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C.Loyal

The Squatter and the Don

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Title: The Squatter and the Don

Author: C. Loyal

Release Date: March 09, 2011 [EBook #35538]

Language: English

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THE SQUATTER AND THE DON

A NOVEL DESCRIPTIVE OF CONTEMPORARY OCCURRENCES IN CALIFORNIA.

BY

C. LOYAL.

 

SAN FRANCISCO:

1885.

 

 

Copyright, 1885.

C. LOYAL.

San Francisco, Cal.

 

All Rights Reserved.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

• I. Squatter Darrell Reviews the Past.
• II. The Don's View of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.
• III. Pre-empting under the Law.
• IV. Efforts to Right the Wrong.
• V. The Don in his Broad Acres.
• VI. Naughty Dog Milord an Important Factor.
• VII. From Alameda to San Diego.
• VIII. Victoriano and His Sister.
• IX. Clarence is the Bearer of Joyful News.
• X. But Clarence Must Not be Encouraged.
• XI. George is a Christian Gentleman.
• XII. Why the Appeal was Not Dismissed.
• XIII. At San Francisco.
• XIV. Of Miscellaneous Incidents.
• XV. Journeying Overland.
• XVI. Spanish Land Grants Viewed Retrospectively.
• XVII. Doña Josefa at Home.
• XVIII. At Newport.
• XIX. In New York.
• XX. At the Capitol.
• XXI. Looking at the Receding Dome.
• XXII. Perplexities at Alamar.
• XXIII. Home Again.
• XXIV. The Brewers of Mischief.
• XXV. The Squatter and the Don.
• XXVI. Mrs. Darrell's View of Our Land Laws.
• XXVII. Darrell Astonishes Himself.
• XXVIII. Shall it be Forever?
• XXIX. Hasty Decisions Repented Leisurely.
• XXX. Effect of Bad Precept and Worse Example.
• XXXI. A Snow Storm.
• XXXII. A False Friend Sent to Deceive the Southerners.
• XXXIII. San Diego's Sentence is Irrevocable.
• XXXIV. The Sins of Our Legislators!
• XXXV. The Fashion of Justice in San Diego.
• XXXVI. Clarence and George with the Hod-carrier.
• XXXVII. Reunited at Last.
• CONCLUSION.—Out with the Invader.

CHAPTER I.—Squatter Darrell Reviews the Past.

“To be guided by good advice, is to profit by the wisdom of others; to be guided by experience, is to profit by wisdom of our own,” said Mrs. Darrell to her husband, in her own sweet, winning way, as they sat alone in the sitting room of their Alameda farm house, having their last talk that evening, while she darned his stockings and sewed buttons on his shirts. The children (so-called, though the majority were grown up) had all retired for the night. Mr. and Mrs. Darrell sat up later, having much to talk about, as he would leave next day for Southern California, intending to locate—somewhere in a desirable neighborhood—a homestead claim.

“Therefore,” continued Mrs. Darrell, seeing that her husband smoked his pipe in silence, adding no observations to her own, “let us this time be guided by our own past history, William—our experience. In other words, let us be wise, my husband.”

“By way of variety, you mean,” said he smiling. “That is, as far as I am concerned, because I own, frankly, that had I been guided by your advice—your wisdom—we would be much better off to-day. You have a right to reproach me.”

“I do not wish to do anything of the kind. I think reproaches seldom do good.”

“No use in crying over spilt milk, eh?”

“That is not my idea, either. On the contrary, if by ‘milk’ it is meant all or any earthly good whatever, it is the ‘spilt milk’ that we should lament. There is no reason to cry for the milk that has not been wasted, the good that is not lost. So let us cry for the spilt milk, by all means, if by doing so we learn how to avoid spilling any more. Let us cry for the spilt milk, and remember how, and where, and when, and why, we spilt it. Much wisdom is learnt through tears, but none by forgetting our lessons.”

“But how can a man learn when he is born a fool?”

“Only an idiot is, truly speaking, a born fool; a fool to such a degree that he cannot act wisely if he will. It is only when perversity is added to foolishness, that a being—not an idiot—is utterly a fool. To persist in acting wrongfully, that is the real folly. To reject good counsel, either of one's own good thoughts or the good thoughts of others. But to act foolishly by deciding hastily, by lack of mature reflection, that I should only call a foolish mistake. So, then, if we have been foolish, let us at least utilize our foolishness by drawing from it lessons of wisdom for the future. We cannot conscientiously plead that we are born fools when we see our errors.”

Mr. Darrell smilingly bowed, and with a voice much softer than his usual stentorian tones, said:

“I understand, little wife, but I fear that my streak of perversity is a broad one, and has solely been the bane of my life; it has a fatality accompanying it. I have often seen the right way to act, and yet I have gone with my eyes wide open to do the wrong thing. And this, too, not meaning to do harm to any one, nor wishing to be malicious or mean. I don't know what power impelled me. But if you will forgive my past wickedness, I'll try to do better.”

“Don't say that. Don't speak of your wickedness, for real wickedness is perversity. You have acted wrongly at times, when you have misapplied your rights and the rights of others, but you have not intentionally done wrong. You are not perverse; don't say that.”

“In a few days it will be twenty-four years since we crossed the plains with our three babies, in our caravan of four wagons, followed by our fine horses and choice Durham cows. I firmly believed then, that with my fine stock and my good bank account, and broad government lands, free to all Americans, I should have given you a nice home before I was five years older; that I would have saved money and would be getting more to make us rich before I was old. But see, at the end of twenty-four years, where and how do I find myself? I am still poor, all I have earned is the name of ‘Squatter.’ That pretty name (which I hate because you despise it) is what I have earned.”

“Don't say that either, William. We will only recommence one of numerous fruitless discussions. We are not poor, because we have enough to live in comfort, and I do not despise the name of Squatter, for it is harmless enough, but I do certainly disapprove of acts done by men because they are squatters, or to become squatters. They have caused much trouble to people who never harmed them.”

“They, too, the poor squatters, have suffered as much distress as they have caused, the poor hard-worked toilers.”

“That is very true, but I am afraid I shall never be able to see the necessity of any one being a squatter in this blessed country of plentiful broad acres, which a most liberal government gives away for the asking.”

“That's exactly it. We aren't squatters. We are ‘settlers.’ We take up land that belongs to us, American citizens, by paying the government price for it.”

“Whenever you take up government land, yes, you are ‘settlers,’ but not when you locate claims on land belonging to any one else. In that case, you must accept the epithet of ‘Squatter.’”

Darrell set his teeth so tightly, that he bit a little chip off his pipe. Mrs. Darrell went on as if she had not observed her husband's flash of irritation.

“But I hope we will never more deserve such name; I trust that before you locate any homestead claim in Southern California, you will first inform yourself, very carefully, whether any one has a previous claim. And more specially, I beg of you, do not go on a Mexican grant unless you buy the land from the owner. This I beg of you specially, and must insist upon it.”

“And how am I to know who is the owner of a rancho that has been rejected, for instance?”

“If the rancho is still in litigation, don't buy land in it, or if you do, buy title from the original grantee, on fair conditions and clear understanding.”

“I don't know whether that can be done in the Alamar rancho, which I am going to see, and I know it has been rejected. But of one thing you can rest assured, that I shall not forget our sad experience in Napa and Sonoma valleys, where—after years of hard toil—I had to abandon our home and lose the earnings of years and years of hard work.”

“That is all I ask, William. To remember our experience in Napa and Sonoma. To remember, also, that we are no longer young. We cannot afford to throw away another twenty years of our life; and really and truly, if you again go into a Mexican grant, William, I shall not follow you there willingly. Do not expect it of me; I shall only go if you compel me.”

“Compel you!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Compel you, when you know I have obeyed you all my life.”

“Oh! no, William, not all your life, for you were well grown before I ever saw you.”

“I mean ever since I went to Washington with my mind made up to jump off the train coming back, if you didn't agree to come North to be my commandant.”

“I don't think I have been a very strict disciplinarian,” she said, smiling. “I think the subaltern has had pretty much his own way.”

“Yes, when he thinks he might. But when the commandant pulls the string, by looking sad or offended, then good-by to the spirit and independence of the subaltern.”

“One thing I must not forget to ask you;” she said, going back to the point of their digression, “and it is, not to believe what those men have been telling you about the Alamar rancho having been finally rejected. You know John Gasbang could never speak the truth, and years have not made him more reliable. As for Miller, Hughes and Mathews, they are dishonest enough, and though not so brazen as Gasbang, they will misrepresent facts to induce you to go with them, for they want you with them.”

“I know they do; I see through all that. But I see, too, that San Diego is sure to have a railroad direct to the Eastern States. Lands will increase in value immediately; so I think, myself, I had better take time by the forelock and get a good lot of land in the Alamar grant, which is quite near town.”

“But, are you sure it is finally rejected?”

“I saw the book, where the fact is recorded. Isn't that enough?”

“Yes, if there has been no error.”

“Always the same cautious Mary Moreneau, who tortured me with her doubts and would not have me until Father White took compassion on me,” said he, smiling, looking at her fondly, for his thoughts reverted back to those days when Miss Mary was afraid to marry him; but, after all, he won her and brought her all the way from Washington to his New England home.

William Darrell was already a well-to-do young farmer in those days, a bachelor twenty-eight to thirty years of age, sole heir to a flourishing New England farm, and with a good account in a Boston bank, when Miss Mary Moreneau came to New England from Washington to visit her aunt, Mrs. Newton. As Mrs. Newton's husband was William Darrell's uncle, nothing was more natural than for Mary to meet him at his uncle's house. Nobody expected that William would fall in love with her, as he seemed to be proof against Cupid's darts. The marriageable maidens of William's neighborhood had in vain tried to attract the obdurate young farmer, who seemed to enjoy no other society than that of his uncle Newton and his wife.

But Mary came and William surrendered at once. She, however, gave him no encouragement. Her coldness seemed only to inflame his love the more, until Miss Moreneau thought it was best to shorten her visit and return home about the middle of September.

“Why are you to return home so early?” Darrell asked Mary, after Mrs. Newton had informed him of Mary's intention of going.

“Because I think it is best,” she answered.

“Why is it best?”

“For several reasons.”

“May I be permitted to ask what are those reasons?”

“Certainly. One reason is, that as I came to see my aunt and at the same time to rest and improve my health, and all those objects have been accomplished, I might as well go home. Then, my other aunt, with whom I reside, is not feeling well. She went to spend the summer in Virginia, but writes that her health has not improved much, and she will soon come back to Washington. Then some of my pupils will want to recommence their lessons soon, and I want to have some little time to myself before I begin to work. You know, Mr. Darrell, I teach to support myself.”

“Yes, only because you have a notion to do it.”

“A notion! Do you think I am rich?”

“No, but there is no need of your working.”

“It is a need to me to feel independent. I don't want to be supported by my aunts, while I know how to earn my own living.”

“Miss Mary, please, I beg of you, let me have the happiness of taking care of you. Be my wife, I am not a rich man, but I have enough to provide for you.”

“Mr. Darrell, you surprise me. I thank you for the compliment you pay me with your honorable offer, but I have no wish to get married.”

“Do you reject me, Miss Mary? Tell me one thing; tell me truly, do you care for any one else?”

“No, I care for nobody. I don't want to marry.”

“But you will marry some time. If you knew how very miserable you make me, I think you would not have the heart to refuse me.”

“You will get over it. I am going soon. Forget me.”

Darrell made no answer. He staggered out of the room and did not return until the following week, when Mary had left for Washington, accompanied by Letitia, her colored servant (called Tisha), who was devotedly attached to her.

Darrell had become rather taciturn and less sociable than ever, Mrs. Newton noticed, and since Mary left he seemed to lose flesh and all his spirits, and passed the winter as if life were a burden to him. But when spring came, he brightened up a little, though he felt far from happy. About that time Mrs. Newton had a letter from Mary, saying that she was going to spend vacation in Maryland with her other aunt, and Tisha for her escort.

“She don't come here, because she fears I shall pester her life with my visits. As she knows I can't keep away from her, she keeps away from you. She hates me. I suppose you, too, will take to hating me, by and by,” said Darrell, when he heard that Mary was not coming that summer.

“No danger of that, William,” Mrs. Newton replied.

“Yes, there is. You ought to hate me for driving her away. I hate myself worse than I hate the devil.”

“William, you mustn't feel so. It isn't right.”

“I know it. But when did I ever do anything right, I'd like to know? I wish I could hate her as I hate myself, or as she hates me.”

“William, she does not hate you.”

“How do you know she don't?”

“Because she would have told me. She is very truthful.”

“I know it. She gave me my walking papers in a jiffy. I wish I could hate her.”

“William, do you promise not to get angry, if I tell you why Mary declined your offer?”

“Say on. You couldn't well make a burning furnace any hotter. I am too mad already.”

“Well, I'll tell you. She likes you, but is afraid of you.”

“Afraid? afraid?” said he, aghast—“why! that is awful! I, an object of fear, when I worship the ground she treads on! But, how? What have I done? When did I frighten her?”

“At no particular time; but often you gave her the impression that you have a high temper, and she told me, ‘If I loved Mr. Darrell better than my life, I wouldn't marry him, for I could never be happy with a man of a violent temper.’ Then she spoke, too, of her being a Roman Catholic and you a Protestant.”

“But you are a Catholic and uncle is Protestant.”

“Certainly, I think the barrier is not insuperable.”

“So, my temper frightened her! It is awful!” He mused in silence for a few minutes and then left the room.

About an hour after, he returned dressed for traveling, carrying a satchel in one hand and a tin box under his arm. He put the box on the table, saying:

“Aunt Newton, I am going away for a few days. Please take care of this box until I return or you hear from me. Good-by!” and he hurried away, for he had only barely time to catch the train going to New York.

Darrell was in New York for a few hours. He bought a finer suit of clothes, a very elegant light overcoat, hat and boots, and gloves to match, and thus equipped so elegantly that he hardly recognized himself, as he surveyed his figure in a large mirror of the furnishing store, where he was so metamorphosed, he took the night train for Washington.

It was early on a Sunday morning that Darrell arrived at Washington. He went to a hotel, entered his name, took a room, a bath and a breakfast, and then called a hack to go in search of Mary. He knew that was not an hour for calling, but he had business with Mary. His was no friendly visit; it was a matter of life and death with him.

