 CHAPTER 10 MORE CAMPFIRE STORIES And still they watched the flickering of the blaze and talked together of the good old days. Bravo, bravissima! Splendid, Polly! exclaimed the boys. Belle, you're a great author. Couldn't have done better myself, give you my word! cried Jack, bowing profoundly to Belle and Polly in turn, and presenting them with bouquets of faded leaves hastily gathered from the ground. Polly, you covered yourself with glory, said the doctor. I am very proud of your part in it, too, my little daughter. I have some knowledge of Poncho's capabilities as an aerator, and I think the story of Valerio owes a good deal to you. Now, who comes next? Marjorie? No, please, said Marjorie. For I have another story. Take one of the boys and let's have more facts. Yes, something historic and profound out of the encyclopedia from Jack, said Polly saucily. Thanks, Miss Oliver. With you, for an audience, any man might be inspired, but... But not a boy. Mother dear, remove that child from my sight, or I shall certainly shake her. Phil, go on, just to keep Polly quiet. Very well. Being the oldest Californian present, I... What about Dr. Paul? Asked the irrepressible Polly. He wasn't born here. Responded Philip dryly. And I was. I think that's a quibble. Interrupted Bell. Papa was here twenty years before you were. It's not my fault that he came first. Answered Philip. Marjorie and I are not only the oldest Californians present, but the only ones. Isn't that so, sir? Quite correct. Oh, if you mean that way, I suppose you are. But still, Papa helped frame the constitution, and was here on the first admission day, and was one of the vigilantes. And I think that makes him more of a real Californian than you. You've just grown up with the country. Bless my soul, what else could I do? I would have been glad to frame the constitution, admit the state, and serve on the vigilance committee, if they had only waited for me. But they went straight ahead with the business. And when I was born, there was nothing to do, but stand round and criticize what they had done. Or, as you express it, grow up with the country. Well, as I was saying when I was interrupted. Thank pardon. Don't mention it. Uncle Doc has asked me to tell Mrs. Howard and Elsie how they carried on the rodeos ten or fifteen years ago. Of course, I was only a little chap. Very little, murmured his sister. But never too small to stick on a horse, and my father used often to take me along. The rodeos nowadays are neither as great occasions, nor as exciting ones as they used to be. But this is the way a rodeo is managed. When the spring rains are mostly over, and the grass is fine, say in April, the ranchero of a certain ranch sends word to all his neighbors that he will hold a rodeo on a certain day or days. Of course, the cattle used to stray all over the country, and get badly mixed, as there were no fences, so the rodeo was held for the purpose of separating the cattle and branding the calves that had never been marked. The owners of the various ranches assembled the night before, bringing their raqueros with them. They start out very early in the morning, having had a cup of coffee, and ride to the rodeo ground, which is any flat convenient place where canyons converge. Many of the cattle on the hills round about know the place, having been there before, and the vaqueros start after them and drive them to the spot. How many vaqueros would that be? Ask Delcy. Oh, nine or ten perhaps, and often from one thousand to three thousand cattle. It depends on the number of ranches in cattle represented. Some of the vaqueros form a circle round the cattle that they have driven to the rodeo ground, and hold them there while others go back to the ranch for breakfast and fresh horses. Fresh horses so soon? said Mrs. Howard. I thought the Mustangs were tough, hearty little beasts that would go all day without dropping. Yes, so they are. But you always have to begin to part out the cattle with the freshest and best trained horses you have. The owners and their best vaqueros now go into the immense band of cattle, and try to get the cows and the unbranded calves separated from the rest. You can imagine what skillful engineering this takes, even though you never saw it. Two work together. They start a certain cow and calf, and work them through the band of cattle until they near the outside, and then rush them to a place three or four hundred yards beyond, where other vaqueros are stationed to receive and hold them. Of course the cattle don't want to leave the band, and of course they don't want to stay in the spot to which they are driven. I don't blame them. Cried Belle impetuously. Probably the cows remember the time when they were branded themselves, and they don't want to hear their little bosses put through the same operation. Very likely. Then more cows and calves are started in the same way, the greatest difficulty being had with the