In the centre of this courtyard was what evidently had once been a fountain, though it had long since dried up.  Around it squatted a group of vaqueros, all smoking cigarettes and some of them lazily twisting lariats out of horsehair.  Close at hand a dozen or more wiry little mustangs stood saddled and bridled and ready for any emergency.  In colour, one or two were of a peculiar cream and had silver white manes, but the rest were greys and chestnuts.  It was evident that they had great speed and bottom.  All in all, what with the fierce and savage faces of the men scattered about the courtyard, the remoteness of the adobe, and the care taken to guard against surprise, old Bartolini’s hacienda was an establishment not unlike that of the feudal barons or a nest of banditti according to the point of view.

At the sound of the fast galloping horses, every man on the ground sprang to his feet and ran to his horse.  For a second only they stood still and listened intently; then, satisfied that all was well and that the persons approaching belonged to the rancho, they returned to their former position by the fountain—­all save an Indian servant, who caught the bridle thrown to him by the young man as he swung himself out of the saddle.  And while this one led his horse noiselessly away, another of the same race preceded him along a corridor until he came to the Maestro’s room.

Old Ramerrez Bartolini, or Ramerrez, as he was known to his followers, was dying.  His hair, pure white and curly, was still as luxuriant as when he was a young man.  Beneath the curls was a patrician, Spanish face, straight nose and brilliant, piercing, black eyes.  His gigantic frame lay on a heap of stretched rawhides which raised him a few inches from the floor.  This simple couch was not necessarily an indication of poverty, though his property had dwindled to almost nothing, for in most Spanish adobes of that time, even in some dwellings of the very rich, there were no beds.  Over him, as well as under him, were blankets.  On each side of his head, fixed on the wall, two candles were burning, and almost within reach of his hand there stood a rough altar, with crucifix and candles, where a padre was making preparations to administer the Last Sacraments.

In the low-studded room the only evidence remaining of prosperity were some fragments of rich and costly goods that once had been piled up there.  In former times the old Spaniard had possessed these in profusion, but little was left now.  Indeed, whatever property he had at the present time was wholly in cattle and horses, and even these were comparatively few.

There had been a period, not so very long ago at that, when old Ramerrez was a power in the land.  In all matters pertaining to the province of Alta California his advice was eagerly sought, and his opinion carried great weight in the councils of the Spaniards.  Later, under the Mexican regime, the respect in which his name was held was scarcely less; but with the advent of the Americanos all this was changed.  Little by little he lost his influence, and nothing could exceed the hatred which he felt for the race that he deemed to be responsible for his downfall.