He rang the bell, and presently he heard Tisha's flapping steps coming. “Lud a massa!” she exclaimed, stepping back. But recovering herself, said with true heartiness—

“Come in the parlor, please. It is true glad Miss Mary will be to see ye.”

“Do you think so, Tisha?” he asked.

“I know it; no thinking about it, neither. She is going to mass; but she'll see you for a little while, anyway.”

Opening the parlor door for Darrell to walk in, Tisha ran up stairs to Mary's room.

“Oh Miss Mary!” said she, “guess who is down stairs.”

“I couldn't, Tish, being so early and on Sunday, but I heard a man's voice. Is it a gentleman?”

“You bet; ah! please excuse me, I mean sure as I live it is, and no other than Mr. Darrell, from New England.”

“Ah!” said Miss Mary, affecting indifference, but her hands trembled as she tied her bonnet strings.

Darrell knew he must appear self-contained and not in the least impetuous, but when he saw those beautiful dark eyes of Mary's he forgot all his pretended calmness.

“Is my aunt well?” Mary began as she came in.

“Yes, yes, everybody is well; don't be alarmed at my coming, I know it must seem strange to you. Two days ago I had no idea of coming to Washington, but Miss Moreneau, your aunt told me you were not coming North this summer, and this news nearly drove me crazy.”

“Oh, Mr. Darrell!”

“Wait, don't drive me off yet. Your aunt told me that you refused me because you believe I have a violent temper. Now, I am not going to deny that, but this I am going to say—That I have never violated my word, and never shall, and I make a most solemn oath to you, that if you will marry me you shall never have occasion to be made unhappy or displeased by my quick anger, because you will only have to remind me of this pledge, and I shall curb my temper, if it kills me.”

“Mr. Darrell, I believe you are perfectly sincere in what you say, but a strong trait of character is not controlled easily. It is more apt to be uncontrollable.”

“For God's sake don't refuse me, I feel I must kill myself if you spurn me. I don't want life without you.”

“Don't say that,” Mary said, trying to keep calm, but she felt as if being carried away in spite of herself, by the torrent of his impetuosity. She was afraid of him, but she liked him and she liked to be loved in that passionate rebellious way of his; she smiled, adding, “we must postpone this conversation for I must go to church, and it is quite a long walk there.”

“The carriage that brought me is at the door, take it, and don't walk, it is quite warm out.”

“Will you go with me to church? You see, that is another obstacle; the difference of religions.”

“Indeed, that is no obstacle; your religion tells you to pity me.”

“We will talk to Father White about that.”

“Then Mary, my beloved, will you give me hope?”

“And will you really try to control your anger when you feel it is getting the mastery over you?”

“I will, so help me God,” said he, lifting his hand.

“Take care, that is an oath.”

“I know it, and mean it,” said he, much moved.

They went to church together. After church, Mary had a few moments conversation with her pastor. She explained everything to him. “Do you love him, my child,” asked the good father, knowing the human heart only too well. Mary blushed and said—

“Yes, father, I believe I do.”

“Very well, send him to see me to-morrow morning.”

Darrell had a long talk with Father White, and promised solemnly not to coerce or influence his wife to change her religion, and that should their union be blessed with children, they should be baptized and brought up Catholics.

And his union was blessed. Mary made his New England home a paradise, and eight children, sharing largely their mother's fine qualities, filled to overflowing his cup of happiness.

CHAPTER II.—The Don's View of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.

If there had been such a thing as communicating by telephone in the days of '72, and there had been those magic wires spanning the distance between William Darrell's house in Alameda County and that of Don Mariano Alamar in San Diego County, with power to transmit the human voice for five hundred miles, a listener at either end would have heard various discussions upon the same subject, differentiated only by circumstances. No magic wires crossed San Francisco bay to bring the sound of voices to San Diego, but the law of necessity made the Squatter and the Don, distant as they were—distant in every way, without reckoning the miles between them—talk quite warmly of the same matter. The point of view was of course different, for how could it be otherwise? Darrell thought himself justified, and authorized, to “take up lands,” as he had done before. He had had more than half of California's population on his side, and though the “Squatter's Sovereignty” was now rather on the wane, and the “squatter vote” was no longer the power, still, the squatters would not abdicate, having yet much to say about election times.

But Darrell was no longer the active squatter that he had been. He controlled many votes yet, but in his heart he felt the weight which his wife's sad eyes invariably put there when the talk was of litigating against a Mexican land title.

This time, however, Darrell honestly meant to take no land but what belonged to the United States. His promise to his wife was sincere, yet his coming to Southern California had already brought trouble to the Alamar rancho.

Don Mariano Alamar was silently walking up and down the front piazza of his house at the rancho; his hands listlessly clasped behind and his head slightly bent forward in deep thought. He had pushed away to one side the many arm-chairs and wicker rockers with which the piazza was furnished. He wanted a long space to walk. That his meditations were far from agreeable, could easily be seen by the compressed lips, slight frown, and sad gaze of his mild and beautiful blue eyes. Sounds of laughter, music and dancing came from the parlor; the young people were entertaining friends from town with their usual gay hospitality, and enjoying themselves heartily. Don Mariano, though already in his fiftieth year, was as fond of dancing as his sons and daughters, and not to see him come in and join the quadrille was so singular that his wife thought she must come out and inquire what could detain him. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear her voice calling him—

“What keeps you away? Lizzie has been looking for you; she wants you for a partner in the lancers,” said Doña Josefa, putting her arm under that of her husband, bending her head forward and turning it up to look into his eyes.

“What is the matter?” she asked, stopping short, thus making her husband come to a sudden halt. “I am sure something has happened. Tell me.”

“Nothing, dear wife. Nothing has happened. That is to say, nothing new.”

“More squatters?” she asked. Señor Alamar bent his head slightly, in affirmative reply.

“More coming, you mean?”

“Yes, wife; more. Those two friends of squatters Mathews and Hager, who were here last year to locate claims and went away, did not abandon their claims, but only went away to bring proselytes and their families, and a large invoice of them will arrive on to-morrow's steamer. The worst of it all is, that among the new comers is that terrible and most dangerous squatter William Darrell, who some years ago gave so much trouble to the Spanish people in Napa and Sonoma Counties, by locating claims there. John Gasbang wrote to Hogsden that besides Darrell, there will be six or seven other men bringing their families, so that there will be more rifles for my cattle.”

“But, didn't we hear that Darrell was no longer a squatter, that he is rich and living quietly in Alameda?”

“Yes, we heard that, and it is true. He is quite well off, but Gasbang and Miller and Mathews went and told him that my rancho had been rejected, and that it is near enough to town to become valuable, as soon as we have a railroad. Darrell believed it, and is coming to locate here.”

“Strange that Darrell should believe such men; I suppose he does not know how low they are.”

“He ought to know them, for they were his teamsters when he crossed the plains in '48. That is, Miller, Mathews, Hughes and Hager, were his teamsters, and Gasbang was their cook—the cook for the hired men. Mrs. Darrell had a colored woman who cooked for the Darrell family; she despised Gasbang's cooking as we despise his character, I suppose.”

Doña Josefa was silent, and holding to her husband's arm, took a turn with him up and down the piazza.

“Is it possible that there is no law to protect us; to protect our property; what does your lawyer say about obtaining redress or protection; is there no hope?” she asked, with a sigh.

“Protection for our land, or for our cattle, you mean?”

“For both, as we get it for neither,” she said.

“In the matter of our land, we have to await for the attorney general, at Washington, to decide.”

“Lizzie was telling Elvira, yesterday, that her uncle Lawrence is a friend of several influential people in Washington, and that George can get him to interest himself in having your title decided.”

“But, as George is to marry my daughter, he would be the last man from whom I would ask a favor.”

“What is that I hear about not asking a favor from me?” said George Mechlin, coming out on the piazza with Elvira on his arm, having just finished a waltz—“I am interested to know why you would not ask it.”

“You know why, my dear boy. It isn't exactly the thing to bother you with my disagreeable business.”

“And why not? And who has a better right? And why should it be a bother to me to help you in any way I can? My father spoke to me about a dismissal of an appeal, and I made a note of it. Let me see, I think I have it in my pocket now,”—said George, feeling in his breast pocket for his memorandum book,—“yes, here it is,—‘For uncle to write to the attorney general about dismissing the appeal taken by the squatters in the Alamar grant, against Don Mariano's title, which was approved.’ Is that the correct idea? I only made this note to ask you for further particulars.”

“You have it exactly. When I give you the number of the case, it is all that you need say to your uncle. What I want is to have the appeal dismissed, of course, but if the attorney general does not see fit to do so, he can, at least, remand back the case for a new trial. Anything rather than this killing suspense. Killing literally, for while we are waiting to have my title settled, the settlers (I don't mean to make puns), are killing my cattle by the hundred head, and I cannot stop them.”

“But are there no laws to protect property in California?” George asked.

“Yes, some sort of laws, which in my case seem more intended to help the law-breakers than to protect the law-abiding,” Don Mariano replied.

“How so? Is there no law to punish the thieves who kill your cattle?”

“There are some enactments so obviously intended to favor one class of citizens against another class, that to call them laws is an insult to law, but such as they are, we must submit to them. By those laws any man can come to my land, for instance, plant ten acres of grain, without any fence, and then catch my cattle which, seeing the green grass without a fence, will go to eat it. Then he puts them in a ‘corral’ and makes me pay damages and so much per head for keeping them, and costs of legal proceedings and many other trumped up expenses, until for such little fields of grain I may be obliged to pay thousands of dollars. Or, if the grain fields are large enough to bring more money by keeping the cattle away, then the settler shoots the cattle at any time without the least hesitation, only taking care that no one sees him in the act of firing upon the cattle. He might stand behind a bush or tree and fire, but then he is not seen. No one can swear that they saw him actually kill the cattle, and no jury can convict him, for although the dead animals may be there, lying on the ground shot, still no one saw the settler kill them. And so it is all the time. I must pay damages and expenses of litigation, or my cattle get killed almost every day.”

“But this is infamous. Haven't you—the cattle owners—tried to have some law enacted that will protect your property?” George asked. “It seems to me that could be done.”

“It could be done, perhaps, if our positions were reversed, and the Spanish people—‘the natives’—were the planters of the grain fields, and the Americans were the owners of the cattle. But as we, the Spaniards, are the owners of the Spanish—or Mexican—land grants and also the owners of the cattle ranchos, our State legislators will not make any law to protect cattle. They make laws ‘to protect agriculture’ (they say proudly), which means to drive to the wall all owners of cattle ranchos. I am told that at this session of the legislature a law more strict yet will be passed, which will be ostensibly ‘to protect agriculture,’ but in reality to destroy cattle and ruin the native Californians. The agriculture of this State does not require legislative protection. Such pretext is absurd.”

“I thought that the rights of the Spanish people were protected by our treaty with Mexico,” George said.

“Mexico did not pay much attention to the future welfare of the children she left to their fate in the hands of a nation which had no sympathies for us,” said Doña Josefa, feelingly.

“I remember,” calmly said Don Mariano, “that when I first read the text of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, I felt a bitter resentment against my people; against Mexico, the mother country, who abandoned us—her children—with so slight a provision of obligatory stipulations for protection. But afterwards, upon mature reflection, I saw that Mexico did as much as could have been reasonably expected at the time. In the very preamble of the treaty the spirit of peace and friendship, which animated both nations, was carefully made manifest. That spirit was to be the foundation of the relations between the conqueror and conquered. How could Mexico have foreseen then that when scarcely half a dozen years should have elapsed the trusted conquerors would, ‘In Congress Assembled,’ pass laws which were to be retroactive upon the defenceless, helpless, conquered people, in order to despoil them? The treaty said that our rights would be the same as those enjoyed by all other American citizens. But, you see, Congress takes very good care not to enact retroactive laws for Americans; laws to take away from American citizens the property which they hold now, already, with a recognized legal title. No, indeed. But they do so quickly enough with us—with us, the Spano-Americans, who were to enjoy equal rights, mind you, according to the treaty of peace. This is what seems to me a breach of faith, which Mexico could neither presuppose nor prevent.”

“It is nothing else, I am sorry and ashamed to say,” George said. “I never knew much about the treaty with Mexico, but I never imagined we had acted so badly.”

“I think but few Americans know or believe to what extent we have been wronged by Congressional action. And truly, I believe that Congress itself did not anticipate the effect of its laws upon us, and how we would be despoiled, we, the conquered people,” said Don Mariano, sadly.

“It is the duty of law-givers to foresee the effect of the laws they impose upon people,” said Doña Josefa.

“That I don't deny, but I fear that the conquered have always but a weak voice, which nobody hears,” said Don Mariano. “We have had no one to speak for us. By the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo the American nation pledged its honor to respect our land titles just the same as Mexico would have done. Unfortunately, however, the discovery of gold brought to California the riff-raff of the world, and with it a horde of land-sharks, all possessing the privilege of voting, and most of them coveting our lands, for which they very quickly began to clamor. There was, and still is, plenty of good government land, which any one can take. But no. The forbidden fruit is the sweetest. They do not want government land. They want the land of the Spanish people, because we ‘have too much,’ they say. So, to win their votes, the votes of the squatters, our representatives in Congress helped to pass laws declaring all lands in California open to pre-emption, as in Louisiana, for instance. Then, as a coating of whitewash to the stain on the nation's honor, a ‘land commission’ was established to examine land titles. Because, having pledged the national word to respect our rights, it would be an act of despoliation, besides an open violation of pledged honor, to take the lands without some pretext of a legal process. So then, we became obliged to present our titles before the said land commission to be examined and approved or rejected. While these legal proceedings are going on, the squatters locate their claims and raise crops on our lands, which they convert into money to fight our titles. But don't let me, with my disagreeable subject spoil your dance. Go back to your lancers, and tell Lizzie to excuse me,” said Don Mariano.

Lizzie would not excuse him. With the privilege of a future daughter-in-law, she insisted that Don Mariano should be her partner in the lancers, which would be a far pleasanter occupation than to be walking up and down the porch thinking about squatters.

Don Mariano therefore followed Lizzie to their place in the dance. Mercedes sat at the piano to play for them. The other couples took their respective positions.