first lot, for the cattle always stay more contentedly together as the group grows larger. Occasionally one breaks and runs off on the hills, and a vaquero starts after him, throws the riata and lassoes him, or lassoes him as the California boys say. There must be frightful accidents. Said Mrs. Winship. Yes, but not so many as you would suppose, for the horsemanship in its particular way is something wonderful, when an ugly steer is lassoed and he feels the riata or lariat round his neck. He sometimes turns and makes for the horse, and unless the vaquero is particularly skillful, he will be gored in his horse too, but he gives a dexterous turn to the lariat. The animal steps over it, gets tingled and thrown. Frequently an animal breaks a horn or a leg. Sometimes one fall is not enough. The steer jumps up and pursues the horse. Then the vaquero keeps a little ahead of him, and leads him back to the rodeo ground, where another vaquero lassoes him by the hind legs and throws him, while the riata is taken off his neck. There is another danger too. Added Dr. Winship. The vaquero winds the riata very tightly round the pommel of his saddle to hold the steer, and he is likely to have his finger cut in the hair-robe and cut off. Yes, I forgot that. Two or three of the famous old vaqueros about Santa Barbara, Jose Maria, Jose Antonio, and old Clemente have each lost a finger, while the vaqueros at length form in a circle round the band of selected cattle. The ranch owner who gives the rodeo takes his own cattle that he has found, the ones bearing his brand, you know, and drives them in with the ones to be branded, leaving in the rodeo ground the cattle bearing the brands of all the other rancheros. There has been much drinking of aguardiente, brandy, and everybody by this time is pretty reckless. Then they drive this selected band to the home corral, the vaqueros yelling, the cattle calling, and the riata's whizzing and whistling through the air. If any unfortunate tries to escape his fate, he is pursued, last and brought back. By this time the cattle are pretty well heated and angry, and when they get into the crowded corral, they horn each other and try to gore the horses, a fire is then built in one corner of the corral, and the branding irons are heated. Oh, hold my hand, Polly, if the branding is going to begin. I hate it so, exclaimed Elsie. I won't say much about it, but it's no worse than a thousand things that people have to bear every year of their lives. Animals never have to have teeth filled, for instance, nor limbs amputated. Oh, just think of a calf with a wooden leg, or a cow with false teeth. Wouldn't it be funny? Laught about. They don't have a thousand ills that human flesh is heir to, so they must be thankful they get off so easy. Well, the branding irons are heated, as I say, each cattle owner having his special brand, which is properly recorded, and which may be any device not previously used. Two men now catch the calves, one lassoing them by the head, the other by the legs. A third man takes the iron from the fire and brands the chosen letter or hieroglyphic on the animal's hind quarter. Sometimes on the forequarter, don't you? Ask Bell. I've seen brands there. Your horse has two, and Erko has one also. Yes, a brand on the forequarter shows that the animal has been sold, but it always has the original brand on the hind quarter. When a sale is affected, the new brand is put anywhere in front of the fifth rib, and this constitutes what they call a venta, or sale. If you notice some of the little plugs written by Santa Barbara boys, you'll see that they bear half a dozen brands. By the way, if the rodeo has been a very large one, they are several days branding the cattle, so they are turned out to pastorear a little while each day. The brand was absolute sign of ownership, you know, girls, said Dr. Winship. And though there was the greatest care exercised in choosing and recording the brands, there was plenty of opportunity for cheating. For instance, a man would often see unbranded cattle when riding about, and there was nothing to prevent his dismounting, building a fire, heating his iron, and putting his own brand on them. Then at the next rodeo, they were simply turned over to him, for as I say, the brand was absolute ownership. When error I take my rides abroad, how many calves I see, and as I brand them properly, they all belong to me. Sad Bell. How I should like to see a rodeo. Side LC. I can't imagine how the voceros can fling the reata while they're riding at full speed. It isn't so very wonderful. Said Polly nonchalantly. The most ordinary people can learn it. Why, your brother Jack can lasso almost as well as a Mexican. And I can lasse any stationary object myself. Cried Bell. A hitching-post, or even a doorknob. I can do it two or three times out of ten. That shows immense skill. Answer Jack. But, as a thing you want to last, never does stay still, and