For the Soul of Rafael

by Marah Ellis Ryan

Bryton, knowing something and surmising more of the situation, held the army men with some promise to "fix things," and secretly despatched a trusted vaquero with a letter to San Pedro, allowing the new heir for his return just the time necessary for the next ship to come into the harbor, and the extra day's drive from Los Angeles. In the meantime a personal letter giving orders to Don Antonio to hand over the stock as per contract was needed badly in San Juan, if Don Rafael ever cared again for government favors.

The vaquero rode back in forty-eight hours with the order. The work of rounding-up began over again, and only Keith Bryton and Don Antonio knew how it had come about.

Slowly affairs began to assume their usual routine. People began to talk of other things; and only Doña Teresa, the widow of Miguel, continued to go daily to the dark old chapel back of the Mission dining-room, and kneel in prayer before the wooden saints in the niches. She sat in the patio of Juan Alvara's house, and stared listlessly from one square of tiling in the pavement to another. The priest had just left her after the perfunctory words of solace, and was refreshing himself with a glass of brandy preparatory to a game of malilla. The week had been one of trial; it always is so when the death is one of accident—no one is ready.

The Doña Teresa had been a pretty girl in the days when Miguel Arteaga serenaded her endlessly, and her family had insisted that the marriage should not be postponed to add to their sleepless nights. One year—two years, and the serenades were a thing of a former life, and so was fat Teresa's beauty. From the willows was brought again the Indian girl whose two children had been christened in his name. She looked after the servants who cooked for the vaqueros. Her manner was ever quiet and submissive to Doña Teresa, who accepted her as better than any of the others of the same class. Doña Teresa had no children, and envied though she was not jealous of Aguada of the smoke-black eyes and the babies. And it was Aguada who came to Doña Teresa in the patio, undid her bonnet-strings, and bathed her face and hands with cool water.

Past the veranda of Juan Alvara, at San Juan, all the world of Southern California found its way. There was a tavern down the street, where the stages stopped between Los Angeles and San Diego, but Juan Alvara's house was the one dwelling where distinguished travellers were entertained, after the hospitality of the padres at the Mission was a thing of the past. It was up to this veranda Keith Bryton rode from the second round-up at Boca de la Playa. He was tired and dusty, and accepted gratefully the wine for which the old man sent when he saw his guest approaching.

Alvara did not usually like "Gringos"; but at the time the Juan Flores bandits were holding up the town for ransom, it was Keith Bryton who had gathered a posse of men, including the sheriff, and headed them again for San Juan. Grain-sacks were piled along the roof of the Mission as a barricade, and behind them some riflemen guarded, as best they could, the several families who had fled to the walls of the church for protection.

Only one store had been burned, and one store-keeper killed, when the help came—thanks to Bryton, and that one ride broke down all barriers for the young Gringo in San Juan. He now never rode past Alvara's veranda without a halt for a glass of wine, or a chat, or even that best test of understanding, a rest in silence together, looking out across the river to the blue shadows of the hills.

This day as the young man sat smoking in such silence, viewing idly the passing Indians whose dark faces were lit by the rosy glow of the lowering sun, and watching the circling doves whose white wings caught flashes of pink from pink clouds above, the older man, regarding his thoughtful face, asked after a quiet interval, "What is it, my friend?"

The handsome bronzed young fellow stretched wide his arms with a great sigh, and laughed shortly.

"Foolishness, Don Juan, much foolishness. I was homesick for a something I never knew, so I left Los Angeles and came here to find it. Can you understand so crazy a thing as that?"