The well-balanced mind and kindly spirit of Don Mariano soon yielded to the genial influences surrounding him. He would not bring his trouble to mar the pleasure of others. He danced with his children as gaily as the gayest. He insisted that Mr. Mechlin, too, should dance, and this gentleman graciously yielded and led Elvira through a quadrille, protesting that he had not danced for twenty years.

“You have not danced because you were sick, but now you are well. Don't be lazy,” said Mrs. Mechlin.

“You would be paying to San Diego climate a very poor compliment by refusing to dance now,” George added.

“That is so, papa. Show us how well you feel,” Lizzie said.

“I shall have to dance a hornpipe to do that,” Mr. Mechlin answered, laughing.

To understand this remark better, the reader must know that Mr. James Mechlin had come to San Diego, four years previously, a living skeleton, not expected to last another winter. He had lost his health by a too close application to business, and when he sought rest and relaxation his constitution seemed permanently undermined. He tried the climate of Florida. He spent several years in Italy and in the south of France, but he felt no better. At last, believing his malady incurable, he returned to his New York home to die. In New York a friend, who also had been an invalid, but whose health had been restored in Southern California, advised him to try the salubrious air of San Diego. With but little hope, and only to please his family, Mr. Mechlin came to San Diego, and his health improved so rapidly that he made up his mind to buy a country place and make San Diego his home. William Mathews heard of this, and offered to sell his place on what Mr. Mechlin thought very moderate terms. A lawyer was employed to pass upon the title, and on his recommendation the purchase was made. Mr. Mechlin had the Mathews house moved back near the barn, and a new and much larger one built. When this was finished the Mechlins moved into it, and Mr. Mechlin devoted himself to cultivating trees and flowers, and his health was bettered every day. This was the compensation to his wife and two daughters for exiling themselves from New York; for it was exile to Caroline and Lizzie to give up their fine house in New York City to come and live on a California rancho.

Soon, however, these two young ladies passed their time more pleasantly, after making the acquaintance of the Alamar family, and soon their acquaintance ripened into friendship, to be made closer by the intended marriage of Gabriel—Don Mariano's eldest son—to Lizzie. Shortly after, George—Mr. Mechlin's only son—came on a visit, and when he returned to New York he was already engaged to Elvira, third daughter of Señor Alamar.

Now, George Mechlin was making his second visit to his family. He had found New York so very dull and stupid on his return from California that when Christmas was approaching he told his uncle and aunt—with whom he lived—that he wanted to go and spend Christmas and New Year's Day with his family in California.

“Very well; I wish I could go with you. Give my love to James, and tell him I am delighted at his getting so well,” Mr. Lawrence Mechlin said, and George had his leave of absence. Mr. Lawrence Mechlin was president of the bank of which George was cashier, so it was not difficult for him to get the assistant cashier to attend to his duties when he was away, particularly as the assistant cashier himself was George's most devoted friend. George could have only twelve days in California, but to see Elvira for even so short a time he would have traveled a much longer distance.

Mr. James Mechlin affirmed repeatedly that he owed his improved health to the genial society of the Alamar family as much as to the genial climate of San Diego County. Mr. Mechlin, however, was not the only one who had paid the same tribute to that most delightful family, the most charming of which—the majority vote said—was Don Mariano himself. His nobility of character and great kindness of heart were well known to everybody.

The Alamar family was quite patriarchal in size, if the collateral branches be taken into account, for there were many brothers, nephews and nieces. These, however, lived in the adjoining rancho, and yet another branch in Lower California, in Mexico. Don Mariano's own immediate family was composed of his wife and six children, two sons and four daughters.

All of these, as we have seen, were having a dance. The music was furnished by the young ladies themselves, taking their turn at the piano, assisted by Madam Halier (Mercedes' French governess), who was always ready to play for the girls to dance. Besides the Mechlins, there were three or four young gentlemen from town, but there were so many Alamares (brothers, nieces and nephews, besides) that the room seemed quite well filled. Such family gatherings were frequent, making the Alamar house very gay and pleasant.

George Mechlin would have liked to prolong his visit, but he could not. He consoled himself looking forward to the ninth of June, when he would come again to make a visit of two months' duration. On his return East, before renewing his duties at the bank, he went to Washington to see about the dismissal of the appeal. Unfortunately, the attorney general had to absent himself about that time, and the matter being left with the solicitor general, nothing was done. George explained to Don Mariano how the matter was delayed, and his case remained undecided yet for another year longer.

CHAPTER III.—Pre-empting under the Law.

“All aboard for San Diego!” shouted a voice from a wagon, as it rumbled past Darrell, who walked leisurely with a satchel in his hand, swinging it unconsciously, lost in thought. He looked up and saw that the wagon whence the voice came carried ten or twelve men, sitting on trunks and packages and carpet-bags. These men Mathews and Gasbang had presented to him, saying that they were settlers already residing at the Alamar rancho, and others who were going down to take up claims, at the same time that he would locate his. Darrell looked at his future neighbors with feelings of anything but pleasure. The broad, vulgar face of Gasbang, with its square jaws, gray beard, closely clipped, but never shaved, his compressed, thin, bloodless lips, his small, pale, restless eyes and flat nose, Darrell soon recognized, though the wagon was going rapidly. Mathews' visage was equally noticeable for its ugliness, though of a different type; for his face was long and shaved; his nose was pinched and peaked and red; his cheeks were flabby; and his long, oily, dusty, hair dragged over his neck in matted, meshy locks, while a constant frown settled on his brow. As he was broad-shouldered and rather tall, his face seemed made for some other man much weaker than himself. His face looked mean and discontented, while his body seemed strong and self-reliant.

The wagon had arrived and gone away, and the men had walked aboard the boat, when Darrell, still swinging his satchel abstractedly, stood on the wharf looking at the steamer as if not quite resolved to go. He felt no sympathy, no liking, for any of those men with whom he was now associated.

It was different to have Gasbang as his hired man, as before, but now he was not under orders, and was much older. Years, moreover, had not improved his low nature. Darrell had no higher opinion of the others. He was sure these were not the sort of people whom his wife would like to have for neighbors. He felt self-accused and irresolute. A shout from Gasbang, who was observing him from the steamer's deck, made Darrell look up quickly, ashamed of having betrayed his irresolution. “I can return immediately, if things don't suit me,” he thought, walking towards the gang-plank.

“Come on. Your luggage is all aboard, I took care of it,” Gasbang said, coming to meet him. He snatched Darrell's satchel, in friendly obsequiousness, to carry it for him. “Come along; you'll be left,” said he, and Darrell followed him, half-disgusted at his vulgar officiousness. “I got your berth for you. The steamer is so crowded, that men have to be crammed into rooms by the bunch, so you and I and Mathews must room together.”

“That is all right,” said Darrell, with a shiver of disgust, and went to take a seat on deck where he could be alone.

The bustle and hurry of getting off was over at last, and the steamer was furrowing her way through the spacious bay of San Francisco towards the Golden Gate. Groups of passengers stood here and there, admiring the beautiful harbor and its surrounding country. Darrell sat alone, fixing his gaze upon the receding verdure of Alameda County. Above that green, undulating line of diminishing hills, which seemed to fly from him, Darrell could see plainly one face, one form, beautiful to him as none other could be, the face and form of his wife, his beloved Mary. This was the first time he had ever left her for any longer time than a two days' absence, since they were married. Now he might be absent several months, for if he decided to locate in San Diego County, he would first build a house before he sent for his family. He would first send for Clarence—his eldest son—and then, when a comfortable home was prepared, the family would come.

The voyage down the coast was made safely. Darrell had managed to keep away from his fellow-travelers, to think of home unmolested.

It was a bright morning of January, 1872, when he stood far forward, watching the course of the steamer Orizaba, as she made her way around Point Loma, then between Ballast Point and the sandy peninsula, and passing by La Playa, came in sight of San Diego city.

“Here we are,” said John Gasbang; “how do you like the looks of our little city, Mr. Darrell?”

“Very well; it is larger than I supposed, and the site of it seems very pleasant.”

“Pleasant! I should say it was. A perfect slope, sir, as gentle and regular as if made to order. The best drained city in the world, sir, when we put in sewers. Too poor for that, yet, sir, but we are coming to it, sir, growing, growing, sir.”

“When we get the railroad,” added Mathews, with a mouth full of tobacco, spitting profusely on the deck.

“Exactly, and we'll soon have that. Our news from Washington is very encouraging. Tom Scott will visit us this summer,” Gasbang said.

“I like a town with plenty of trees,” said Darrell, with his gaze fixed on the approaching panorama, thinking that his wife would be pleased with the place, she being so fond of trees. “I had no idea you had so many trees about you. Many are small, yet, but all seem healthy.”

“And health-giving trees, they are, too. Most of them are eucalyptus and pepper trees, the healthiest in the world. You never hear of any malarial fevers in San Diego, sir, never. Our perfect climate, the fine sloping ground of our town site, our eucalyptus trees, sea breezes and mountain air, make San Diego a most healthy little city,” said Gasbang.

“That is an excellent recommendation, as life is not worth having without health,” Darrell observed.

“We have it here,” Hughes said. “A man has to be very imprudent not to keep well in our climate, sir. All we want now is a little stimulus of business prosperity, and the railroad is sure to bring us that. Then San Diego will be the best place on the coast for a residence.”

The loud report of a cannon, close by, made Darrell jump and look around quickly, not knowing what that explosion could mean.

“That is our visiting card to the people of San Diego, to announce our coming,” said the captain, laughingly. “I am sorry it startled you.”

“That is nothing. I didn't know I had nerves. I believe that is what women call it. I was not expecting such a military salute,” Darrell said.

“O yes, we always give it. The San Diego people are very military. At least, I should say the settlers on Señor Alamar's rancho are, as I hear they practice rifle shooting there all the time,” the captain said, looking at Mathews and Gasbang.

“That is a shot at us,” Gasbang answered, laughing.

“But it is a blank cartridge, meant not to hurt,” the captain replied.

“The rifle practice is in dark nights,” said a young Spaniard, who had been listening at what was said by the others.

“Or in the daytime, if the cattle deserve it,” Mathews said.

“That is very creditable and brave, to shoot tame cows,” the Spaniard rejoined.

“Perhaps you had better come and try it,” Mathews returned.

“Thank you. It is the mischievous brutes I would like to shoot, not the good, useful cattle;” so saying, the Spaniard walked away, followed by the scowls of the settlers.

“That is impudence for you,” Gasbang exclaimed.

“Those greasers ain't half crushed yet. We have to tame them like they do their mustangs, or shoot them, as we shoot their cattle,” said Mathews.

“O, no. No such violent means are necessary. All we have to do is to take their lands, and finish their cattle,” said Hughes, sneeringly, looking at Darrell for approval. But he did not get it. Darrell did not care for the Spanish population of California, but he did not approve of shooting cattle in the way which the foregoing conversation indicated. To do this, was useless cruelty and useless waste of valuable property, no matter to whom it might belong. To destroy it was a loss to the State. It was folly.

“Why must cattle be shot? Can't they be kept off, away from your crops without shooting them?” he asked.

“Not always. At first, that is, for the first three years after we located our claims,” Gasbang said; “we had to shoot them all the time. Now the Don has sold a good many, or sent them to the mountains, so that few have been killed.”

“I suppose fencing would be too expensive.”

“Phew! It would be ruinous, impossible,” Mathews said.

“Mr. Mechlin is the only one who has attempted to put up any fences,” Romeo said, who had been listening in silence.

“He did so, because he is an old hypocrite,” Mathews said.

“Because his daughter Lizzie is going to marry Gabriel Alamar, and of course, they have to be on friendly terms,” said Hughes.

“That ain't the reason. He fenced a hundred acres the first year, and he never sows outside, so that he's not at all troubled by the Don's cattle,” said Romeo.

“But Gabriel is going to marry Lizzie all the same, and the two families are as thick as can be. Old Mechlin has gone back on us. I wish he would go away,” Mathews said.

“Why should he go? He paid a very good price for his farm, and has made many improvements,” said Romeo.

“Who did he buy from?” asked Darrell.

“From me. I sold him that claim, and took up another a mile up the valley,” said Mathews.

“And a good bargain it was, too,” Romeo observed.

Mathews gave him a black look, but made no answer.

The steamer had now reached the wharf. The deck was filled with passengers and their baggage ready for shore. Pittikin, with wife and daughters blonde and freckled, and Hughes, with his wife and daughters dark and gypsy-looking, were all there, ready for their drive to Alamar.

There were several wagons, light and heavy, waiting to convey the newly-arrived and their luggage to the Alamar rancho. Darrell, having his choice of conveyances, preferred to go in a light wagon with Romeo Hancock, but Gasbang and Mathews joined him. Miller and Hager had come to meet their prodigal sons, who had been in San Francisco for several months, when they had permission to remain only a few weeks. But they had fallen into Peter Roper's company, and that individual had represented the fascinations of whiskey most alluringly to them, advising them to have a good time now that they had the opportunity. They yielded to the tempter, and now had returned home like repentant prodigals.

In a few hours Darrell was driving by Don Mariano Alamar's house, a one-story mansion on a low hill, with a broad piazza in front, and in the interior a court formed by two wings, and a row of rooms variously occupied at its back. That the house was commodious, Darrell could see. There was a flower garden in front. At the back there were several “corrales” for cattle and horses. At the foot of the hill, on the left, there was an orchard, and some grain fields enclosed with good fences.

Darrell took notice of all these particulars. He also noticed that there were females on the front piazza. He was taken to see the best unoccupied lands to make his selection. He ran his practiced eye over the valley from the highest point on the hill. He then came to the next bench; he stopped there, also, and finally came to the broad slope of the foothills.

“I think I'll locate here,” said he, “if no one else has already filed a claim to this land.”

This he said to his fellow-settlers, all being present, addressing all.

“I am sure I have no objection,” said Hughes.

“Nor I, neither,” said Gasbang. “What do you say, Pittikin and Mathews? Do you know if this land is located, or who done it?”

Mathews shook his head in the negative, and kept on chewing his tobacco in silence.

Pittikin said, “I reckon nobody is located here, and if they done it, why don't they leave stakes? They leave no stakes, no notice to settlers; they can't make any row if somebody else takes the land.”

“Well, I want to respect everybody's right; so I want you all to bear witness, that I found no stakes or notices of anybody. I don't want to jump anybody's claim; I want a fair deal. I shall locate two claims here—one in my own name and one for my oldest son, Clarence,” said Darrell.