as it is absolutely necessary to catch it more than three times out of ten, you probably wouldn't make a name and fortune as a vocero. Juan Capistrano, by the way, used to be famous with the lariat. I had heard of his adventure with the bull on the island of Santa Rosa, and I asked him about it today, but he had so exhausted himself telling stories to Bell that he had very few words for me. You see there was a bull on Santa Rosa Island, so wild that they wanted to kill him, but nobody could do it, though he was a terror to anyone who ventured on the island. They called him Antiguelo because of his long horns and long tail. He was such a terrible fighter that all the voceros were afraid to last him, for he always broke away with the lariat. You see, a horse throws bull by skill and not by strength, of course. You can choke almost any bull, but this one was too smart. He would crouch on his haunches and pull back until the rope nearly choked him, and then suddenly make for the horse. Juan Capistrano had a splendid horse. You see, as much depends on the horse as the man in such a case, and he came upon Antiguelo on the Cerro Negro and last him. Well, did he fight? I asked. Si, señor. Well, what happened? Yo lo mate. I killed him, he said, with the shrugger's shoulders, and that's all I could get out of Juan regarding his adventure. But you haven't done your share, you lazy boy. Objected, Val. You must tell us more. What do you want to hear? I am up on all the animal and vegetable life of Southern California, full of interesting information concerning its old customs, can give you Spanish names for all the things that come up in ordinary conversation, and I'm the only man present who can make a raha'i reata. Said Jack modestly. Go on and tell us how, oh great and wise reatero. Said Bal. I'll tell you that myself, said Elsie. For I've seen him do it dozens of times when he should have been studying his little lessons. He takes a big piece of raw hide, cuts a circle right out of the middle, and then cuts round and round this until he has a long continuous string half an inch wide. He then stretches it and scrapes the hair off with a knife or a piece of glass, gets it into four strands, and braids it round. Perhaps you think braiding round is easy to do. Retorted Jack in an injured tone. But I know it took me six months to learn to do it well. I fail to see, said his mother, how a knowledge of braiding round and lassoing of wild cattle is going to serve you in your university life and future career. Oh yes, it will. I shall be the buckle of Bill of Harvard, and I shall give charming little entertainments in my rooms, or in some little garden plot suitable to the purpose. Shall you make a point of keeping up with your class? Asked Mrs. Winship. Oh yes, unless they go too fast. My sports won't take any more time than rowing or baseball. They'll be a little more expensive because I'll have to keep some wild cattle constantly on hand, and perhaps of a carol or two. But of a carol won't cost any more than a valet. I didn't intend furnishing you with a valet, remarked his mother. But I shall be self-supporting, mother dear. I shall give exhibitions on the campus, and the gate money will keep me in luxury. This is all very interesting, said Polly, cuttingly. But what is it to do with California I'd like to know? Poor dear, your brain is so weak. Can't you see that when I am the fashion in Cambridge, it will be noise about that I gained my marvelous skill in California? This will increase emigration. I don't pretend to say it will swell the population like the discovery of Golden 48, but it will have a perceptible effect. You are more modest than a whole mussy bank of violets. Lapped Dr. Paul. Now, Marjorie. Will you give us your legend? Mine is the story of Juan de Dios. Literally, Juan of God. And I'm sorry to say that it has a horse in it, like Polly's. Only hers was a snow-white mare and mine is a cold black charger. But they wouldn't tell us any romantic love stories. They were all about horses. Story of Juan de Dios. In early days when Americans were coming into Santa Barbara, there were many cattle buyers among them. And there were large bands of robbers all over the country who were ready to pounce on these travelers on their way to the great cattle ranchos, kill them and steal their money and clothes, as well as their horses and trappings. No one could understand how the robbers got such accurate information of the movements of the travelers unless they had a spy somewhere near the mission, where they often stopped for rest and refreshment. Now, there was a certain young Indian Vaquero in the employ of the Padres at La Mission de la Purisima. He was a wonderful horseman and greatly looked up to by his brother Vaqueros because he was so strong, alert and handsome and because he was always dressed elegantly in rich old Spanish embroideries and velvets, given to him, he said, by men