The Valiant Runaways | Page 4

sash that was knotted
about his waist, his cambric shirt open at the throat as if pulled
impatiently apart; the soft grey sombrero on the back of his curly head
making a wide frame for his dark, flushed, scowling face.
There was nothing in the surroundings to indicate the cause of his
disturbance. The great adobe house, its white sides and red tiles glaring
in the bright December sun, would have been as silent as a tomb but for
the rapid tramping of Roldan and the clank of his silver spurs on the
pavement. On all sides the vast Rancho Los Palos Verdes cleft the
horizon: Don Mateo Castanada was one of the wealthiest grandees in
the Californias, and his sons could gallop all day without crossing the
boundary line of their future possessions. The rancho was as level as
mid-ocean in a calm; here and there a wood or river broke the sweep;
thousands of cattle grazed. Now and again a mounted vaquero, clad in
small-clothes vivified with silver trimmings, dashed amongst tossing
horns, shouting and warning.
But Roldan saw none of these things. There was reason for his disquiet.
News had arrived an hour before which had thrown his young mind
into confusion: the soldiers were out for conscripts, and would in all

probability arrive at the Rancho Los Palos Verdes that evening or the
following morning. Roldan, like all the Californian youth, looked
forward to the conscription with apprehension and disgust. Not that he
was a coward. He could throw a bull as fearlessly as his elder brothers;
he had ridden alone at night the length of the rancho in search of a pet
colt that had strayed; and he had once defended the women of the
family single handed against a half dozen savages until reinforcements
had arrived. Moreover, the stories of American warfare which he had
managed to read, despite the prohibition of the priests, had stirred his
soul and fired his blood. But army life in California! It meant
languishing in barracks, hoping for a flash in the pan between two rival
houses, or a possible revolt against a governor. If the Americans should
come with intent to conquer! Roldan ground his teeth and stamped his
foot. Then, indeed, he could not get to the battlefield fast enough. But
the United States would never defy Mexico. They were clever enough
for that. His anger left him, and he gave a little regretful sigh. Not only
would he like that kind of a battle, but it would be great fun to know
some American boys. Then he shook his head impatiently and
dismissed these tourist thoughts. The present alone was to be
considered.
There were two ways to avoid conscription. One was to marry--Roldan
sniffed audibly; the other lay in flight and eluding the men until their
round was over for the year.
Roldan did not like the idea of running away from anything; he and
several of his father's vaqueros had once made an assault upon a band
of cattle thieves and hunted them into the mountains: that was much
more to his taste. Nevertheless there was one thing he liked less than
showing his heels, and that was giving up his liberty. Not to gallop at
will over the rancho, or sleep in a hammock, to coliar the bulls and
shout with the vaqueros at rodeo, to be the first at the games and the
races, to wear his silken clothes and lace ruffles, and eat the delightful
dishes his mother's cooks prepared! And then he was a very
high-spirited young gentleman. Although the same obedience, almost
reverence, was exacted of him by his parents that was a part of the
household religion in California, yet as the youngest child, who had
been delicate during his first five years, he had managed to get very
badly spoiled. He did not relish the idea of leading a life of monotony

and discipline, of performing hourly duties which did not suit his taste,
above all of being ordered to leave his father's house as if he were a
mere Indian. No, he decided, he would not go into the army--not this
year nor any other year. He would defy the governor and all his men.
When Roldan made up his mind he acted promptly. No time was to be
lost in this case. Now was the hour of siesta; he could have no better
time to get away. A note would relieve his parents of a certain amount
of anxiety; and if they did not know where he was they could not be
held accountable. His blood tingled at the presentiment of the
adventures he should have in that perilous journey through a country of
which he knew nothing beyond his father's and the adjoining rancho.
And