“You'll take 320 acres?” asked Hughes.

“Yes, 320 acres,—according to law,” replied Darrell.

“All right. Let us measure them now,” said Gasbang. “We have time to mark the limits and put the corner stakes. I have a cord here in my wagon, which is a chain's length. That will do the business.”

“That will do temporarily, I suppose; but I'll have the two claims properly surveyed afterwards according to law,” Darrell said.

“Of course, you will. We all know you will do the fair thing by everybody, and follow the law strictly,” said Hughes. In which opinion all concurred.

“Have you all made your selections?” Darrell asked Hughes.

“Yes; Pittikin and I will locate near Hancock. We like that valley; it is further off, but better soil,” said Hughes. “My oldest boy will put a claim near me, and Miller's two boys have staked theirs also. I think we'll like that location better.”

“I am glad you like it. I think this is good enough soil for me,” Darrell said.

“It is good enough for anybody. The whole rancho is all good soil. Let us put the stakes now,” said Gasbang; and assisted by Mathews, Romeo Hancock and Sumner Pittikin, Darrell proceeded by making a rough guess to measure 320 acres (more or less), and put the corner stakes.

“This is what I call business,” said Gasbang, carrying cheerfully one end of the rope used for measurement; “and all inside of the law. That is the beauty of it—all perfectly lawful.”

And so it was.

The stakes having been placed, Darrell felt satisfied. Next day he would have the claim properly filed, and in due time a surveyor would measure them. All would be done “according to law,” and in this easy way more land was taken from its legitimate owner.

This certainly was a more simple way of appropriating the property of “the conquered” than in the days of Alaric or Hannibal.

There would have been bloodshed then. Now tears only flowed; silent tears of helpless discouragement; of a presentiment of impending desolation.

Sadly Doña Josefa and her daughters had witnessed from the half-closed shutters of their bedroom windows Mr. Darrell's performance, and fully anticipated serious trouble therefrom.

Don Mariano Alamar, Gabriel and Victoriano—his two sons—had also silently witnessed Mr. Darrell's lawful appropriation of their own property. Gabriel was pale and calm. Victoriano was biting his lips, and his face was flushed.

“The government has for sale hundreds of millions of acres, but yet these men must come and take my land, as if there was no other,” said Don Mariano, sadly.

“And as we pay the taxes on the land that they will cultivate, our taxes will double next year,” Gabriel added.

“Undoubtedly. That climax to injustice has been the most fatal of all the hardships imposed upon us. George could not believe me when I told him that we (the land-owners) have to pay the taxes on the land cultivated by the pre-emptors, and upon all the improvements they make and enjoy. When he at last understood that such unfair laws did exist, he was amazed, but understood then why the settlers wished to prolong litigation, since it is ‘the natives’ who must bear the burden of taxation, while the titles are in the courts, and thus the pre-emptors hold the land free.”

“I wish we were squatters,” Victoriano remarked.

“During litigation, yes; but there have been cases where honest men have, in good faith, taken lands as squatters, and after all, had to give them up. No, I don't blame the squatters; they are at times like ourselves, victims of a wrong legislation, which unintentionally cuts both ways. They were set loose upon us, but a law without equity recoils upon them more cruelly. Then we are all sufferers, all victims of a defective legislation and subverted moral principles.”

CHAPTER IV.—Efforts to Right the Wrong.

Darrell was not the man to make any delay in putting into practice a project, when once adopted. He therefore immediately wrote home saying that he “had located,” and wished Clarence to come down as soon as home matters permitted it. All the crops must be in first, so that Everett and Webster could take care of the farm when Clarence left. They had two good farm hands and a man to take care of the dairy, but still, Darrell made his boys give their personal attention to all the work on the farm. He wrote to Clarence that he would build a small house quickly, which afterwards could be used for the hired men, and would wait until he came down to begin building their dwelling house. That he would level the ground for the house, sink a couple of wells and put up two windmills, the running stream not being sufficient.

“I think I had better buy the lumber for the house up here and charter a schooner to send it down,” Clarence said to his mother, after reading his father's letter.

“Did he say anything to you about the condition of the title?” Mrs. Darrell asked.

“Not a word. I suppose the land is vacant,” Clarence replied. Mrs. Darrell shook her head, as if in doubt.

“I want you to see to that, before there is any house built in which I shall be expected to reside,” she said. “The first thing you do when you get there is to inquire whether the land has been finally rejected and there is no litigation for it. If there is, I want you to pay for it to the owner. And if he will not or cannot sell, write to me at once.”

“Very well, mother, I shall do as you say, and I assure you I do not wish father to take up any land claimed by any one under a Mexican title. I think those Spanish people ought to be allowed to keep the land that their government gave them. We ought not to have made any laws that would place their titles in a bad light and be questioned. We should have accepted the legality they had before their own Mexican government, without making some other legality requisite, to please ourselves,” Clarence said.

“That has always been my opinion, but I have failed to convince your father. However, with our combined efforts, we might dissuade him from his present way of thinking,” said Mrs. Darrell.

Clarence would not be able to leave home for a few weeks yet. In the meantime, his father had not been idle, he had lost no time in carrying out his plans, and shortly after making his “location” in the manner described, he had several men engaged in different employments at his place. When he had already begun building the small house, of which he spoke in his letter to Clarence, Don Mariano, accompanied by his two sons, rode up to the place where he was then superintending his workmen.

“Good morning, Mr. Darrell,” said Don Mariano.

“Good morning,” Darrell answered, laconically.

“Can I speak a few words with you?”

“Certainly,” he said, going a few steps nearer.

“I see you have taken up some land here, and I suppose you think it is government land, but if so, you are misinformed. This land belongs to me,” Don Mariano said.

“Why is it reported rejected then? I have seen the law report, stating that your title was rejected.”

“Yes, I know that such is the case. For some mistake or other the entry was made placing my title in the list of those rejected, but I assure you that it is a mistake. My title is now before the attorney general in Washington, because, having been approved, the settlers took an appeal. If the attorney general sustains the appeal, I suppose he will remand the case for a new trial, but I have reasons to suppose he will dismiss the appeal and affirm the decision of the District Court in my favor.”

“We will see about that,” Darrell said.

“Undoubtedly we will; meantime I thought it was best to undeceive you, and give you warning that you are building on my land.”

“Your land if you get it,” was the answer.

“If you knew the condition of my title I don't think that you would doubt that this land is mine. However, all I wish to do is to prevent you from spending money here and then naturally get into litigation with me to defend your property,” said Don Mariano.

Darrell thought of his wife, and her earnest injunctions. He wished to keep his promise to her. He said:

“If the courts say that this land rightfully belongs to you, I shall pay you for your land or vacate.”

“But, Mr. Darrell, you will get me into litigation with you, and I wish to avoid that.”

“No, I shall not get you into any law suit with me. I shall buy your land or leave.”

“Very well, Mr. Darrell, I shall rely on your word. I shall remember what you say; please do the same.”

“I am not in the habit of forgetting what I say.”

Don Mariano and his two sons lifted their hats, bowed slightly, turned their horses' heads and moved off.

Darrell returned their bow, muttering to himself, “They take off their hats and bow like gentlemen, anyway.”

While he was talking with Don Mariano, Mathews, Hughes, Gasbang, Miller and Pittikin had come. They heard all that was said and looked disappointed. They evidently had counted upon Darrell to help them to fight the rightful owner.

“Did I understand you to say to the Don that you will not maintain your claim, if the attorney general dismisses our appeal?” asked Gasbang.

“I don't know what you understood, or what you did not understand. What I said was that if the Don's title is decided to be right and legal, I shall not contest it. Why should I, if the land is his? I came here to take up government land, believing his title was rejected. He says it is not.”

“He lies; it was rejected,” Gasbang said.

“That is why we appealed,” Mathews added.

“Very well; we will wait. For my part, I think that if his title was rejected he will find it hard to get it back,” said Darrell.

The fact of his going on with his building ought to have been sufficient proof to the other settlers that he had cast his lot with them. But it was not. They feared that at any time he might pay the Don for his land, and cease to be one of them; cease to be a “squatter.” These doubts, these fears, were the perennial theme of endless discussion with the settlers of Alamar.

With date of February 14, 1872, the Honorable Legislature of California passed a law “To protect agriculture, and to prevent the trespassing of animals upon private property in the County of Los Angeles, and the County of San Diego, and parts of Monterey County.”

In the very first section it recited, that “every owner or occupant of land, whether it is enclosed or not,” could take up cattle found in said land, etc., etc. It was not stated to be necessary that the occupant should have a good title. All that was required seemed to be that he should claim to be an occupant of land, no matter who was the owner.

Before this law came out, Don Mariano had already had a great deal of trouble with the squatters, who kept killing his cattle by the hundred head at times. After this law passed, he had the additional annoyance of having to pay money for the release of cattle taken up by occupants who would not fence their ten-acre crops. Thus, the alternative was, that if cattle were not taken up, he was sure to find them shot dead by some invisible hand. He had hoped that the Legislature would pass a law saying that “unless occupants of land put fences around their fields, they would not be authorized to take up cattle.” But, instead of this, the above-mentioned law was enacted.

This was, of course, ruinous to Don Mariano, as well as to all owners of cattle ranchos where settlers had seen fit to locate homesteads. Now any one man, by planting one acre of grain to attract cattle to it, could make useless thousands of acres around it of excellent grazing, because it became necessary to drive cattle away from the vicinity of these unfenced fields.

In view of all this, and seeing that the new law would confirm the right to plant fields without fencing, and take up cattle, horses or any other animals found therein, Don Mariano thought he would call together all the settlers in his rancho, and make some proposition to them that would be fair to everybody, and by which he would save his cattle from getting killed or captured (when he must ransom them) all the time.

He told his idea to Mr. Mechlin, who thought it was a good plan, and volunteered to see some of the settlers with whom he was acquainted, thinking that these could see others, and in this manner a meeting be arranged. He started in the morning on his errand, and in the evening Don Mariano called to learn the result.

“These men are meaner and lower than I had supposed,” said Mr. Mechlin, whose very fine nervous organization ill-fitted him for the rough contact of Gasbangs. “Would you believe it, they suspected I wanted to lay a trap in which the innocent lambs would fall, and you—the wolf—catch them. If it had not been that I saw Darrell, I would have been utterly discouraged. And I suspect he would not have been half so polite and considerate but for the influence of his son, who has just arrived.”

“I heard he had. You saw him?”

“Yes; and a very gentlemanly, handsome young fellow he is. He made his father promise to go with him to see the settlers in person, and arrange for you to meet them; he will report to me in the evening the result of their embassy.”

Clarence kept his word to Mr. Mechlin, and immediately after breakfast he had his buggy and horses (a fine turnout he had brought from San Francisco) at the door. Darrell smiled, and good-naturedly took his seat beside his son, saying it would be best to begin by seeing Gasbang and Mathews. Fortunately they met these men, who were driving to see him, to ask his opinion about agreeing to meet Don Mariano. Darrell promptly told them that he thought no one of the settlers should refuse a request so easy to grant.

“But don't you think there is a trap in it?” Mathews asked.

“None whatever. We are not children,” Darrell replied.

“But suppose he makes us promise something?” Mathews argued.

“How can he coerce any one against his will,” said Darrell.

“No one will be obliged to accede unwillingly,” said Clarence. “Let us at least be courteous.”

“Certainly. Have you any idea what it is that he wants to say?” asked Gasbang.

“He wants to make some proposition to the settlers, by which he hopes that the interests of all concerned will be subserved,” said Clarence.

“Visionary!” exclaimed Gasbang, tapping his forehead with his forefinger; “not practical.”

“But his intentions are perfectly kind and fair,” Clarence said.

“That is to say, Mr. Mechlin thinks they are.”

“Why shouldn't they be? He certainly can't coerce anybody. Here we are on what he believes to be his land, and we don't think it is. Well, what of that?”

“He certainly won't propose to fight us single-handed. We are the majority,” said Darrell.

“All right. We'll see Hager and Miller, and the other fellows in that valley. But we think Mr. Clarence will do better with Hancock, Pittikin and Hughes. The female element is strong there, but it will weaken in his hands, and in that malleable condition, he can shape it to suit himself, with one look out of his eyes at the whole troop of girls,” said Gasbang.

“Goodness! You don't suppose I would go to play the sweet fellow to those ugly old girls, and make a fool of myself,” said Clarence, with so genuine a look of thorough disgust, that it made John Gasbang indulge in one of his loudest fits of hilarity. “Don't be alarmed, my young friend. There is no harm for you there. I could turn you loose among those girls and you would be as safe as Daniel among ‘lions’ or in ‘fiery furnace.’ You would not get a single scratch, or feel any flames at all,” said he.

“What a low, vulgar fellow this is, even too low for a squatter,” said Clarence, driving off.

“Phew!” ejaculated the elder Darrell, “you speak like a Don. Your idea of a squatter is not flattering.”

“It is flattering thus far, that I think Gasbang is too low for the settler, who means no wrong-doing,—the average squatter. As for Mathews, I am sure he is a cut-throat by instinct.”

“That may be; but I think their idea of your seeing Pittikin and Hughes is good. You can have more effect on them than Gasbang or Mathews.”

“O, I am willing to go to speak to the old men, but why should I see the girls?”

“You manage that part to suit yourself. And now stop. I'll drop here; you needn't go out of your way. I'll walk home. I want to see this piece of land near by. It has not been located. I might put a claim there for Everett and another for Webster.”

Clarence sighed, and silently drove on. He had passed by the Pittikin and Hughes farms the day he arrived, as his father had taken him to see how nicely the settlers were doing in Southern California; all expecting their prosperity to increase by the building of the railroad. Clarence saw the two houses and began to feel like a mariner of old between Scylla and Charybdis. There might be a troop of ugly old girls in each house. If he could only see some men out in the fields. But the fields looked deserted. Where could the men be—this being no Sunday nor Fourth of July, that they should leave off work? On looking about for some human being to guide him, he saw in the distance, under a clump of dark trees, several wagons, and horses unhitched, standing harnessed near them.

He was about to turn to the left, to take the road between two fields, when he heard voices, shouting loudly. He supposed they were calling some one. The shouts were followed by a man on horseback galloping towards him. Clarence stopped and waited. The rider was no other than Mr. Pittikin, who came in person to invite him to join their picnic, in honor of his daughter's wedding. The opportunity to see the men together would be excellent, but the girls would be there, too, thought Clarence, not over pleased.

