working order; for there’s work for it to do. Enough now to tell you I’ve had a revelation. A good angel—or it may be a bad one—has visited me, and given it. A vision which shows me at the same time riches and revenge—pointing the straight way to both.”
“Has the vision shown that I’m to be a sharer in these fine things?”
“It has; and you shall be. But only in proportion as you may prove yourself worthy.”
“Por Dios! I’ll do my best. I have the will, if you’ll only instruct me in the way.”
“I’ll do that. But I warn you, ’twill need more than will—strength, secrecy, courage, determination.”
“Desayuno, señores!”
This from one of the domestics announcing the chocolate served.