The Little Lady of Lagunitas | Page 7

of
tiger-cat skin seamed with bullion and fringed with dollars, their brown
faces were surmounted by rich sombreros, huge of rim. They were
decorated in knightly fashion with silver lace. The young caballeros
awaited their preux chevalier. Saddle and bridle shone with heavy
silver mountings. Embossed housings and "tapadero," hid the
symmetry of their deer-like coursers.
Pliant rawhide lassos coiled on saddle horns, gay serapes tied behind
each rider, and vicious machetes girded on thigh, these sons of the
West were the pride of the Pacific.
Not one of them would be dismayed at a seven days' ride to Los
Angeles. A day's jaunt to a fandango, a night spent in dancing, a gallop
home on the morrow, was child's play to these young Scythians.
Pleasure-loving, brave, and courteous; hospitable, and fond of their
lovely land--they bore all fatigue in the saddle, yet despised any manual
exertion; patricians all, in blood.
So it has been since man conquered the noblest inferior animal. The
man on the horse always rides down and tramples his brother on foot.
Life is simply a struggle for the saddle, and a choice of the rarest mount
in the race. To-day these gay riders are shadows of a forgotten past.
Before noon Captain Peralta receives the order of the Governor. It
authorizes him to locate his military grant. General Vallejo, with regret,
hands Miguel an order relieving him from duty. He is named
Commandante of the San Joaquin valley, under the slopes of the
undefiled Sierras.
Laden with messages, despatches, and precious letters for the ranches
on the road to the Golden Gate, he departs. These are entrusted to the
veteran sergeant, major-domo and shadow of his beloved master.
Miguel bounds into the saddle. He gayly salutes the Governor and

General with a graceful sweep of his sombrero. He threads the crowded
plaza with adroitness, swaying easily from side to side as he greets
sober friend or demure Donna. He smiles kindly on all the tender-eyed
senoritas who admire the brave soldier, and in their heart of hearts envy
Juanita Castro, the Rose of Alameda.
Alert and courteous, the future bright before him, Peralta gazes on the
Mexican flag fluttering in the breeze. A lump rises in his throat. His
long service is over at last. He doffs his sombrero when the guard
"turns out" for him. It is the last honor.
He cannot foresee that a French frigate will soon lie in the very bay
smiling at his feet, and cover the returning foreigner with her batteries.
In two short years, sturdy old Commodore Jones will blunder along
with the American liners, CYANE and UNITED STATES, and haul
down that proud Mexican ensign. He will hoist for the first time, on
October, 19, 1842, the stars and stripes over the town. Even though he
apologizes, the foreigners will troop back there like wolves around the
dying bison of the west. The pines on Santa Cruz whisper of a coming
day of change. The daybreak of the age of gold draws near.
Steadily through the live-oaks and fragrant cypress the bridegroom
rides to the wedding. A few days' social rejoicings, then away to the
beautiful forests of his new ranch. It lies far in the hills of Mariposa.
There, fair as a garden of the Lord, the grassy knolls of the foothills
melt into the golden wild-oat fields of the San Joaquin.
Behind him, to the east, the virgin forest rises to the serrated peaks of
the Nevada. He drops his bridle on his horse's neck. He dreams of a day
when he can visit the unknown ca¤ons beyond his new home.
Several Ute chiefs have described giant forests of big trees. They tell of
a great gorge of awful majesty; that far toward the headwaters of the
American are sparkling lakes fed by winter snows.
His escort of young bloods rides behind him. They have had their
morning gymnastics, "a cheval," to edify the laughing beauties of the

baile of last night. The imprisoned rooster, buried to the neck in soft
earth, has been charged on and captured gaily. Races whiled away their
waiting moments.
Then, "adios, se¤oritas," with heart-pangs in chorus. After a toss of
aguardiente, the cigarito is lit. The beaux ride out for a glimpse of the
white cliffs of the Golden Gate. The sleeping Monterey belles dream
yet of yester-even. Nature smiles, a fearless virgin, with open arms.
Each rancho offers hospitality. Money payments are unknown here yet,
in such matters.
Down the Santa Clara avenue of great willows these friends ride in the
hush of a starry evening. As the mission shows its lights, musical bells
proclaim the vesper service. Their soft echoes are wafted to the ears of
these devotees.
Devoutly the caballeros dismount. They kneel on the tiled floor till