The San Rosario Ranch

by Maud Howe Elliott

The fires in the western sky burned low and finally faded out before Graham rose from his seat near the window and touched his lamp into flame. The searching light of the large astral revealed clearly the interior of the apartment in which the artist lived and worked. It was a square, high room, not very large, with a miscellaneous furnishing. One corner, half hidden by a large canvas, was devoted to his narrow wooden bed and dressing-table. Near a large casement stood his easel with palette and brushes. On the walls hung a pair of foils and masks and some boxing gloves. These, and a pair of Indian clubs in the corner, proved that the occupant of the tower was not careless of developing the splendid muscles with which he was endowed. Near the doorway hung a string of curious Japanese netshukés,--masks, monkeys, bears, men, women, and fruit, carefully carved in wood or ivory by the greatest artificers the world knows to-day. The walls were covered with pictures and sketches; the large table littered with books and tubes of paint. A group of deer antlers served as clothes-pegs, and the floor was strewn with the skins of these and many other animals. A quaint apartment, in which no attempts at the picturesque had been made, which the careless grouping together of many objects had nevertheless attained.

John Graham had reclaimed the old tower from utter desolation two years before, when he took up his residence in the ruins of the Spanish Mission. The adobe building had fallen to decay, a thick cloak of ivy and flowering vines mercifully hiding from the light of day the desolate ruin of what had been the religious centre of the country of San Rosario. The church walls had fallen to the ground; but the reredos and deserted altar stood swept by the winds of heaven, and decked with climbing roses and clinging ferns. The tower, which had been built very substantially, and with a view to defence in case of danger, still stood stanch, gray and weather-beaten. A flight of steep wooden stairs leading from what had been the vestibule of the church gave access to the room.

The tower stood within the limits of the San Rosario Ranch, the property of Mr. Ralph Almsford, which included twenty square miles of wooded country and arable land.

When Graham had asked permission to establish himself in the old tower, Mr. Almsford had readily granted the request, thinking, however, that he would weary of the solitary life in a few weeks. Two years had now passed, and the artist still inhabited his little eyrie, whose possession he disputed with the night owls which had been wont to sit blinking in the tower through the long hours of daylight. The place was five miles distant from the Deering house, and Graham's only neighbor was an old wood-cutter who lived in a cabin hard by, and who went by the name of French John. He prepared the artist's meals and took charge of his room. French John was a strange, silent old creature, whose life had been a varied one. He had served in the French army first as a soldier, then as an officer's servant. His reminiscences, when he could be induced to tell them, were full of interest. He had been in Paris in '48; his hands had helped to tear up the pavement to make the blockades and barriers. He had served in Algiers, whence he had come to America, and gone as a private to the war of the Southern Rebellion. He had finally drifted out to the San Rosario Ranch, where he would in all probability pass the remainder of his days. For some reason he had received no pension from either of the governments for the support of which he had shed his blood. In his old age this stranded bit of humanity was forced to support himself by the hard labor of a wood-cutter. His little cabin was built behind the altar, where the Lady Chapel had once stood, sheltered from the winds by the high screen of the reredos.

It was to the humble dwelling of French John that Graham proceeded after having made a toilet with unusual care. The door of the little log hut was ajar; and as he approached, the interior was entirely visible, revealed by the uncertain light of the wood-fire. The old man was stooping over the blaze with a saucepan in his hand, the contents of which he was vigorously stirring. Three cats of preternaturally grave aspect sat nearby, intently watching the culinary preparations. A mangy old hunting dog lay snoring in the corner, gray and scarred as his master. A battered fowling-piece and a greasy game-bag were flung on the wooden bench which served as table and chair to the occupant of the humble dwelling. The young man paused a moment on the threshold and sighed. The unkempt little cot with its lonely owner only differed in degree from his own tower, from himself. He had not even the companionship of the dumb beasts. When he should grow as old and battered as the wrinkled wood-cutter, would he be dependent for sympathy on a purring cat, or an old dog? Presently he spoke, but it was in a loud, cheery voice which in nowise indicated the sombre thought which had just suggested itself to his mind.

"Good-evening, John. What luck did you have to-day?"

"Four quail and two rabbits," replied the old man laconically, without returning the greeting of his visitor.

"And what have you in that old iron pot of yours? Something very good, I warrant."

"Stewed quail with bacon."

"Well, you must eat it yourself, for I do not want any supper to-night; I am going up to the house to pass the evening. Here is a package of tobacco for you. I shall be ready at the usual time for my breakfast."