curvets with the rowels of their huge silver-mounted spurs.
Dark lissome girls raise their velvety eyes and applaud this daring horsemanship. Se¤ioritas Luisa, Isabel, and Panchita lose no point of the display. In a land without carriages or roads, the appearance of the cavalier, his mount, his trappings, most do make the man shine before these fair slips of Mexican blue blood.
Down on the beach, the boys race their half-broken broncos. These lads are as lithe and lean as the ponies they bestride. Across the bay, the Sierras of Santa Cruz lift their virgin crests (plumed with giant redwoods) to the brightest skies on earth. Flashing brooks wander to the sea unvexed by mill, unbridged in Nature's unviolated freedom. Far to north and south the foot-hills stand shining with their golden coats of wild oats, a memorial of the seeds cast over these fruitful mesas by Governor Caspar de Portala. He left San Diego Mission in July, 1769, with sixty-five retainers, and first reached the Golden Gate.
Beyond the Coast Range lies a "terra incognita." A few soldiers only have traversed the Sacramento and San Joaquin. They wandered into the vales of Napa and Sonoma, fancying them a fairyland.
The sparkling waters of the American, the Sacramento, the Yuba, Feather, and Bear rivers are dancing silently over rift and ripple. There precious nuggets await the frenzied seekers for wealth. There are no gold-hunters yet in the gorges of these crystal streams. Down in Nature's laboratory, radiated golden veins creep along between feathery rifts of virgin quartz. They are the treasures of the careless gnomes.
Not till years later will Marshall pick up the first nugget of gleaming gold in Sutter's mill-race at Coloma. The "auri sacra fames" will bring thousands from the four quarters of the earth to sweep away "the last of the Dons."
A lovely land to-day. No axe rings in its forests. No steamboat threads the rivers. Not an engine is harnessed to man's use in this silent, lazy realm. The heart of the Sierras is inviolate. The word "Gold" must be whispered to break the charm.
The sun climbs to noon, then slowly sinks to the west. It dips into the silent sea, mirroring sparkling evening stars.
Stretching to Japan, the Pacific is the mysterious World's End.
Along the brown coast, the sea otter, clad in kingly robes, sports shyly in the kelp fields. The fur seals stream by unchased to their misty home in the Pribyloffs. Barking sea-lions clamber around the jutting rocks. Lazy whales roll on the quiet waters of the bay, their track an oily wake.
It is the land of siesta, of undreamed dreams, of brooding slumber.
The barbaric diversions of the day are done. The firing squad leave the guns. The twang of guitar and screech of violin open the fandango.
The young cavaliers desert the streets. Bibulous dignitaries sit in council around Governor Alvarado's table. Mexican cigars, wine in old silver flagons (fashioned by the deft workers of Chihuahua and Durango), and carafes of aguadiente, garnish the board.
The mahogany table (a mark of official grandeur), transported from Acapulco, is occupied (below the salt) by the young officers. Horse-racing, cock-fighting, and gambling on the combat of bear and bull, have not exhausted their passions. Public monte and faro leave them a few "doubloons" yet. Seated with piles of Mexican dollars before them, the young heroes enjoy a "lay-out." All their coin comes from Mexico. Hundreds of millions, in unminted gold and silver, lie under their careless feet, yet their "pieces of eight" date back to Robinson Crusoe! This is the land of "manana!" Had Hernando Cortez not found the treasures of Mexico, he might have fought his way north, over the Gila Desert, to the golden hoards of the sprites of the Sierras.
At the banquet fiery Alvarado counselled with General Vallejo. Flushed with victory, Captain Miguel was the lion of this feast. He chatted with his compadres.
The seniors talked over the expulsion of the strangers.
Cool advisers feared trouble from France, England, or the United States. Alvarado's instinct told him that foreigners would gain a mastery over the Dons, if permitted to enter in numbers. Texas was an irresistible warning. "Senores," said Alvarado, "the Russians came in 1812. Only a few, with their Kodiak Indians, settled at Bodega. Look at them now! They control beautiful Bodega! They are 800 souls! True, they say they are going, but only our posts at San Rafael and Sonoma checked them. A fear of your sword, General!" Alvarado drank to Vallejo.
Vallejo bowed to his Governor. "Senor," said he, "you are right. I have seen Mexico. I have been a scholar, as well as a soldier. I knew Von Resanoff's Russian slyness. My father was at the Presidio in 1807, when he obtained rights for a few fur hunters. Poor fellow! he never lived to claim his bride, but he was a diplomat."
"Foreigners will finally outroot us. Here is Sutter, building his fort on the Sacramento! He's a good fellow, yet I'll have to burn New Helvetia about his ears some day. Russian or Swiss, French or Yankee, it's all the same. The 'Gringo' is the worst of all. Poor Conception de Arguello. She waited long for her dead Russian lover."
"General, do you think the Yankees can ever attack us by land?" said Alvarado.
"Madre de Dios! No!" cried Vallejo, "we will drag them at our horses' tails!"
"Then, I have no fear of them," said Alvarado. "We occupy San Diego, Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco, the missions of San Juan Capistrano, Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo and Santa Clara, and help to control the Indians, but these home troubles have stopped their useful growth."
Governor Alvarado sighed. Governor Hijar in 1834 had desecularized the Catholic missions. Their cattle were stolen, their harvests and vineyards destroyed. The converts were driven off to seek new homes among the Utes, Yubas, Feather River, Napa, and Mohave tribes.
Pious Alvarado crossed himself. He glanced uneasily at Padre Castillo—at the board. Only one or two priests were left at the beautiful settlements clustering around the old mission churches. To-day these are the only architectural ornaments of Alta California.
"I doubt the wisdom of breaking up the missions," said Alvarado, with gloomy brow. A skeleton was at this feast. The troubled Governor could not see the handwriting on the wall. He felt California was a priceless jewel to Mexico. He feared imprudent measures. Lying dormant, California slept since Cabrillo saw Cape Mendocino in 1542. After he turned his shattered prows back to Acapulco on June 27, 1543, it was only on November 10, 1602, that ambitious Viscaino raised the Spanish ensign at San Diego. He boldly claimed this golden land for Spain. Since that furtive visit, the lonely coast lay unsettled. It was only used as a haunt by wild pirates, lurking to attack the precious Philippine galleons sailing to Acapulco. For one hundred and sixty-eight years the land was unvisited. Spanish greed and iron rule satisfied itself with grinding the Mexicans and turning southward in the steps of Balboa and Pizarro.
Viscaino's neglected maps rotted in Madrid for two centuries. Fifty-five years of Spanish rule left California undeveloped, save by the gentle padres who, aided by their escort, brought in the domestic animals. They planted fruit-trees, grains, and the grape. They taught the peaceful Indians agriculture. Flax, hemp, and cotton supplanted the skins of animals.
Alvarado and Vallejo remembered the Spanish war in 1822. At this banquet of victory, neither thought that, a few years later, the rule of the Dons would be over; that their familiar places would know them no more. Just retribution of fate! The Dons drove out the friars, and recked not their own day was close at hand.
As the exultant victors stood drinking the toast of the day, "Muerte los estrangeros," neither crafty statesman, sly priest, fiery general, wise old Don, nor reckless caballero, could predict that the foreigners would return in two years. That they would