for whom he had done great services. One day, a certain traveler, a Spanish official of high degree, came from Monterey to wet his sweetheart, the daughter of the richest cattle owner in all the country round. His boys in bed and bridle were a solid silver. His hakema, halter, was made of a hair-robe whose strands had been dyed in brilliant colors. His tabaderos, francias, were made of silver. His tabaderos, front of the stirrups, mochilas, large leather saddle flaps and sudaderos, thin bits of leather to protect the legs from sweat, were all beautifully stamped in the fashion used by the Mexicans. His saddle blankets and his housings were all superb, honey for a broad sombrero encircled with the silver snake and trimmed with silver lace. The traveler stayed at La Purisima all night and set out early in the morning to ride the last 40 miles and waited him from his bride. But one and two other robbers were lying in wait for him behind a great rock that stood at the entrance of the lonely canyon. They appeared on horseback, one behind the unfortunate man and two in the front so that he could escape neither way. We finally succeeded in lastowing the horse and throwing him to the ground with his rider who defended himself bravely with his knife but was finally killed and robbed. Juan taking his clothes and trappings and the other two dividing the contents of his purse. They could not have buried their victim as successfully as usual or else they were surprised and had to escape for the body was found. And Juan, whom the Padres had begun to view with suspicion, was nowhere to be found about the mission. Troops were sent out in pursuit of him for this particular traveler was a high official and it was necessary that his death should be avenged. They had last heard that Juan had been seen going towards Santa Inés mission and pursuing him thither they came upon him as he was driving a band of horses into a coral. And just in the act of catching his own horse a noble and powerful animal called Azebache because of his jet black color. The men surrounded the coral and ordered him to surrender. He begged them to wait until he had settled Azebache and then they might shoot them both down together. They asked permission to call three times, pegar tres gritos and after the third call they were to shoot. His last wish was granted. He saddled and mounted his splendid horse called once, twice, thrice. But when the last shout faded in the air and the troops raised their muskets to fire Behold! There was no one in use to be seen. They had been surrounding the coral so that no one could have written out. They looked among the horses but Azebache was nowhere to be found. Just then a joyous shout was heard so ringing and trumpet that every man turned in the direction from which it came. There galloping up the hillside nearly half a mile distant was Juan de Dios mounted on his coal black Azebache. But it was no common sunshine that deepened the gorgeous colors of his trappings and danced upon his silver spurs till they glistened like two great stars. It was a broad, glittering stream of light such as no mortal has ever seen before and which almost blinded the eyes and over this radiant path of golden sunbeams galloped Juan de Dios until he disappeared over the crest of the mountain. Then the light faded. The Padres crossed themselves in silence and went home to their mission and Juan de Dios never was heard of more. Modest little Marjorie was hailed with such cheers that you could not have seen her cheeks for the blushes and just as the party began to think of forsaking the fascinating campfire for bed Belle jumped up impetuously and cried. Here, Philip, give me the castanets, please. Polly and Jack, you play las Palomas for me and I'll sing and show you the dance of that pretty Mexican girl whom I saw at the bowl given under the big grapevine. Wait till I take off my hair ribbon. Lend me your scarf, Mama. Now begin. Las Palomas, the dogs. Four little white dogs began to coo to coo to their mates so fair and each to the other dose that your coo with mine cannot compare. It is barely possible but not likely that anything prettier than Belle's Mexican Danza was to be seen under the light of the September stars that night although they were doubtless shining down upon a thousand lovely things with all the brightness of her loosened hair rising and falling with a motion of her swaying figure. With her twinkling feet, her crimson cheeks and parted lips, she looked the very spirit of dance and her enraptured audience only allowed her to stop her sweetly breathless. Oh, what a beautiful evening! exclaimed Elsie when the celebration was finally over. Was there ever such a dear, dear canyon with such dear people in it? If it only wouldn't rain and we could live here forever. Rain, rain, stay away. Come again another day. Little Elsie wants to play. recited Polly and then everybody went to their straw beds. