The Splendid Idle Forties | Page 2

in the dust? Ay! our golden horses, with the tails and manes of
silver--how beautiful is the contrast with the vaqueros in their black
and silver, their soft white linen! The shame! the shame!--if they are
put to shame! Poor Guido! Will he lose this day, when he has won so
many? But the stranger is so handsome! Dios de mi vida! his eyes are
like dark blue stars. And he is so cold! He alone--he seems not to care.
Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios! he wins again! No! no! no! Yes! Ay!
yi! yi! B-r-a-v-o!"
Guido Cabañares dug his spurs into his horse and dashed to the head of
the field, where Don Vicente sat at the left of General Castro. He was
followed hotly by several friends, sympathetic and indignant. As he
rode, he tore off his serape and flung it to the ground; even his silk
riding-clothes sat heavily upon his fury. Don Vicente smiled, and rode
forward to meet him.
"At your service, señor," he said, lifting his sombrero.
"Take your mustangs back to Los Angeles!" cried Don Guido, beside
himself with rage, the politeness and dignity of his race routed by
passion. "Why do you bring your hideous brutes here to shame me in
the eyes of Monterey? Why--"
"Yes! Why? Why?" demanded his friends, surrounding De la Vega.
"This is not the humiliation of a man, but of the North by the accursed
South! You even would take our capital from us! Los Angeles, the
capital of the Californias!"
"What have politics to do with horse-racing?" asked De la Vega, coldly.
"Other strangers have brought their horses to your field, I suppose."

"Yes, but they have not won. They have not been from the South."
By this time almost every caballero on the field was wheeling about De
la Vega. Some felt with Cabañares, others rejoiced in his defeat, but all
resented the victory of the South over the North.
"Will you run again?" demanded Cabañares.
"Certainly. Do you think of putting your knife into my neck?"
Cabañares drew back, somewhat abashed, the indifference of the other
sputtering like water on his passion.
"It is not a matter for blood," he said sulkily; "but the head is hot and
words are quick when horses run neck to neck. And, by the Mother of
God, you shall not have the last race. My best horse has not run. Viva
El Rayo!"
"Viva El Rayo!" shouted the caballeros.
"And let the race be between you two alone," cried one. "The North or
the South! Los Angeles or Monterey! It will be the race of our life."
"The North or the South!" cried the caballeros, wheeling and galloping
across the field to the doñas. "Twenty leagues to a real for Guido
Cabañares."
"What a pity that Ysabel is not here!" said Doña Modeste Castro to Pio
Pico. "How those green eyes of hers would flash to-day!"
"She would not come," said the Governor. "She said she was tired of
the race."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked De la Vega, who had rejoined them.
"Of Ysabel Herrera, La Favorita of Monterey," answered Pio Pico.
"The most beautiful woman in the Californias, since Chonita Iturbi y
Moncada, my Vicente. It is at her uncle's that I stay. You have heard
me speak of my old friend; and surely you have heard of her."

"Ay!" said De la Vega. "I have heard of her."
"Viva El Rayo!"
"Ay, the ugly brute!"
"What name? Vitriolo? Mother of God! Diablo or Demonio would suit
him better. He looks as if he had been bred in hell. He will not stand the
quirto; and El Rayo is more lightly built. We shall beat by a dozen
lengths."
The two vaqueros who were to ride the horses had stripped to their soft
linen shirts and black velvet trousers, cast aside their sombreros, and
bound their heads with tightly knotted handkerchiefs. Their spurs were
fastened to bare brown heels; the cruel quirto was in the hand of each;
they rode barebacked, winding their wiry legs in and out of a horse-hair
rope encircling the body of the animal. As they slowly passed the
crowd on their way to the starting-point at the lower end of the field,
and listened to the rattling fire of wagers and comments, they looked
defiant, and alive to the importance of the coming event.
El Rayo shone like burnished copper, his silver mane and tail glittering
as if powdered with diamond-dust. He was long and graceful of body,
thin of flank, slender of leg. With arched neck and flashing eyes, he
walked with the pride of one who was aware of the admiration he
excited.
Vitriolo was black and powerful. His long neck fitted into well-placed
shoulders. He had great