“Is this the Sacramento River?” asked Lieutenant Frémont, in the Spanish.
“No, señor. It is the Rio de los Americanos—the River of the Americans. It joins the Sacramento about ten miles below.”
“River of the Americans”! That sounded good; for to American travellers in foreign land the word “American” is sweet.
“Where, then, is the ranch of Captain Sutter?”
“Yonder, señor. I am a vaquero (cowboy) in the employ of Captain Sutter. The people of this village work for him. His house is just over the hill. If you will wait but a moment, señors, I myself will guide you thither. He is a very rich man, and he is always glad to see Americans.”
[XX]
DOWN THROUGH CALIFORNIA
The vaquero, or cowboy, had spoken truly. Beyond the hill was disclosed to view a large trading post—larger than either Bent’s Fort or Fort Laramie; built of adobe, like them, and like them fashioned with blockhouse corners, it had location more attractive, for it stood amidst wheat-fields and natural verdure, beside the sparkling American River.
“El Capitan Sutter comes, señors,” announced the vaquero, pointing.