* * *
Don Estoban Padilla, the patron of Rancho del Robles Viejos and Señorita Juana’s father, stood on the wide veranda of the hacienda, the corredor. It pleased him to hear the warbling of the morning birds, the lowing of cattle, and the playful whinnying of horses in the first yellow rays of sunshine. He had donned his brightly striped serape, which hung to midcalf front and back, to face the morning’s chill.
Before him he could see a broad vista leading down to the sea a mile distant, but it represented only a small portion of the rancho that had been home to him all his life, and before that to his father, who had come to Alta California in 1792.
Estoban propped a booted foot against the porch rail and smiled as a vaquero demonstrated his reata skill. The caballo, a dun horse he had lassoed, made several gallant leaps across the corral, scattering a few cackling chickens in front of it, trying to shed its rider. The slender man stuck fast, the tails of the bandanna he had tied around his head flapping as the horse leapt and landed stiff-legged then jumped again. He raked the sides of the horse with long-roweled spurs until the horse’s ribs dripped blood.
Estoban nodded his head with enough energy to bounce his single graying queue that hung down below his shoulders in the fashion of the dons.
Finally the animal stood quietly, shivering until the vaquero commanded him to turn with a touch of the reins.
“Well done,’ Estoban proclaimed, then turned his head to the entryway of the house. “Maria!” he shouted into the shuttered window of the hacienda. “Bring me a patrones, por favor.”
Estoban studied the hillsides and the dark green live oaks and light green sycamores that dotted them. His father, Don Tiburcio Padilla, had come north as a cholo, a mission guard and Spanish soldier. The guards were recruited from those sentenced to jail in Mazatlán or Acapulco.
Do your time in a miserable rat-and-flea-infested jail, or do your time on the frontier, guarding the missions and protecting the padres. Tiburcio had been one of those who wisely chose Alta California.
His crimes, unlike most of the others, were political. An educated man, Tiburcio soon rose above the other mission guards. Though he could have chosen to return to Mazatlán after his sentence was up, he refused. Instead, he stayed and distinguished himself as a builder. He was rewarded by the governor of California for his efforts and given a land grant.
The Chumash woman Maria stepped out of the hacienda and handed Don Estoban a long thin cigar, holding a lit tallow taper under it as he took a deep draw. He nodded to her, and she returned to her work sweeping the intricately woven Chinese carpets that covered the well-packed dirt floor of the big adobe casa.
Most thought carpets unhealthy, but Don Estoban found them warm and pleasant to look at. He had never been one for convention. He sat on one of several white stools carved from the vertebrae of a great whale and shined to a high polish that lined the corredor.
Muñoz, the boy who helped old Alfonso in the establo, or barn, looked up to see his patron watching and trotted over, pitchfork in hand.
“Do you wish me to saddle you a horse, Patrón?” the boy asked.
“No, Muñoz, today I must work on my ledgers. Give Diablo an extra handful of oats this morning. I worked him hard yesterday.” The Patrón kept five palomino Andalusian stallions for his personal use—the pride of his brood stock.
“Sí, señor,” the boy said. Disappointed that he could not serve his jefe in a more direct way, he hurried back to the barn.
Rancho del Robles Viejos lay along the sea for over three leagues and rose two leagues into the mountains—forty-six thousand acres of prime grazing land. Ten thousand head of wild cattle hid in the ranchos ravines and brush, and one thousand head of horses ran free, wandering between adjoining ranchos. Annual rodeos were held to round up and brand the cattle.
For years the primary income of the rancho had been hides, horn, and tallow. Steers were butchered on the range where they were lassoed and spiked, then skinned and horned. Arrobas, hide bags, each holding seventeen pounds of tallow, were filled with the fine butterlike side fat of animals that had spent their lives grazing contentedly on the gentle slopes of mist-watered hillsides overlooking the Pacific. The meat, so plentiful, was left for the carrion eaters.
But neither the hides nor the tallow brought what they once had, and the Chumash, who for years had brought otter skins to the rancho to trade for iron beans, and squash now brought fewer and fewer because there were fewer and fewer Indians and otter.
Yes, times were changing, Estoban thought, and he must change with them. But change to what? Hides, horn, tallow, and otter skins had been a way of life since his father’s time. The emancipation of the Indians fifteen years ago had changed things radically.
After the revolution in Mexico, the government had decided that the church was too close to Mother Spain and decided to diminish her power severely in California. Under the guise of emancipation, Mexico City had dictated that the land and stock of the missions be returned to the Indians. It was done as ordered, and the mission system was destroyed. Worse, the Mexicans in California immediately cheated and bartered the Indians out of their land, and the governors took advantage of the situation.
After its fall, Mission San Juan Capistrano, the queen of the missions, and many acres surrounding were auctioned off by the governor and sold for seven hundred dollars to the governor’s brother-in-law. Now Mexico was on the verge of war with the United States, and that too would change things.
Mexico City was far removed from Alta California and seemed to care little for its problems. The petty rebellions inside Alta California had established a climate of distrust, and each don looked upon the other as a potential revolutionary.
Estoban settled his lean frame into a porch chair and watched as his vaqueros rode from the corral. He noted the latecomers who had just begun to stir in the distant establo or to lasso horses from the remuda, the herd, kept in the corral. Drawing deeply on his patrones, he studied the rolling slopes in the distance.
Wheat and corn had been grown successfully at some of the ranchos, and coastal vessels had carried it to Mexico, which had been successful in trading it. Maybe he would become a farmer. Somehow, that did not set well with him, even though they grew almost all they needed in the gardens and vineyards of the rancho. But to grow for someone else? To be a slave to the weather?
No, that was not the way of the vaquero.
Eight
The next day, the whale butchering continued until a hundred yards of oaks on the hillside overlooking the harbor were covered with strips of flesh and the meat and trees were covered with seabirds of a dozen varieties. Ravens, golden eagles, bald eagles, and a pair of condors had joined in the feast, and the cawing and screaming of the birds blended with the surging surf and the barking and whistling of the whales until finally the sounds were as one. Then the whales cried no more.
It was over, or so Clint thought.
They rested again, then walked inland and found a meadow of salt grass. The men harvested until they had a pile as tall as a man, then each carried huge bundles bound with rope back to the hillside. They spread the whale meat on the dry rocks above the ocean then spread the salt grass on it. Some of the other Indians made huge packs of meat and started off on foot toward the interior of the island, where Clint presumed they lived. Hawk’s party loaded all the meat the boats could safely carry and started back,
In the middle of the channel, after four hours of hard paddling, Clint spotted a ship in the distance. Within an hour, he could make out the sail pattern of a brig. He motioned to Hawk, who understood that he wanted to try to make contact with the ship, and Hawk changed course.
Maybe, just maybe, Clint thought, I’ll soon be back with my shipmates—if any of them still live.
They paddled hard to intercept the ship, but the canoes rode deep in the water with the heavy load of meat and men. The brig sailed within a quarter mile of the boats, and Clint stood, shouted, and waved de
sperately. The crew of the Charleston waved back but sailed on,
Damn the soggers, Clint thought as he paddled, but resigned himself to his stay with the Indians. Soon… soon, he would set out to Santa Barbara, even if he had to do it on foot.