“Please excuse me, I am not dressed to appear in company. I came to see you on business,” said he.

“The girls said I must bring you.” Clarence felt a qualm. “And even if I have to fight you I must obey; obey the ladies, you know. There ain't many there. Only our two families—Hughes and mine, and neighbor Hancock's and a few friends. Indeed, we will feel slighted if you don't join us. We will feel you think us too humble a class for you to associate with.”

“Nothing of the kind. If I thought so, I would not hesitate to present myself before the ladies in this dress.”

“Come along, anyhow. We'll make all the allowance you want. But you see, this is my daughter Fanny's birthday and her wedding day. She was married to Romeo Hancock this morning. So we wanted a room as big as all out doors to celebrate the occasion. We thought the best thing would be to have a picnic under those beautiful trees. Come, please. If you ain't with us, you are against us.”

“I'll go home and put on other dress and come back immediately,” said Clarence.

Pittikin laughed. “Just what Fanny said. I tell you she is an awfully smart girl. She said, ‘He'll tell you he is going home to change his clothes, but don't you let him, because he'll only give us the slip.’ So you see, I can't let you go. Besides, they are setting the table,—I mean to say, spreading the eatables,—so you have no time to go home now.”

“But, look here, Mr. Pittikin, what is to become of my mission? I came to see you and Mr. Hughes on business, and not on a picnic.”

“Can't the business wait till to-morrow?”

“Not very well, as I promised Mr. Mechlin.”

“Oh! I know; Hughes told me,” interrupted Pittikin. “The Don wants to make speeches to the settlers to fool us into a—into—some terms of his, so that we'll kick ourselves out of our farms.”

“Nothing of the kind. He is not going to make any foolish propositions, but even if he were, you can lose nothing by being polite and listening to him.”

“I don't know but what you are right. I like always to be polite; and as for Hughes, he is the politest man going, and no mistake. He never speaks loud, and he always listens to you. I think it will be the best thing, perhaps, to see Hughes, now. Then there is neighbor Hancock, and neighbor Miller and Jackson, and the boys. Come along, we'll collar them in a bunch.”

“Then, I can count upon your help?”

“Certainly you can; for when it is a question of politeness, I won't be left behind, and if I give you my word, you can bet on me.”

Clarence was received with loud demonstrations of pleasure.

“Here he is,” said Pittikin, on arriving at the picnic ground; “I got him; but as he has some business to talk to us about, I promised him we would attend to that too, and mix business with pleasure, as it were. So, you talk to them girls, Mr. Darrell, while we old men see what can be done and how, and we'll let you know.”

Clarence was presented by Mr. Pittikin to Mrs. Pittikin, and this lady presented him to the company, saying that he must make himself at home, which Clarence did not see well how he could do.

But the young ladies could not boast of having often the good fortune to entertain a young gentleman as elegant, handsome and rich as Clarence, and they made good use of their golden opportunity. Sweet glances and complimentary expressions of pleasure, because the Darrell family were to be their neighbors, showered upon him, until he was ready to laugh outright. But he was too kind to have done anything so discourteous, and took it all in good part, thinking it was all meant in kindness.

“Come, let us show to Mr. Darrell our ice fountain; it is, I think, a great natural curiosity,” said Mrs. Romeo Hancock, the heroine of the day, being the lady in whose honor the hymeneal festivities took place. “Come girls and boys,” said she, and accompanied by Clarence, and followed by eight or ten others, she guided them to a little cave under a large oak, from which a muffled sound of tiny bells that seemed to tinkle and sigh and whisper, came forth. It seemed to Clarence as if the little fountain was in sympathy with the dispossessed owners, but did not dare to raise its timid voice in behalf of the vanquished, who no longer had rights in their patrimony, and must henceforth wander off disinherited, despoiled, forgotten.

“This is a lovely place,” said Clarence.

“Yes, and Mathews wanted to kill me for it,” said Romeo.

“Why so?” asked Clarence.

“Because he had just sold his place to Mr. Mechlin, intending to locate here. So when he went to town to sign his conveyance, I put some boards in a wagon and came here, and in two hours my father and myself had put up my cabin. Then we put up this fence around one acre, and by nightfall we had placed my boundary stakes. That night I brought my blankets and my rifle, to sleep in my cabin. Mother sent father to keep me company, and we slept soundly, in splendid style. I wasn't afraid of Mathews. Next morning, at daybreak, we heard the rumbling of a wagon, and soon after we spied old Mathews sitting on the top of his boards. He came smack against my fence.

“What the devil is this?” said he, and began to swear a perfect blue streak. Then he took a hammer from his wagon, and began hammering.

I jumped up, took my rifle and hallooed to him, as if I didn't know him, “Who is there, hammering my fence?”

“Your fence?” said he; “your fence?”

“Yes, sir, mine. I located here yesterday.”

“You! you! Get a beard first,” said he, and with another streak of oaths, began hammering again.

I came up nearer, holding my rifle in good position. I said, “Look here, Mr. Mathews, leave my fence alone, or you will get into trouble.” I leveled my rifle at him. “Will you stop? I give you just two minutes.”

He stopped.

“You have no right to locate—you are a minor,” said he, livid with rage.

“You just inform yourself better, by asking a polite question or two of my parents. They will tell you that I am just twenty-one years and two days old, and I can prove it by our family Bible and certificate of baptism. I am a Christian, I am, though you don't seem to be, judging by your cursing,—and as for my beard, you be patient, and you'll see it, for it is coming as fast as your gray hairs.”

“Why didn't you say you wanted this place?” he growled.

“What a question!” I answered. “You ask it because you don't see my beard, but I feel it pushing ahead with all its might. I didn't tell you, because we ain't exactly bosom friends, and because that is not the style in which we settlers do business. I kept dark, hoping that you would hold on a while longer, trying to get a bigger price for your place from Mr. Mechlin. I watched you, and when you let Saturday pass I knew this sweet little spot was mine,—for on Saturday I was twenty-one, and you couldn't sign your conveyance to Mr. Mechlin until Monday. To-day is Tuesday, Mr. Mathews, I shall be twenty-one years and three days old at 11 o'clock A.M. this day, if I live five hours longer.”

“I don't believe a word. You ain't twenty-one. 'Tis a lie!”

“No, it ain't,” my father said, coming from the cabin.

“Then he is a jumper. He's jumped my claim.”

“No, he ain't. Look here, Mathews,” said father, dragging his rifle along as if it was a dead cat, “you know well it is yourself who is lying when you say that. You had no right to this claim while you held the other.”

“But I put up my notice that I was going to locate here.”

“Now, don't be silly,” said father, leaning on his rifle. “It is painful to my feelings to hear a grey-headed man talk like a child. You might have put twenty notices—what of that? The law don't allow any circus performances like that, and if it did, you ain't a good enough performer to ride two horses at once.”

“I think it is a mean performance on your part, too, coming here to steal a march on me.”

“A mean performance, you say? Do you remember how I had my notices up and my stakes on the ground, six years ago, and when I went to town to bring my lumber, you jumped my claim? My boy has just barely returned the compliment.”

“I'll be even with you yet,” said he, climbing into his wagon, and beginning to whip his horses, and swear at us worse than ever.

“The same to you; the same to you,” father would say, as if answering prayers, and then we both laughed heartily.

“That is not the worst, but that you jumped the claim of his affections,” said Tom, whereupon all laughed, and Fanny bashfully hung down her head.

Voices calling them to dinner were now heard, and they returned to the picnic grounds.

No banquet of the Iliad warriors surpassed this, showing that the settlers of Alamar had found the Don's land and the laws of Congress very good.

The elder Mrs. Hancock and Mrs. Pittikin were proud of having given a banquet which no other settler would dare surpass in Alamar.

When the dessert was being served, Clarence said, “We must drink to the bride and groom.” All agreed that it should be done.

He arose and made a neat little speech, which was so “sweetly pretty,” Mr. P. said, that it brought tears to the eyes of Mrs. Pittikin and Mrs. Hancock, the elder.

This put Clarence's popularity beyond doubt.

“Fill your glasses, for I have something to say to Mr. Clarence Darrell, but we must first drink his health,” said Mr. Pittikin.

“Here is to our friends, the Darrell family, but more particularly to Mr. Clarence. We respect him, we like him, we are proud of him;”—all drank—“and I now take the occasion to say to Mr. Darrell, in the presence of our friends here, that I fulfilled my promise to him, and have spoken to our friends here, the heads of families, and they will speak to those who are not present, and we will meet to hear what the Don has to say.”

“But we don't promise to accept any proposition, if it don't suit each one, no matter what anybody votes,” said old Hughes.

“That is understood; we want to be polite, that's all,” explained Mr. Pittikin.

“And that is all I have requested,” Clarence said. “I do not ask any one to accept any proposition against his will.”

“That is fair enough,” said old Hancock.

“And little enough, considering we are in possession of land that the Don believes to be his own,” said Romeo.

“But it ain't,” said old Hager.

“It has been for more than fifty years,” Romeo asserted.

“But he lost it by not complying with the law,” said Hughes.

“Yes, if he had not neglected his rights, his title would not have been rejected; he went to sleep for eight years, and his right was outlawed,” said Miller.

“That was the fault of his lawyers, perhaps,” Clarence said.

“Of course it was, but he should have watched his lawyers. The trouble is, that you can't teach ‘an old dog new tricks.’ Those old Spaniards never will be business men,” said Pittikin, sententiously.

It was finally agreed that Clarence would call on Mr. Mechlin that evening, to notify him that the settlers would meet the Don on Monday afternoon at 2 o'clock on the porch of Gasbang's house.

CHAPTER V.—The Don in his Broad Acres.

“The one great principle of English law,”—Charles Dickens says, “is to make business for itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly and consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by this light, it becomes a coherent scheme, and not the monstrous maze the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.”

The one great principle of American law is very much the same; our law-givers keep giving us laws and then enacting others to explain them. The lawyers find plenty of occupation, but what becomes of the laity?

“No. 189. An Act to ascertain and settle the private land claims in the State of California,” says the book.

And by a sad subversion of purposes, all the private land titles became unsettled. It ought to have been said, “An Act to unsettle land titles, and to upset the rights of the Spanish population of the State of California.”

It thus became not only necessary for the Spanish people to present their titles for revision, and litigate to maintain them (in case of any one contesting their validity, should the least irregularity be discovered, and others covet their possession), but to maintain them against the government before several tribunals; for the government, besides making its own laws, appeals to itself as against the land-owners, after their titles might have been approved. But this benign Act says (in “Sec. 11”), “That the Commissioners, the District and Supreme Courts, in deciding on the validity of any claim, shall be governed by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo; the law of nations; the laws, usages, and customs of the government from which the claim is derived; the principles of equity, and the decisions of the Supreme Court of the United States, etc., etc.”

Thus the government washes its hands clean, liberally providing plenty of tribunals, plenty of crooked turnings through which to scourge the wretched land-owners.

Don Mariano had been for some years under the lash of the maternal government, whom he had found a cruel stepmother, indeed.

As it was arranged with Clarence, the meeting would take place that day on the broad piazza of John Gasbang's house, this being the most central point in the rancho.

The heads of families all came—the male heads, be it understood—as the squatters did not make any pretence to regard female opinion, with any more respect than other men.

All the benches and chairs that the house contained, with the exception of Mrs. Gasbang's sewing rocker, had been brought to the porch, which was quite roomy and airy.

At ten minutes before two, all the settlers were there, that is to say, all the old men, with their elder sons.

Clarence, Romeo, Tom and Jack, sat together in a corner, conversing in low tones, while Gasbang was entertaining his guests with some broad anecdotes, which brought forth peals of laughter.

At five minutes to two, Señor Alamar, accompanied by Mr. Mechlin, arrived in a buggy; his two sons followed on horseback.

Clarence had time to look at them leisurely, while they dismounted, and tied their horses to a hitching post.

“They are gentlemen, no doubt,” observed Clarence.

“You bet they are,” Romeo coincided. Evidently he admired and liked them.

“How much the boys look like the old man,” Tom said.

“They look like Englishmen,” was Clarence's next observation.

“Yes, particularly Victoriano; he is so light he looks more like a German, I think,” said Romeo.

“I think Gabriel is very handsome,” Tom said, “only of late he seems always so sad or thoughtful.”

“That won't do for a man who is to marry soon,” said Romeo. “I think he has always been rather reserved. He has only a cold salutation to give, while Victoriano will be laughing and talking to everybody. But, perhaps, you are right, and he is changed. I think he is less reconciled than the others, to have us, settlers, helping ourselves to what they consider their land. He certainly was far more talkative four or five years ago. I used to work with them in ploughing and harvesting time, and both boys, and the Don, were always very kind to me, and I can't help liking them.”

“The ladies, though, ain't so affable. They are very proud,” said Tom; “they walk like queens.”

“They didn't seem proud to me, but I never spoke to them,” said Romeo.

Gasbang went forward to meet his guests, and all came into the porch.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Don Mariano to the settlers, lifting his hat and bowing. His sons and Mr. Mechlin did the same. Clarence arose, and so did the other young men with him, returning their salutation. The elder Darrell, Pittikin and Hughes followed this example; the other settlers nodded only, and remained sitting with their hats on, looking with affected indifference at the trees beyond.

“I thank you for your courtesy in complying with my request to have this meeting,” he said. Some nodded, others grinned and winked, others smiled silently.

“Take this chair, Señor, and you, Mr. Mechlin, take this one. They are the best in my establishment,” said Gasbang. “The young gentlemen will find seats somewhere on the benches.”

Clarence came forward and offered three chairs. Mr. Mechlin took his arm and presented him to the Alamars.

“I take pleasure in making your acquaintance, and I hope to have the opportunity to thank you for your kind co-operation more appropriately afterward,” said Don Mariano. His sons shook hands with Clarence cordially, and accepted the proffered chairs.

Don Mariano excused himself for not speaking English more fluently.

“If you don't understand me I will repeat my words until I make my meaning clear, but I hope you will ask me to repeat them; or, perhaps, some one of these young gentlemen will do me the kindness to be my interpreter,” said he.

“Romeo talks Spanish; he can interpret for you,” said Victoriano.

“You talk English better,” Romeo proudly replied, thinking he could tell his wife that the Don had asked him to be his interpreter.

