The Pride of Palomar | Page 2

of love. I know it isn't literature, Mul,
but I have joyed in writing it and it has, at least, the merit of sincerity.
It is an expression of faith and for all its faults and imperfections, I
think you will find, tucked away in it somewhere, a modicum of merit.
I have tried to limn something, however vague, of the beauty of the
land we saw through boyish eyes before the real estate agent had
profaned it.
You were born with a great love, a great reverence for beauty. That
must be because you were born in Sonoma County in the light of God's
smile. Each spring in California the dogwood blossoms are, for you, a
creamier white, the buckeye blossoms more numerous and fragrant, the
hills a trifle greener and the old order, the old places, the old friends a
little dearer.
Wherefore, with much appreciation of your aid in its creation and of
your unfaltering friendship and affection, I dedicate "The Pride of
Palomar" to you.
Faithfully,
PETER B. KYNE.
SAN FRANCISCO
JUNE 9, 1921.

_Acknowledgment is made of the indebtedness of the author for much
of the material used in this book to Mr. Montaville Flowers, author of
"The Japanese Conquest of American Opinion."_
P. B. K.

THE ILLUSTRATIONS
LOI The Man--Don Miguel Farrel . . . . Frontispiece Here amidst the
golden romance of the old mission, the girl suddenly understood Don
Mike
The Girl--Kay Parker ELOI

THE PRIDE of PALOMAR
I
For the first time in sixty years, Pablo Artelan, the majordomo of the
Rancho Palomar, was troubled of soul at the approach of winter. Old
Don Miguel Farrel had observed signs of mental travail in Pablo for a
month past, and was at a loss to account for them. He knew Pablo
possessed one extra pair of overalls, brand-new, two pairs of boots
which young Don Miguel had bequeathed him when the Great White
Father at Washington had summoned the boy to the war in April of
1917, three chambray shirts in an excellent state of repair, half of a fat
steer jerked, a full bag of Bayo beans, and a string of red chilli-peppers
pendant from the rafters of an adobe shack which Pablo and his wife,
Carolina, occupied rent free. Certainly (thought old Don Miguel) life
could hold no problems for one of Pablo's race thus pleasantly situated.
Coming upon Pablo this morning, as the latter sat in his favorite seat
under the catalpa tree just outside the wall of the ancient adobe
compound, where he could command a view of the white wagon-road

winding down the valley of the San Gregorio, Don Miguel decided to
question his ancient retainer.
"My good Pablo," he queried, "what has come over thee of late? Thou
art of a mien as sorrowful as that of a sick steer. Can it be that thy
stomach refuses longer to digest thy food? Come; permit me to
examine thy teeth. Yes, by my soul; therein lies the secret. Thou hast a
toothache and decline to complain, thinking that, by thy silence, I shall
be saved a dentist's bill." But Pablo shook his head in negation.
"Come!" roared old Don Miguel. "Open thy mouth!"
Pablo rose creakily and opened a mouth in which not a tooth was
missing. Old Don Miguel made a most minute examination, but failed
to discover the slightest evidence of deterioration.
"Blood of the devil!" he cried, disgusted beyond measure. "Out with
thy secret! It has annoyed me for a month."
"The ache is not in my teeth, Don Miguel. It is here." And Pablo laid a
swarthy hand upon his torso. "There is a sadness in my heart, Don
Miguel. Two years has Don Mike been with the soldiers. Is it not time
that he returned to us?"
Don Miguel's aristocratic old face softened.
"So that is what disturbs thee, my Pablo?"
Pablo nodded miserably, seated himself, and resumed his task of
fashioning the hondo of a new rawhide riata.
"It is a very dry year," he complained. "Never before have I seen
December arrive ere the grass in the San Gregorio was green with the
October rains. Everything is burned; the streams and the springs have
dried up, and for a month I have listened to hear the quail call on the
hillside yonder. But I listen in vain. The quail have moved to another
range."
"Well, what of it, Pablo?"

"How our beloved Don Mike enjoyed the quail-shooting in the fall!
Should he return now to the Palomar, there will be no quail to shoot."
He wagged his gray head sorrowfully. "Don Mike will think that, with
the years, laziness and ingratitude have descended upon old Pablo.
Truly, Satan afflicts me." And he cursed with great depth of feeling--in
English.
"Yes, poor