The Pride of Palomar | Page 6

three-fifths
Latin. Father married a Galvez, who was half Scotch; so I suppose I'm
an American."
"I should like to see you on your native heath, Farrel. Does your dad
still wear a conical-crowned sombrero, bell-shaped trousers, bolero
jacket, and all that sort of thing?"
"No, sir. The original Mike insisted upon wearing regular trousers and
hats. He had all of the prejudices of his race, and regarded folks who
did things differently from him as inferior people. He was a lieutenant
on a British sloop-of-war that was wrecked on the coast of San Marcos
County in the early 'Forties. All hands were drowned, with the
exception of my grandfather, who was a very contrary man. He swam
ashore and strolled up to the hacienda of the Rancho Palomar, arriving
just before luncheon. What with a twenty-mile hike in the sun, he was
dry by the time he arrived, and in his uniform, although somewhat
bedraggled, he looked gay enough to make a hit with my
great-grandfather Noriaga, who invited him to luncheon and begged
him to stay a while. Michael Joseph liked the place; so he stayed. You
see, there were thousands of horses on the ranch and, like all sailors, he
had equestrian ambitions."
"Great snakes! It must have been a sizable place."
"It was. The original Mexican grant was twenty leagues square."
"I take it, then, that the estate has dwindled in size."
"Oh, yes, certainly. My great-grandfather Noriaga, Michael Joseph I,

and Michael Joseph II shot craps with it, and bet it on horse-races, and
gave it away for wedding-doweries, and, in general, did their little best
to put the Farrel posterity out in the mesquite with the last of the
Mission Indians."
"How much of this principality have you left?"
"I do not know. When I enlisted, we had a hundred thousand acres of
the finest valley and rolling grazing-land in California and the hacienda
that was built in 1782. But I've been gone two years, and haven't heard
from home for five months."
"Mortgaged?"
"Of course. The Farrels never worked while money could be raised at
ten per cent. Neither did the Noriagas. You might as well attempt to
yoke an elk and teach him how to haul a cart."
"Oh, nonsense, Farrel! You're the hardest-working man I have ever
known."
Farrel smiled boyishly.
"That was in Siberia, and I had to hustle to keep warm. But I know I'll
not be home six months before that delicious _mañana_ spirit will
settle over me again, like mildew on old boots."
The captain shook his head.
"Any man who can see so clearly the economic faults of his race and
nevertheless sympathize with them is not one to be lulled to the ruin
that has overtaken practically all of the old native California families.
That strain of Celt and Gael in you will triumph over the easy-going
Latin."
"Well, perhaps. And two years in the army has helped tremendously to
eradicate an inherited tendency toward procrastination."
"I shall like to think that I had something to do with that," the officer

answered. "What are your plans?"
"Well, sir, this hungry world must be fed by the United States for the
next ten years, and I have an idea that the Rancho Palomar can pull
itself out of the hole with beef cattle. My father has always raised
short-legged, long-horned scrubs, descendants of the old Mexican
breeds, and there is no money in that sort of stock. If I can induce him
to turn the ranch over to me, I'll try to raise sufficient money to buy a
couple of car-loads of pure-bred Hereford bulls and grade up that scrub
stock; in four or five years I'll have steers that will weigh eighteen
hundred to two thousand pounds on the hoof, instead of the little
eight-hundred-pounders that have swindled us for a hundred years."
"How many head of cattle can you run on your ranch?"
"About ten thousand--one to every ten acres. If I could develop water
for irrigation in the San Gregorio valley, I could raise alfalfa and
lot-feed a couple of thousand more."
"What is the ranch worth?"
"About eight per acre is the average price of good cattle-range
nowadays. With plenty of water for irrigation, the valley-land would be
worth five hundred dollars an acre. It's as rich as cream, and will grow
anything--with water."
"Well, I hope your dad takes a back seat and gives you a free hand,
Farrel. I think you'll make good with half a chance."
"I feel that way also," Farrel replied seriously.
"Are you going south to-night?"
"Oh, no. Indeed not! I don't want to go home in the dark, sir." The
captain was puzzled. "Because I love my California, and I haven't seen
her for two years," Farrel