“Perhaps Mr. Clarence Darrell would do me the favor,” said Don Mariano.

“You speak very good English, señor. We understand you perfectly. You do not require an interpreter,” Clarence said.

“That is so; you speak very well,” said Mr. Mechlin.

Gasbang and Pittikin added: “Certainly, we understand him very well.”

“Of course we do,” said Darrell and others.

“You are very kind,” said the Don, smiling, “and I will try to be brief, and not detain you long.”

“We have all the afternoon,” said Hughes.

“That's so, we ain't in a hurry,” said several.

“Only let us out in time to bring the milch cows home, before night comes on,” said old Miller, dryly.

“Exactly, we want to look after our cows, too,” said the Don, laughing.

All saw the fine irony of the rejoinder, and laughed heartily. Miller scratched his ear, as if he had felt the retort there, knowing well, that with the exception of Mathews and Gasbang, he had killed and “corraled” more of the Don's cattle than any other settler.

“Speaking about cows, brings us at once to the object of this meeting,”—Don Mariano, still smiling, went on, saying: “You know that I have lost many, and that it is natural I should wish to save those I have left. To do this, and yet not ask that you give up your claims, I have one or two propositions to make to you. The reason why you have taken up land here is because you want homes. You want to make money. Isn't that the reason? Money! money!”

“That's it, exactly,” said many voices, and all laughed.

“Well, I can show you how you may keep your homes and make more money than you can by your present methods, while at the same time, I also save my cattle. That little point, you know, I must keep in view.”

All laughed again.

“To fence your fields, you have said, is too expensive, particularly as the rainy seasons are too uncertain to base upon them any calculations for getting crops to pay for fencing. I believe this is what most of you say; is it not?”

“We could have raised better crops if your cattle hadn't damaged them,” said Mathews.

“I beg to differ; but supposing that you are right, do you think you could be sure of good crops if you killed all my stock, or if I took them all away to the mountains? No, most assuredly. The rainy season would still be irregular and unreliable, I think. Yes, I may say, I feel sure, it is a mistake to try to make San Diego County a grain-producing county. It is not so, and I feel certain it never will be, to any great extent. This county is, and has been, and will be always, a good grazing county—one of the best counties for cattle-raising on this coast, and the very best for fruit-raising on the face of the earth. God intended it should be. Why, then, not devote your time, your labor and your money to raising vineyards, fruits and cattle, instead of trusting to the uncertain rains to give you grain crops?”

“It takes a long time to get fruit trees to bearing. What are we to do for a living in the meantime?” asked Miller.

“Begin raising cattle—that will support you,” the Don replied.

“Where is the capital to buy cattle with?” Gasbang asked.

“You don't require any more capital than you already have. I can let each of you have a number of cows to begin with, and give you four or five years' time to pay me. So you see, it will be with the increase of these cattle you will pay, for I shall charge you no interest.”

“What do you expect us to do in return? To give back to you our homesteads?” asked Hughes.

“No, sir; I have said, and repeat again, you will retain your homesteads.”

“And will you stop contesting our claims?” asked Mathews.

“I will, and will give each one a quit-claim deed.”

“You will not fight our claims, but you don't want us to plant grain on our land,” said Gasbang.

“You can plant grain, if you like, but to do so you must fence your land; so, as you all say, that fencing is expensive, I suggest your fencing orchards and vineyards only, but not grain fields—I mean large fields.”

“Pshaw! I knew there was to be something behind all that display of generosity,” muttered Mathews.

Don Mariano reddened with a thrill of annoyance, but quietly answered:

“You are too good business men to suppose that I should not reserve some slight advantage for myself, when I am willing you should have many more yourselves. All I want to do is to save the few cattle I have left. I am willing to quit-claim to you the land you have taken, and give you cattle to begin the stock business, and all I ask you in return is to put a fence around whatever land you wish to cultivate, so that my cattle cannot go in there. So I say, plant vineyards, plant olives, figs, oranges; makes wines and oil and raisins; export olives and dried and canned fruits. I had some very fine California canned fruit sent to me from San Francisco. Why could we not can fruits as well, or better? Our olives are splendid—the same our figs, oranges, apricots, and truly all semi-tropical fruits are of a superior quality. When this fact becomes generally known, I feel very sure that San Diego County will be selected for fruit and grape-growing. In two years grape vines begin to bear; the same with figs, peaches and other fruits. At three years old they bear quite well, and all without irrigation. So you would not have to wait so very long to begin getting a return from your labor and capital. Moreover, an orchard of forty acres or vineyard of twenty will pay better after three years' growth than one hundred and sixty acres of wheat or barley in good seasons, and more than three hundred acres of any grain in moderately good seasons, or one thousand acres in bad seasons. You can easily fence twenty or forty or sixty acres for a vineyard or orchard, but not so easily fence a field of one hundred and sixty, and the grain crop would be uncertain, depending on the rains, but not so the trees, for you can irrigate them, and after the trees are rooted that is not required.”

“Where is the water to irrigate?” asked Miller.

“The water is in the sea now, for there we let it go every year; but if we were sensible, judicious men, we would not let it go to waste—we would save it. This rancho has many deep ravines which bring water from hills and sierras. These ravines all open into the valleys, and run like so many little rivers in the rainy season. By converting these ravines into reservoirs we could have more water than would be needed for irrigating the fruit trees on the foothills. In the low valleys no irrigation would be needed. If we all join forces to put up dams across the most convenient of these ravines, we will have splendid reservoirs. I will defray half the expense if you will get together and stand the other half. Believe me, it will be a great God-send to have a thriving, fruit-growing business in our county. To have the cultivated land well fenced, and the remainder left out for grazing. Then there would not be so many thousands upon thousands of useless acres as now have to be. For every ten acres of cultivated land (not fenced) there are ten thousand, yes, twenty thousand, entirely idle, useless. Why? Because those ten acres of growing grain must be protected, and the cattle which don't know the ‘no fence’ law, follow their inclination to go and eat the green grass. Then they are ‘corralled’ or killed. Is it not a pity to kill the poor dumb brutes, because we can't make them understand the law, and see the wisdom of our Sacramento legislators who enacted it? And is it not a pity to impoverish our county by making the bulk of its land useless? The foolishness of letting all of the rainfall go to waste, is an old time folly with us. Still, in old times, we had, at least, the good excuse that we raised all the fruits we needed for our use, and there was no market for any more. But we were not then, as now, guilty of the folly of making the land useless. We raised cattle and sold hides and tallow every year, and made money. When gold was discovered, we drove our stock north, got a good price for it, and made money. But now no money will be made by anybody out of cattle, if they are to be destroyed, and no money made out of land, for the grazing will be useless, when there will be no stock left to eat it. Thus, the county will have no cattle, and the crops be always uncertain. Believe me, in years to come, you will see that the county was impoverished by the ‘no fence law,’ unless we try to save our county, in spite of foolish legislation. If our wise legislators could enact a law obliging rain to come, so that we could have better chances to raise grain, then there would be some show of excuse for the ‘no fence law,’ perhaps. I say PERHAPS, because, in my humble opinion, we ought to prefer cattle raising and fruit growing for our county. We should make these our specialty.”

“I think it would be much more foolish to trust to a few cows to make out a living while trees grow,” said Miller, “than to the seasons to give us grain crops.”

“No, sir; because cattle are sure to increase, if they are not killed, and you could make cheese and butter, and sell your steers every year, while trees grow. You have been seven years a settler on this rancho. In these seven years you have raised two good crops; three poor, or only middling, and two, no crops at all.”

“Yes, because your cattle destroyed them,” said Mathews.

“No, sir; my cattle were not all over California; but the bad seasons were, and only in few places, moderately good crops were harvested; in the southern counties none at all. We had rains enough to get sufficiently good grazing, but not to raise grain.”

“I think you are right about the uncertainty of our seasons, and I think a good dairy always pays well, also a good orchard and vineyard,” said Darrell. “But the question is, whether we can adopt some feasible plan to put your idea into practice.”

“Yes, how many cows will you let us have?” asked Hager.

“I will divide with you. Next week I shall have my ‘rodeo.’ We can see then the number of cattle I have left. We shall count them. I shall take half, the other half you divide pro rata; each head of a family taking a proportionate number of cattle.”

“That is fair,” Darrell said.

“I don't want any cattle. I ain't no ‘vaquero’ to go ‘busquering’ around and lassooing cattle. I'll lasso myself; what do I know about whirling a lariat?” said Mathews.

“Then, don't take cattle. You can raise fruit trees and vineyards,” said Darrell.

“Yes, and starve meantime,” Mathews replied.

“You will not have to be a vaquero. I don't go ‘busquering’ around lassooing, unless I wish to do so,” said the Don. “You can hire an Indian boy to do that part. They know how to handle la reata and echar el lazo to perfection. You will not starve, either, for if you wish, you can make butter and cheese enough to help to pay expenses. I think this State ought to make and export as good cheese as it now imports, and some day people will see it, and do it, too. Thus, with the produce of your dairies, at first, and afterward with your fruits, you will do far better than with grain crops, and not work as hard. Let the northern counties raise grain, while we raise fruits and make wine, butter and cheese. You must not forget, either, that every year you can sell a number of cattle, besides keeping as many milch cows as you need.”

“Where can we sell our cattle?” asked Hancock.

“Cattle-buyers will come to buy from you. But if you prefer it, you can drive your stock north yourselves, and make a good profit. Since 1850, I have sent nine times droves of cattle to the northern counties, and made a handsome profit every time. The first time we took stock north, was in '50; I took nearly six thousand head—three thousand were mine—and the others belonged to my brothers. We lost very few, and sold at a good price—all the way from eighteen to twenty-five dollars per head. About five hundred of mine I sold as high as thirty dollars per head. I made sixty thousand dollars by this operation. Then out of the next lot I made twenty-seven thousand dollars. Then I made twenty-two thousand, and so on, until my tame cows began to disappear, as you all know. In four years after my cows began to get shot, my cattle decreased more than half. Now I don't think I have many more than three thousand head. So you cannot blame me for wishing to save these few. But believe me, the plan I propose will be as beneficial to you as to me, and also to the entire county, for as soon as it is shown that we can make a success of the industries I propose, others will follow our example.”

“If you have only three thousand head, you can't spare many to us, and it will hardly be worth while to stop planting crops to get a few cows,” said Gasbang.

“I think I will be able to spare five or six hundred cows. I don't know how many I have left.”

“We will buy from somebody else, if we want more,” said Darrell. “We won't want many to begin with; it will be something of an experiment for some of us.”

“For all of us here. Perhaps you understand vaquering; we don't,” said Hancock; all laughed.

“Then fence your claim and plant grain,” Darrell retorted.

“I am not so big a fool as to spend money in fences. The ‘no fence’ law is better than all the best fences,” Mathews said.

“But what if you make more money by following other laws that are more just, more rational?” said the Don.

“The ‘no fence’ law is rational enough for me,” said Miller.

“And so say I,” said Mathews.

“And I,” said Gasbang.

Hughes nodded approvingly, but he was too much of a hypocrite to commit himself in words.

“We did not come to discuss the ‘no fence’ law, but only to propose something that will put more money in your pockets than killing dumb beasts,” said Mr. Mechlin.

“Then propose something practicable,” said Mathews.

“I think what has been proposed is practicable enough,” Darrell said.

“Certainly it is,” Mr. Mechlin added.

“I don't see it,” said Mathews.

“Nor I, either,” added Gasbang.

“Nor I, neither,” said Hughes.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Don Mariano, rising, “I shall leave you now; you know my views, and you perhaps prefer to discuss them, and discuss your own among yourselves, and not in my presence. Take your time, and when you come to a final decision let me know. Perhaps I can advance the money to those of you who do not have it ready to purchase fencing lumber. I shall charge no interest, and give you plenty of time to pay.”

“I will do that, Señor Alamar,” Clarence said; “if the settlers agree to fence their lands, I will advance the money to them to put up their fences.”

“Yes, and if our crops fail, we will be in debt to the ears, with a chain around our necks,” Mathews growled.

“I thought you said that if it were not for my cattle, your crops would not have failed,” said Don Mariano, smiling.

“I said so, and it is so. But you see, that was before we had the ‘no fence’ law,” answered he, grinning.

Don Mariano shook hands with Clarence, whom he invited to call at his house—this invitation Clarence accepted with warm thanks—and followed by his sons and his friend Mr. Mechlin, Don Mariano took his leave, bowing to the settlers, who nodded and grinned in return.

“I suppose you, too, think the ‘no fence’ law iniquitous, as you appear to favor the aristocracy,” said Gasbang to Clarence.

“It is worse than that, it is stupid. Now it kills the cattle, afterwards it will kill the county,” Clarence answered.

“Shall we plant no wheat, because the Spaniards want to raise cattle?” Mathews asked.

“Plant wheat, if you can do so without killing cattle. But do not destroy the larger industry with the smaller. If, as the Don very properly says, this is a grazing county, no legislation can change it. So it would be wiser to make laws to suit the county, and not expect that the county will change its character to suit absurd laws,” Clarence replied.

CHAPTER VI.—Naughty Dog Milord an Important Factor.

Three large wagons, each drawn by six horses, were hauling the lumber for Mr. Darrell's house, which was already commenced.

Victoriano, riding across the valley, had to stop to let the heavily loaded wagons pass. This gave Clarence time to overtake him.

“Good morning,” said he, “I am glad to catch up with you, Don Victoriano. I have been wanting to speak to you.”

Victoriano bowed, saying, “Will you go to my house?”

“No, I'd rather not. I am not dressed to be seen by ladies. I would rather speak to you here.”

“You are going to build a large house, Mr. Darrell?” said Victoriano, turning his horse so as to ride beside Clarence; “judging by the amount of lumber being hauled.”

“Yes; rather. We are a large family, and require a good deal of room. But before we do any more work I want to speak with your father. I want to ask him—ask him as a favor—and yet, as a business proposition”—he hesitated; he was evidently embarrassed; but Victoriano, not guessing the drift of his words, remained waiting silently, offering no assistance. “Well,” he continued, “I mean this: I don't like this fashion of taking people's lands, and I would like to pay to Señor Alamar for what has been located by us, but at the same time I do not wish my father to know that I have paid for the land, as I am sure he would take my action as a reproach—as a disclaimer of his own action, and I don't wish to hurt his feelings, or seem to be disrespectful or censorious.”

