CHAPTER VII

THE RANCHEROS REVOLT

Five horsemen rode into the morning sunshine down El Camino Real toward the south.  One was Washington Bartlett, alcalde of Yerba Buena, whose rather pursy figure sat with an ungainly lack of grace the mettled horse which he bestrode.  It was none other than Senora Windham’s favorite and beloved mare “Diablo,” filched from the Windham stables several days before.  In compensation she received a bit of paper signifying that the animal was commandeered “for military necessity.”

The rancheros were patient fellows, Bartlett reflected.  If his conscience smote him sometimes, he took refuge in the knowledge that America was still at war with Mexico and that these horses were the property of alien enemies.  Non-combatants, possibly.  Yet they had failed in declaration of allegiance to the United States.

“I’ll show you some excellent horseflesh today,” he promised his companions.  “And, what’s better, you shall have your pick.”

“Well, that’s extraordinarily good of you, alcalde,” said the man who rode beside him.  “But ... do you mean one gets these glorious animals—­for love?”

“Not—­er—­exactly,” Bartlett answered.  “You see, my deputies and officers, like yourself, must ride about to make their observations and reports.  Such are the needs of war.”

“Of course,” another rider nodded understandingly.  “And as alcalde you have many deputies.”

“As well as many—­er—­observation officers like ourselves to supply,” a third supplemented, slyly dropping one eyelid.

The fourth man said nothing for a time.  Then, rather unexpectedly, he asked:  “And what do you give them in exchange, alcalde?”

Bartlett turned in some surprise.  “I give them notes of hand,” he answered half resentfully.  “Notes redeemable in American gold—­when the war is over.”

“And, are these notes negotiable security?  Will your shop-keepers accept them in lieu of coin?”

“At proper discounts—­yes,” said Bartlett, flushing.

“I have heard,” the other remarked almost musingly, “that they are redeemable at from fifteen to twenty per cent.  And that the only man who accepts them at even half of their face value is McTurpin the gambler.”

“That is not my business,” Bartlett answered brusquely.  The quintet rode on, absorbed and silent.  Below them swept green reaches of ranch land, dotted here and there with cattle and horses or the picturesque haciendas of old Spanish families.  The camino stretched white and broad before them, winding through rolling hillocks, shaded sometimes by huge overhanging trees.

“Isn’t this Francisco Sanchez, whom we go to visit, a soldier, a former commandante of your town, alcalde?” asked a rider.

“Yes, the same one who ran away when Montgomery came.”  Bartlett laughed.  “It was several days before he dared come out of the brush to take a look at the ‘gringo invader.’”