He
dreams of a day when he can visit the unknown canons beyond his
new home.
Several Ute chiefs have described giant forests of big trees.
They tell of a great gorge of awful majesty; that far toward the
headwaters of the American are sparkling lakes fed by winter snows.
His escort of young bloods rides behind him. They have had their
morning gymnastics, "a cheval," to edify the laughing beauties
of the baile of last night. The imprisoned rooster, buried to the
neck in soft earth, has been charged on and captured gaily. Races
whiled away their waiting moments.
Then, "adios, senoritas," with heart-pangs in chorus. After a
toss of aguardiente, the cigarito is lit. The beaux ride out for
a glimpse of the white cliffs of the Golden Gate. The sleeping
Monterey belles dream yet of yester-even. Nature smiles, a fearless
virgin, with open arms. Each rancho offers hospitality. Money
payments are unknown here yet, in such matters.
Down the Santa Clara avenue of great willows these friends ride
in the hush of a starry evening. As the mission shows its lights,
musical bells proclaim the vesper service. Their soft echoes are
wafted to the ears of these devotees.
Devoutly the caballeros dismount.
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