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of A Summer in a Canyon A California Story by Kate Douglas-Wigan This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 Breaking Camp The thirsty earth soaks up the rain and drinks and gapes for drink again. The plants suck in the earth and are drinking fresh and pear. But it did rain and it didn't wait until they were out of the canyon either. It began long before the proper time and it by no means confined itself to a shower, but opened the winter season fully a month before there was any need of it and behaved altogether in a most heartless and inconsiderate manner like a very spoilsport of a rain. It began after dark so as to be just as disagreeable as possible and under the two slight cover of their tents the campers could hear the rush and the roar of it like the tramping of myriad feet on the leaves. Poncho and the two Chinaman huddled under the broad sycamores in their rubber blankets and were dry and comfortable, but all the waterproof tents leaked, save Elsie's. But when it was dawn, the sun, having heard nothing apparently of any projected change in the weather at all time in the most resplendent fashion. Brighter, rosier, and more gloriously if you will believe me, then he had risen that whole long sun-shiny summer and he really must have felt paid for getting up at such an unearthly hour in the morning, when, after he had clamored over the grey mountain peaks, he looked down upon Los Flores canyon, bathed in the light of his own golden beams. If he knew anything about ancient history and biblical geography, and if he didn't I don't know who should, in as much as he had been present from the beginning of time, he must have thought it as fair as the Garden of Eden, for nature's face simply shone with cleanliness, like that of a smiling child just fresh from its bath, and every leaf of every tree glistened as he beamed upon it, and shook off its crystal drops that he might turn them into diamonds. It was only a shower, said Dr. Winship, as he seated himself on a damp board and partook of a moist breakfast. And with this sun the tents will be dry before night. Elsie has caught no cold, the dust will be laid, and we can stay another week with safety. Everybody was hilarious over this decision, save the men of all work, who longed unspeakably for a less poetic existence. Hop yet particularly, who thought camping out not much eager. Dickie was more pleased than anybody perhaps, as every day in the canyon was one day less in school, not that he had ever been to school, but he knew in advance instinctively that it wouldn't suit him. Accordingly he sought the wettest possible places, and played all day with superhuman energy. He finally found Hop yet's box of bluing under a tree in a very moist and attractive state of fluidity, and just before dinner improved the last shining hour by painting himself a brilliant hue and appearing at dinner in such a fiendish guise that he frightened the family into fits. Now Dr. Winship was one of the most weatherwise men in California, and his predictions were always quite safe and sensible, but somehow or other it did rain again in two or three days, and it poured harder than ever too. To be sure it cleared promptly, but the doctor was afraid to trust so fickle a person as the clerk of the weather had become, and marching orders were issued. The boys tramped over all their favorite bits of country, and the girls visited all their best beloved haunts, every one of them dear from a thousand charming associations. They looked for the last time in mirror pool, and saw the reflection of their faces. Rather grave faces just thin over the leaf taking. The water mirror might have been glad to keep the picture forever on its surface. Marjorie with her sleek braids and serene forehead, with Polly saucy nose and misch of a size laughing at you like a Mary water sprite, Belle with her brilliant cheeks glowing like two roses just fallen in the brook, and Gold Elsie who, if you had put a frame of green leaves about her delicate face and yellow locks, would have looked up at you like a water lily. They waffed it a farewell to Pico Negro, and having got rid of the boys, privately embraced a certain whispering tree under whose singing branches they had been want to lie, and listened to all the murmuring that went on in the forest. Then they clamored into the great, thorough brace wagon where they all sat in gloomy silence for ten minutes, while Dickie's tan terrier was bound for the fourth time that morning and the long train with its baggage carts, its saddle horses and its dogged little pack mules moved down the rocky steeps that led to civilization. The gate that shut them in from the county road and the outer world was opened for the last time and shut with a clang and it was all over, their summer in a canyon. End of Chapter 11 End of a summer in a canyon, a California story by Kate Douglas-Wiggin