“I understand, and I think my father will be willing to sell the land. He is at home now. Let us go up to see him.”

“Had you not better speak to him, and make an appointment for me to see him to-morrow, or some other time? I'd rather not risk being seen by the ladies in this blue flannel shirt and heavy boots. I look too rough—like a smuggler or a squatter, sure.”

“I can call my father to speak to you outside, so that the ladies need not see you. But if they should, that needn't disturb you. They have too much sense not to know that you would not be working in white kid gloves. Come on. The front veranda is empty. Mother and three of my sisters are at the Mechlin's. Mercedes is the only one at home, and she is too busy with her embroidery in Madam Halier's room to come near you. I'll bring father to the front veranda.”

Clarence and Victoriano tied their horses by the garden gate and walked to the piazza. The hall door was ajar. Clarence saw no ladies about and felt reassured.

There were three steps leading from the walk through the garden up to the front veranda. These steps were exactly opposite to the hall door.

Victoriano took the path to the right, saying: “Go up and sit down. I'll bring my father here.”

“Do not disturb him if he is taking his siesta.”

“The siesta hour is past, I'll find him at the office,” said he, going round the corner, leaving Clarence to walk up the front step. As he did so, he heard a tinkling of little bells and rushing of feet, as if somebody was running. Then a laughing voice, the timbre of which was sweetly pleasing, saying:

“Stop, Milord! you bad dog! Milord! Milord!”

At the same moment, through the narrow opening of the door, out darted a little white dog, dragging after him a large and much entangled skein of bright-colored silk. Clarence was nearly stepping on the little runaway, when the door was flung open, and a girl rushed out, coming against him before she could check herself. In her effort to do so she turned her foot and staggered forward, but before she realized she was in any one's presence, she felt two strong arms holding her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as a sharp, hot pain darted through her ankle. She saw that the two arms which held her were none of her father or brothers', and that they were covered with blue flannel.

Looking up to see the face above them, their eyes met. Hers expressed surprise, his merriment. But a change in their expression flashed instantaneously, and both felt each other tremble, thrilled with the bliss of their proximity. Her face was suffused with burning blushes. She was bewildered, and without daring to meet his eyes again, stammered an apology; extending her hand, to reach some chair or table to hold herself, but they all were crowded at both ends of the piazza.

“You are hurt. I am afraid you are hurt,” said he, with pale lips, reflecting the pallor he saw come to her face, succeeding her crimson blush. “I know you are suffering. What can I do? I am so sorry!”

“O no, I only turned my foot a little,” she answered, venturing to look at him for an instant. “I shall be all right in a minute.”

“If you turned your foot, don't put any weight upon it. Do not try to walk, let me carry you to a chair.”

“O no, no! I am not so much hurt as to require giving all that trouble.”

“Please let me. It will be no trouble; only a great pleasure.” He was in earnest and spoke quite seriously. “Are you afraid I could not carry you?”

“No, not that, but it is not necessary,” and she tried to walk. A quick, sharp, burning pain through her ankle admonished her that she was more hurt than she had believed. A slight contraction of her brows betrayed her pain.

“There! You will hurt yourself worse,” said he, and before she knew what he was going to do, he stooped a little and lifted her as easily as if she had been a little child. She had no time to think whether to be grateful or offended, for he quickly walked to the further end of the piazza and carefully placed her in a roomy arm chair. Then bending a knee before her, said:

“Forgive my lifting you without your permission. I knew you would not give it, and I knew also that you were suffering. Will you forgive me?” His voice was soft, caressing, pleading, but his eyes seemed to her to emit rays full of attractive, earnest force which she felt had great power. They dazzled her, and yet those eyes were so mild, so kind. She looked down, making no answer. “When Don Victoriano comes he can carry you to bed, and—please—take my advice, stay there until the pain has entirely left your foot.”

She ventured to look at his eyes again. Who could this strong young man be, so bold, and yet so gentle, so courteous and yet waiting for no permission to take so positively hold of her, to carry her bodily half the length of the piazza. And now so respectfully asking on his knees to be forgiven? Asking with tones of tender humility in his voice, while his eyes she knew could emanate subduing magnetic beams.

“How do you know Victoriano is coming? He went out riding,” she said, evading the question of forgiveness, and for the sake of making some reply that would hide her confusion.

“Yes, but I met him and he returned with me. He has gone to look for Señor Alamar, I came to see him on business,” said the respectful young man, still on his knees.

“Do you know my father?”

“Only very slightly.” They were silent. He added: “I met him a few days ago when he had that meeting with the squatters.”

“Were you at the meeting?” said she, avoiding his gaze.

“Yes,” he said, watching her beautiful face. What would she think of him, believing him a Squatter, one who came to take land that did not belong to him? How he wished that she would look up, that he might see her lovely eyes again, for if to her his eyes seemed so glorious, to him hers fascinated, conquered, with a power that he never thought could exist in any human being. Trembling, he felt that he was madly in love with her. Yes, already in love. Love at first sight, surely. But if it killed him, no matter, he would love her to the last instant of his life.

Voices were heard approaching through the hall. He stood up and walked towards the door. Señor Alamar came forward and shook hands with him. Victoriano explained the reason of his delay being, that he had to look for his father all over the house, and at last found him in the furthest “corral” looking at some new colts just brought in.

“I am glad that Mercedes came to converse with you,” said Victoriano.

“I did not come to converse. I did not know that the gentleman was here. I came by accident,” she hastened to reply. “I was trying to catch Milord when I stumbled and would have fallen, had not this gentleman prevented it.” So saying, she blushed anew; her blushes being immediately reflected on Clarence's forehead, made them both look like a couple of culprits.

“I fear the lady's foot is hurt,” said he.

“Is it?” exclaimed Don Mariano, going towards Mercedes. “Does it pain you baby?”

“Yes papa, a little. It burns me. Do you think it would be bad for me to walk to my room?”

“Of course it would,” Clarence said, and blushed redder yet at his temerity.

“Can you stand on your foot?” Victoriano asked.

“I don't know.”

“Don't try. I'll carry you to your room,” said her father.

“Women have no business to have such small feet. They are always stumbling and can't walk worth a cent,” said Victoriano, going to look at his sister's foot. “See here. No wonder they stumble. Look at the little slipper. Why don't they wear good broad boots?” So saying he took off the little slipper, which seemed made for a Cinderella.

“You are too absurd,” said Mercedes, blushing again, to see her slipper brandished aloft, in the face of a stranger.

“I ain't. It's women's feet that are absurd.”

“When we want the ladies to be infantry soldiers, then we will ask them to cultivate big feet,” said Don Mariano, laughing.

“But not until then, please,” said Clarence, smiling.

“Aha! I see you cherish the general male weakness,” said Victoriano, kneeling before his sister to put on the little slipper. “I am the only strong-minded man, I know. Come, pussy, I'll carry you to your room.”

“No, no. You take me, papa, Tano might drop me.”

“Nonsense; as if I couldn't carry a kitten like you.”

“Papa, you take me, but not to bed. Put me on the lounge in mamma's room, and call Madam Halier to me.”

“All right; anything to please the children,” said Don Mariano, stooping to lift her.

She put her arms around his neck, and whispered: “Papa, who is this young man? I never saw him.”

“That is a fact,” said Don Mariano, taking her up, and turning toward Clarence, said: “Mr. Darrell, permit me to present you to my daughter, Mercedes, ‘our baby.’” So saying, he dandled her a little in his arms.

“Oh, papa, you make me ridiculous! How can I bow like a lady, when you are rocking me like an infant!” she said, laughing, but blushing again like a rose.

“Shake hands with the gentleman, that's a dear,” said Victoriano, talking baby talk to her.

“Oh, papa, make Tano hush. Mr. Darrell, I am afraid that I shall always seem ridiculous to you.”

“Not at all; I don't see why,” Clarence replied, “but I fear that your hurt might be serious.”

“That's it. You might be ridiculous, but your hurt might be serious,” said Victoriano.

It was Clarence's turn to blush now, but he smiled good naturedly.

“You won't be serious, though. I wish you were, and polite, too,” said Mercedes. “I don't know what Mr. Darrell will think of us.”

“Mr. Darrell will see us often, I hope, and think better of Tano,” said Don Mariano, carrying away his precious burden.

“My opinion is all that you could wish, Miss Mercedes,” said Clarence, and their eyes met, transmitting that strange thrill to both.

Don Mariano placed Mercedes tenderly on her mamma's lounge, called Madam Halier to attend to the sprained ankle, and returned to the veranda.

Clarence made no delay in stating the object of his visit. He said:

“Since the meeting I have had several talks with the settlers, and the result has been my conviction, that they will not accept your generous offer. They, no doubt, wish to take up more land, and think it cannot be done if they bind themselves to put up fences by accepting your proposition. How short-sighted they are time alone will show, for at present they will not listen to reason.”

“I am very sorry. There is no alternative for me but to sell all my cattle as soon as possible, and in the meantime drive all I can to the mountains.”

“But that will be ruinous, father. How can we herd them in the mountains? They will all become wild and run away,” said Victoriano.

“I am afraid they will. I am sure of it, in fact. But there is no other way to save any at all.”

“I think this ‘no fence’ law the most scandalous, bare-faced outrage upon the rights of citizens that I ever heard of,” said Clarence, warmly. “It is like setting irresponsible trespassers loose upon a peaceable people, and then rewarding their outrage. To let any one take up your lands right before your eyes is outrage enough, but to cap the climax by authorizing people to plant crops without fences and then corral your cattle, which must be attracted to the green grass, I call positively disgraceful, in a community which is not of vandals. It is shameful to the American name. I am utterly disgusted with the whole business, and the only thing that will make matters a little tolerable to me will be for you to do me the favor of permitting me to pay for the land we have located.”

“Does your father wish to pay?”

“I do not know whether he would or not. I fear he would not. My father is a blind worshiper of the Congress of these United States, and consequently it is difficult to persuade him that our legislators might possibly do wrong. He believes that Congress has the right to declare all California open to pre-emption, and all American citizens free to choose any land not already patented. Thus, he thinks he has the right to locate on your land (according to law, mind you), because he believes your title has been rejected. But as my faith in our law-givers is not so blind, my belief is that Congress had no more right to pass any law which could give an excuse to trespass upon your property, than to pass a law inviting people to your table. I feel a sort of impatience to think that in our country could exist a law which is so outrageously unjust. My pride as an American is somewhat different from that of my father. He thinks it is a want of patriotism to criticise our legislation. Whereas, I think our theory of government is so lofty, so grand and exalted, that we must watch jealously that Congress may not misinterpret it; misrepresent the sentiments, the aspirations of the American people, and thus make a caricature of our beautiful ideal. It is our duty and privilege to criticise our laws, and criticise severely. As long as you, the native Californians, were to be despoiled of your lands, I think it would have been better to have passed a law of confiscation. Then we would have stood before the world with the responsibility of that barbarous act upon own shoulders. That would have been a national shame, but not so great as that of guaranteeing, by treaty, a protection which was not only withheld, but which was denied,—snatched away, treacherously,—making its denial legal by enactments of retroactive laws. This I call disgraceful to the American name. Therefore, in my humble way and limited sphere, if I cannot repeal, I will at least evade such unjust laws to the best of my ability, and make them ineffective as far as I am individually concerned. I only wish I could wipe out those stains on our national honor, by repealing at once laws so discreditable to us. Yes, the more so, as they bear directly upon the most defenseless, the most powerless of our citizens—the orphaned Spano-Americans. So, then, I hope you will help me to avoid this American shame, by permitting me to pay for our land whatever price you think just.”

“Very well,” said Don Mariano, pleased with Clarence's honest warmth, and to hear him express opinions and sentiments so very similar to his own. “You can pay whatever you wish, or we can make an agreement that I will sell to you when I get my patent. Such is my understanding with Mr. Mechlin and also with your father.”

“That is rather vague. I would prefer to pay to you now so much per acre. With the understanding that my father (or any one else) is not to know I have made this purchase. I mean not for the present.”

“Would your father object to it?”

“Perhaps not. And yet he might see in it a disclaimer from my part—a criticism. He is a settler—a ‘Squatter’—you know, and consequently very sensitive about (what they call) ‘rights of settlers under the law.’ He knows my sentiments, but one thing is my expressing them to him, and another is to pay money for land he thinks he has lawfully appropriated. It might seem to him, I imply that his locating perhaps was not altogether as honorable a transaction in my eyes, as it may be lawful in the eyes of the lawmakers.”

“You are certainly very honorable, and I am willing to abide by your wishes in the matter,” said Don Mariano. “You view this question exactly as I do.”

Clarence blushed with pleasure and bowed, saying:

“You are very kind, and that you, who are so generous, should be made to suffer as you have, it is, I assure you, so revolting to me (as an American and a civilized being) that I have felt great desire to go away rather than to live among these short-sighted and unappreciative people that have unfortunately fallen upon you.”

Don Mariano laughed and said, “No don't go away. Let me have one friend at least, among so many opponents. Pay whatever you wish, and take as much land as you desire to have, but don't go.”

“I thank you, indeed, but will you not name the price? I don't think it is right for me to put a price upon your property.”

“My dear sir, that would be so if my property was not going into—smoke of sulphur—but as it is, and growing fast so ‘beautifully less’ that I suppose even the $1.25 of government price ought to be a handsome figure to my weary eyes. So name any price you wish.”

It was agreed that Clarence would pay $10.00 per acre, and take up 640 acres where his father had already located. It was also understood that the purchase should not be mentioned to any one. Don Mariano excepted only his son Gabriel. Clarence said he would except his mother, inasmuch as she had told him to pay for the land or else she would not come to reside upon it.

Don Mariano said that he would like to mention it to his family and the Mechlins, but feared that if only some allusion was overheard by the servants, it would be repeated.

“I have no objection to Mr. Mechlin knowing it,” Clarence said.

“No, but they have for servants Hogsden and his wife, and they are very dishonorable. They would repeat it if by accident they heard it.”

“It is a pity that Mrs. Mechlin don't send those two thieves away,” Victoriano said.

“Yes, I hear that the woman Hogsden repeats things she hears at the Mechlins,” Clarence said.

“Of course she does, and steals too, and yet Mrs. Mechlin keeps them,” Victoriano said, impatiently.

