The Little Lady of Lagunitas - Richard Savage

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communicate with the superior tribes of the North and East. All their dialects are different.

      Vaguely float in his memory old stories of the giant trees and the great gorge of the Yosemite. He will visit yet the glistening and secret summits of the Sierras.

      Weeks run into months. Comfort and plenty reign at Lagunitas. With his wife by his side, Miguel cons his occasional despatches. He promises the Seflora that the spring shall see a chapel erected. When he makes the official visit to the Annual Council, he will bring a padre, at once friend, spiritual father, and physician. It is the first sign of a higher life—the little chapel of Mariposa.

      Winter winds sway the giant pines of the forests. Rains of heaven swell the San Joaquin. The summer golden brown gives way to the velvety green of early spring.

      Juanita meekly tells her beads. With her women she waits the day when the bell shall call to prayer in Mariposa.

      Wandering by Lagunitas, the wife strays in fancy to far lands beyond the ocean. The books of her girlhood have given her only a misty idea of Europe. The awe with which she has listened to the Padres throws a glamour of magic around these recitals of that fairy world beyond the seas.

      Her life is bounded by the social horizon of her family circle; she is only the chatelaine. Her domain is princely, but no hope clings in her breast of aught beside a faded middle age. Her beauty hides itself under the simple robe of the Californian matron. Visitors are rare in this lovely wilderness. The annual rodeo will bring the vaqueros together. Some travelling officials may reach the San Joaquin. The one bright possibility of her life is a future visit to the seashore.

      Spring casts its mantle of wild flowers again over the hillocks. The rich grass waves high in the potreros; the linnets sing blithely in the rose-bushes. Loyal Don Miguel, who always keeps his word, girds himself for a journey to the distant Presidio. The chapel is finished. He will return with the looked-for padre.

      Leaving the sergeant in command, Don Miguel, with a few followers, speeds to the seashore. Five days' swinging ride suffices the soldier to reach tide-water. He is overjoyed to find that his relatives have determined to plant a family stronghold on the San Joaquin. This will give society to the dark-eyed beauty by the Lagunitas who waits eagerly for her Miguel's return.

      At the Presidio the Commandante is feasted. In a few days his business is over. Riding over to the Mission Dolores, he finds a missionary priest from Acapulco. He is self-devoted to labor. Father Francisco Ribaut is only twenty-five years of age. Born in New Orleans, he has taken holy orders. After a stay in Mexico, the young enthusiast reaches the shores of the distant Pacific.

      Commandante Miguel is delighted. Francisco Ribaut is of French blood, graceful and kindly. The Fathers of the mission hasten to provide the needs of Lagunitas chapel.

      The barges are loaded with supplies, councils and business despatched. Padre Francisco and Don Miguel reach the glens of Mariposa in the lovely days when bird, bud, and blossom make Lagunitas a fairyland. In the mind of the veteran but one care lingers—future war. Already the feuds of Alvarado and Micheltorrena presage a series of domestic broils. Don Miguel hears that foreigners are plotting to return to the coast; they will come back under the protection of foreign war-ships. As his horse bounds over the turf, the soldier resolves to keep out of this coming conflict; he will guard his hard-won heritage. By their camp fire, Padre Francisco has told him of the Americans wrenching Texas away from Mexico. The news of the world is imparted to him. He asks the padre if the Gringos can ever reach the Pacific.

      "As sure as those stars slope to the west," says the priest, pointing to Orion, gleaming jewel-like in the clear skies of the Californian evening.

      The don muses. This prophecy rankles in his heart. He fears to ask further. He fears these Yankees.

      Joy reigns at Lagunitas! A heartfelt welcome awaits the priest, a rapturous greeting for Don Miguel. The grassy Alamedas are starred with golden poppies. Roses adorn the garden walks of the young wife. Her pensive eyes have watched the valley anxiously for her lord.

      Padre Francisco hastens to consecrate the chapel. The Virgin Mother spreads her sainted arms on high. A school for the Indians soon occupies the priest.

      Months roll around. The peace and prosperity of the rancho are emulated by the new station in the valley.

      Don Miguel rides over the mountains often in the duties of his position. Up and down the inland basin bronzed horsemen sweep over the untenanted regions, locating new settlements. San Joaquin valley slowly comes under man's dominion.

      Patriot, pioneer, and leader, the Commandante travels from Sutter's Fort to Los Angeles. He goes away light-hearted. The young wife has a bright-eyed girl to fondle when the chief is in the saddle.

      Happiness fills the parents' hearts. The baptism occasions the greatest feast of Lagunitas. But, from the coast, as fall draws near, rumors of trouble disturb the San Joaquin.

      Though the Russians are about to leave the seacoast, still Swiss Sutter has taken foothold on the Sacramento. The adherents of Micheltorrena and Alvarado are preparing for war in the early spring. To leave Lagunitas is impossible. The Indian tribes are untrustworthy. They show signs of aggressiveness. Father Ribaut finds the Indians of the Sierras a century behind those of the coast. They are devoid of spiritual ideas. Contact with traders, and association with wild sea rovers, have given the Indians of the shore much of the groundwork of practical civilization.

      To his alarm, Don Miguel sees the Indians becoming treacherous. He discovers they make voyages to the distant posts, where they obtain guns and ammunition.

      In view of danger, the Commandante trains his men. The old soldier sighs to think that the struggle may break out between divided factions of native Californians. The foreigners may gain foothold in California while its real owners quarrel.

      The second winter at Lagunitas gives way to spring. Rapidly increasing herds need for their care all the force of the ranch.

      From the coast plentiful supplies provided by the Commandante arrive. With them comes the news of the return of the foreigners. They are convoyed by a French frigate, and on the demand of the British consul at Acapulco they are admitted. This is grave news.

      Donna Juanita and the padre try to smooth the gloomy brow of Don Miguel. All in vain. The "pernicious foreigner" is once more on the shores of Alta California. The Mexican eagle flutters listlessly over the sea gates of the great West. The serpent coils of foreign conspiracy are twining around it.

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      "Quien Vive!" A sentinel's challenge rings out. The sounds are borne away on the night wind sweeping Gavilan Peak. No response. March breezes drive the salty fog from Monterey Bay into the eyes of the soldier shivering in the silent hours before dawn.

      "Only a coyote or a mountain wolf," mutters Maxime Valois. He resumes his tramp along the rocky ramparts of the Californian Coast Range. His eyes are strained to pierce the night. He waits, his finger on the trigger of his Kentucky rifle.

      Surely something was creeping toward him from the chaparral. No: another illusion. Pride keeps him from calling for help. Three-score dauntless "pathfinders" are sleeping here around intrepid Fremont.

      It is early March in 1846. Over in the valley the herd-guard watch the animals. "No, not an Indian," mutters the sentinel. "They would stampede the horses at once. No Mexican would brave death here," muses Valois.

      Only a boy of twenty, he is a veteran already. He feels for his revolver and knife. He knows he can defy any sneaking Californian.

      "It must be some beast," he concludes, as he stumbles along the wind-swept path. Maxime Valois dreams of his far-away home on the "Lower Coast," near New Orleans. He wanders along, half asleep. This hillside is no magnolia grove.

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