“Perhaps it would be best to say nothing, and I will watch my chance to tell my father myself, that I paid for the land,” Clarence said. He then rose to go.

As he went down the veranda steps he met Milord returning, still dragging the skein of silk. But this was no longer of bright variegated hues, it was black with mud and sadly masticated by Milord's sharp teeth, which proudly held it as if challenging any one to take it.

“You wicked Milord. See what you have done with your poor mistress' silk. She will be distressed,” said Victoriano.

On hearing himself thus apostrophised, Milord ran off again with his plunder, and it was with difficulty that by the combined efforts of Victoriano and Clarence he was at last captured, but the bright colors of the silk had all disappeared, a blackened skein resembling a piece of wet rope was pulled from Milord's sharp teeth.

CHAPTER VII.—From Alameda to San Diego.

The Darrell house was now finished, the furniture had arrived, been unpacked and distributed in the rooms, but the house seemed to old Darrell entirely too sumptuous for the plain folks, that his family ought to be. That was a truth.

“Look here, Clarence, haven't you been too extravagant in buying such expensive carpets, such fine furniture? For gracious sake, how big is the bill for all this grandeur?”

“I don't know yet the price of every item, but don't be alarmed, I am sure they would not go beyond the limit I gave Hubert (Hubert made the purchases), and I assure you, it will all be paid with our volunteer crop.”

“Don't be sure of that.”

“O, but I am sure—only not too much so—which is the right way of being sure,” he replied.

Clarence was now a regular caller at the Alamar and the Mechlin houses. He felt that in both places the welcome he received was sincere, for even the silent Gabriel was always ready to talk to him. As for Victoriano, his attachment to Clarence was now an acknowledged and accepted fact,—not rejected by Señor Alamar, to judge by appearances,—and certainly fully and sincerely reciprocated by Clarence. Both found great pleasure in each other's society, and saw each other every day.

It was now time for Clarence to go to Alameda to bring down the family. He and Victoriano talked about it walking towards the Alamar house from the Darrells, discussing the probable time of his return.

“Clarence has come to bid us good-by,” said Victoriano, walking into the parlor, followed by Clarence.

“Why! Where is he going?” said Mercedes, rising, dropping the book she was reading.

“Don't be alarmed, he is only going to bring his mother and sisters down,” added Victoriano, maliciously, causing the blood to rush to her forehead.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting down, with a resentful look toward her brother, and a half appealing, half deprecating one to Clarence, who was contemplating her in ecstatic silence.

“I think the Holman girls will be coming about the same time. I was telling Clarence to look after them a little, if convenient, and if they are not sea-sick,” said Victoriano.

“They will require my services more if they are sick,” said Clarence, laughing.

“If you are a good nurse,” Victoriano observed; adding, “Imagine Corina Holman nursed by a strange young gentleman; that would kill her sure.”

“I would try and prevent that,” said Clarence.

“Thank you, for my friends. I do not think they will be very ill; but I am sure it will be pleasant for them to have so good an escort,” said Mercedes.

Clarence promised, therefore, to look after the Misses Holman, and let them know which steamer would be best to take coming to San Diego.

Mercedes said she would write notifying them of this arrangement.

There was a great something in Clarence's mind that he wished to say to Mercedes before leaving, but he had neither courage nor opportunity to say it, so he left, carrying with him the burden of his thoughts untold.

His voyage was accomplished in safety, the steamer arriving at San Francisco at the regular time. Hubert Haverly came to meet him, and together they went to a restaurant for breakfast.

“Give us the most secluded room and the nicest breakfast your establishment can produce, for this gentleman is very particular, and I am very hungry,” said Hubert.

The waiter smiled, showed them to the best room in the house, and retired.

“Now let us talk,” said Hubert, “I am dying to tell you how rich you are, and scold you for not letting me keep your stock longer and making you richer. Why were you so anxious to sell? The stock kept rising steadily. I was a ‘bull’ all the time. There was a slight break once—only once. Some fellows wanted to pull the stock down, and got a few ‘bears’ to work with them. It lowered a little, but only a few of the heavy holders had any fear, and it soon recovered, shooting up higher than ever. I got your order to sell about that time, and did so, but I assure you my heart ached when I did it.”

“I wrote you immediately after that, it was only the first hundred shares I wanted sold.”

“Yes, but that letter I got three days after I had sold all. I almost cried like a girl, with disappointment, when you wrote that I was to send you only $6000. Now, you could have made a whole million with your thousand shares.”

“A whole million?”

“Most assuredly. Look at yesterday's quotations, and the stock is still rising.”

“Truly,” said Clarence, reading the stock report; “the last paper I saw was dated six days ago. But even then ‘Crown Point’ was still very high.”

“And so it was, but it is very disappointing to get one-half of a million when you might as well get a whole million. I shall never cease scolding you for it.”

“Well, I'll bear the scolding patiently, considering that it was to avoid scoldings that I gave you the order to sell.”

“To avoid scolding? How so? From whom?”

“From my father. He is terribly down on mining stocks. He would consider me next to a thief if he thought I bought stocks.”

“That is absurd. You needn't tell him how much money you have. Here is my statement of all I made; my commission and moneys paid for you. I sold your stock at a fraction over $800 per share. Oh, Clarence, why did you make me sell? Look at this. After buying the government bonds as ordered you have left $260,000, when you might have had half a million over.”

“Never mind. I made enough. I'd rather let some one else make the balance than to sell when things begin to tumble down. Did you say $260,000?”

“Yes, $260,000, when it ought to be $400,000 at least.”

Clarence laughed at Hubert's rueful face.

The waiter brought in their breakfast.

“Broiled oysters on toast! Oysters baked in the shell! Broiled chicken. Let us discuss them in preference to stock,” said Clarence.

Having helped his friend and then himself, Hubert said:

“What are you going to do with your $260,000 now since you are not to buy stock?”

“I have not thought about it, but I guess the best thing would be to invest all in government bonds.”

“Which is the same as burying your cash.”

“I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I would like to make a safe investment that would give me about $30,000 a year, and then I could afford to let you gamble with the balance, if there was any balance left,” Clarence said.

“I'll see to-day what government bonds are selling for, and report to you this evening.”

“That can't be, as I am to take the two o'clock boat for Alameda.”

“When will you be back?”

“To-morrow evening if you want me, but if not I shall wait until the family comes down.”

“What a lucky fellow he is,” said Hubert, walking towards the Stock Exchange, after promising Clarence to see him to the boat at two o'clock. “In two years he has made a fortune with a capital of $2000.”

Hubert was right. Clarence had been a lucky investor. With the sum of $2000 bequeathed to him by Mrs. Darrell's Aunt Newton, when he was only five years old, and which sum she ordered should be put at interest until he was twenty-one years of age, Clarence speculated, and now he was worth close on to a million dollars.

Everything was ready for the journey when Clarence arrived at his Alameda home.

“Don't you know that it pulls my heart string to tear you away from this place?” Clarence said, looking towards the nice orchard and field beyond.

“You'll make us cry if you talk like that,” said Mrs. Darrell. “Alice has nearly cried her eyes out already.”

“Never mind, our lease of this place won't be out for two years yet, and we can come back if the other don't suit,” said Clarence encouragingly.

Two days after, the Darrells left Alameda on their way to San Diego, stopping for a couple of days only at San Francisco. On board the steamer Clarence met Mr. Alfred Holman, who had accompanied his daughters and now placed them under Clarence's care—“According to instructions from Miss Mercedes”—Mr. Holman added, making Clarence's blood rush to his head, as it always did whenever that sweetest of all names was mentioned in his presence. “Tell the Alamares I shall be down soon. I am only waiting for Tom Scott to escort me.” So saying, Mr. Holman laughed and hurriedly kissing his daughters, ran down the gang plank.

Clarence lost no time in presenting the Misses Holman to his mother, sisters and brothers, all of whom received them with politeness, though with different degrees of warmth, according to the natural share of affability or that diffidence which half of Darrell's children inherited from him, especially the two eldest daughters. The amiability of Alice and her mother's gentle, winning ways, however, soon dispelled the damp chill that Jane and Lucy's reserve generally managed to throw over strangers, thus before the steamer got under way, all were conversing and laughing like old friends, discussing things in general and people in particular.

“I think you have made a conquest,” said Amelia Holman to Alice. “Or perhaps two, for I saw a little yellow haired man with a very red neck, come this way and look at you. Then a loose jointed fellow who walks as if his feet are too heavy to lift and just drags them, follows, and he too looks at you beseechingly.”

“Mercy! I don't want to be so fascinating as all that might indicate,” said Alice, laughing, and a little man gesticulating, and a big man with shuffling gait and hands in the pockets of his pantaloons, listening wearily, were seen coming.

“I know who they are,” said Clarence. “The little one is married, so Alice can rest her hopes on the big footed one only.”

“Gracious, how very repulsive the small one is,” Corina exclaimed.

“Who are they?” Mrs. Darrell asked when they had turned to go back.

“The large fellow is Dick Mason, brother-in-law of the little red-skinned one, who told me his name is Peter Roper, and he is a lawyer bound for San Diego to practice law there (no matter by what means), he says. He gave me this information himself when I went to check our baggage. He introduced himself and his brother Dick on the strength of his being acquainted with father. He also asked permission to present his wife, to my mother and sisters.”

“Did you give that permission?” asked Jane, sternly.

“I did, of course; but if his skin is not so thick as it is red he will never avail himself of it. I noticed he had been drinking, so I told him that at present my mother and sisters wished to converse alone with the Misses Holman, of whom we are the escort, but that before we reached San Diego I thought there might be an opportunity to present his wife, perhaps.”

“What did he say to that?” Alice asked.

“He grinned and said: ‘Pretty large escort, ain't it? About a dozen people.’ Yes, I said, but the young ladies are very nice, and require a great deal of attention. ‘Do they?’ said he, and his yellow eyes leered, and sticking his tongue to one side of his mouth, made his cheek bulge out; he then raised his shoulders and lifted his elbows, as if he would have flown aloft had his arms been wings.”

“How impertinent and vulgar,” Jane exclaimed.

“He is of the genus hoodlum. A bird aboriginal of the San Francisco sand dunes, resembling the peacock,” said Corina Holman.

“What did you do when he made those grimaces?” Alice asked.

“Nothing. I looked at him as if I expected nothing else, considering that it must be natural to him to act like a monkey. My impassibility rather disconcerted him, as evidently he expected me to consider him very funny, and laugh at his droll antics. He added, ‘Any time will do, as my wife is not over-anxious to make acquaintances generally.’ So saying, he threw back the lappels of his coat, putting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and strutted off, leaving me to guess whether he was making fun of his wife's exclusiveness or ours. He turned back soon, though, and said, ‘We'll call it square, if you come and take a drink.’ When I declined that also, he went off again, and this time angry in good earnest.”

“I hope he will remain so, and not come near you again,” said Jane.

Vain wish! When the boat stopped at Santa Barbara, Roper took that opportunity to present his wife to Mrs. Darrell on the strength of his acquaintance with her husband. He grinned and suppressed a giggle, thinking it was very funny to claim friendly relations with Darrell, whom he had never seen. It was a matter of perfect indifference to him that Mrs. Darrell would find out his falsehood afterward. All that he wanted now was to become acquainted with the Darrell and Holman ladies. In this he succeeded, and what is more, succeeded according to his principles, in utter disregard of truth or self-respect. He trusted to his inventive genius to explain how he came to imagine he was acquainted with Mr. Darrell.

When the boat arrived at San Diego, Gabriel and Elvira came to the wharf to meet the Misses Holman. They thanked Clarence for the excellent care he had taken of them, and Elvira asked him to present her to his mother and sisters. This was done with pleasure, and he was glad to see that Elvira and Gabriel seemed pleased with his family.

The Holmans would remain in town for a couple of days at a friend's house, after that they would go to the Alamar rancho to make their visit there. Elvira and Gabriel would remain with them to be their escort. Such was Elvira's message home sent with Clarence.

Mr. Darrell came on board to meet his family, but Mr. Peter Roper was too intently occupied with his baggage to renew his acquaintance; in fact, he rather hurried off the boat to avoid him.

The Darrells arrived at the hotel about the same time, but Peter was then particularly engaged making important inquiries from one of the hotel clerks.

He was saying: “So, you think there is no lawyer of any prominence; not one that might be called a leading lawyer?”

“I didn't say that; I only said I don't know of any.”

“Exactly. You hear, though, who has the largest practice?”

“If you call a large practice to get people into trouble by spying about people's business and getting commercial agencies (I believe that is what he calls to spy and pry into people's affairs), then old Hornblower is the leading lawyer, for he leads people into long law suits always, and bleeds them and makes money.”

“That's the man for me,” said Roper, showing his purple gums in a broad grin, and the orange and green of his eyes expanding with feline instincts.

Romeo Hancock had been engaged by Clarence before leaving, to take charge of hauling their effects to the rancho. Romeo, therefore, was there with three large wagons, and two vaqueros to convey Mrs. Darrell's pretty Jersey cows. But Clarence had to see that everything started in good order before he joined his family at the hotel.

“I brought the Concord wagon for the women folks and the light spring wagon for the boys and Tisha,” said Mr. Darrell. “The Concord holds six people well, and at a pinch, eight. The light wagon the same; so you don't have to have any extra conveyances.”

“No, father, I have not hired any,” Clarence replied, and exchanging a look with his brothers, said that everything was ready to start, and all walked down stairs.

In front of the ladies' entrance was a very handsome carriage which Mrs. Darrell and her daughters had admired very much on board the steamer; next to it was a pretty phæton which they also had admired, and behind the phæton was Mr. Darrell's Concord. He frowned and said:

“There was no use in hiring those carriages, Clarence.”

“Count noses, father,” said Clarence, going about busily carrying parcels to the carriages assisted by his brothers, allowing no time for discussion—“Let us see. Mother and father in the back seat; Jane and Lucy in the front, Clementina with Everett, the driver. In the phæton I will take Alice, her lap dog and our two satchels, and last but not least, Webster will take ‘the Concord’ with Willie in the front seat and Tisha in the back in state, with the cockatoos and canaries and parcels,” said Clarence, patting Tisha on the back.

All laughed, approving the disposition of forces.

“Are these carriages ours, Clary?” asked Clementine.

“It looks like it,” said Clarence, lifting her to her place, “and you shall see how soon the phæton distances the big carriage.”