The Rose Dawn. Stewart Edward White

in silence for some moments. The open country succeeded the last scattered houses of the town. The oak-parked hills rolled away to right and left, unfretted by fences. Ground squirrels scurried to their holes; little owls bobbed from the tops of low earth mounds; a road runner flopped rangily into the dust of the road and rocked away in challenge ahead of the horse. Under the oak trees stood the cattle, already fed full. The starred carpet of alfileria had been fitted to the hills, and in the folds and up the slopes scarves of bright colour—lupin, poppy, nieve, poor man's gold had been flung. Quail and meadowlark, oriole and vireo, led a chorus of birds. In tiny pond-patches of tule and cattail, mudhens and ducks talked busily in low voices. The yellow sunlight flooded the land like an amber wine.

      "You certainly have a wonderful country to look at, and wonderful weather. What's the matter with it?"

      "Matter with it?" repeated Mills. "Nothing. What do you mean?"

      "Well, look around you. There isn't a house to be seen. If this country was as good as it looks you ought to have a farm house for every two hundred acres."

      "Oh, I see. Well, this that you are looking at is all one big ranch—the Corona del Monte. Belongs to Colonel Peyton, where we are going."

      "How far does he extend?"

      "Up the valley? About five miles."

      "What's beyond?"

      "Las Flores—belongs to a Spanish family, the Cazaderos. They owned practically the whole of the valley under the old grant. The present ranch is not a quarter of their original holdings."

      "Sell out?"

      ​"The usual thing with these old families. They are very generous and very extravagant, and they have no idea of the value of money. All they know is that they go to the bank and get what they need. There must come an end to it: you know that. There comes a time when the bank must foreclose, for its own protection."

      "Then your land loans often require foreclosure?"

      "You would be interested to look over the old tax lists. I'll take you down to the Court House sometime to see them, if you want. At first there were perhaps a dozen names, all Spanish. Then alongside each of those Spanish names came one or more American names. And the assessments against the Spanish grew smaller. You can pretty well trace the history of the county on those tax books. You ought to look them over."

      "I should like to do so," asserted Boyd. "But under these conditions the bank must be in the ranching business pretty extensively."

      "It is, and we don't like it; but we do as little management as we can help, and sell cheaply."

      "Then," corrected Boyd, "the banks are in the real estate business."

      "We are that: up to the neck. But," he pointed out, "do not forget that is about the only way we'd ever open up the back country. The native won't sell a foot of his land. The only way to get it from him is by foreclosure."

      "Do these big holders, like Peyton or this Spaniard, do any farming?"

      "Peyton has a walnut orchard and some fruit in the bottomland, and of course some barley and alfalfa. All that is right near the home station. But most of it is cattle, of course; and sheep in the mountains."

      "And the Spaniard?"

      "They have always a little stuff for home use around the ranch houses. But none of those people ever do much but cattle."

      "Land not good for much else, I suppose," suggested Boyd, with malice aforethought.

      "Not good?" Mills fired up. "Let me tell you that this bottomland is the finest farming soil in the world. It will raise ​anything that can be raised anywhere in any climate. Why, sir, we have the finest products you ever saw in either the temperate or tropical zones. There is no use my trying to tell you about it. Drive down the valley to the south of the town and look about you."

      "I should like to do so," said Boyd again.

      They topped a little rise and looked ahead over the long flat across which the road led into the distance of other hills. Crawling white clouds of dust marked the progress of many other vehicles. These turned at a point about midway in the valley to enter an avenue between a double row of tall fan palms.

      "The Colonel's guests are arriving," observed Mills.

      The palm avenue, rustling mysteriously in the wind and flanked on either side by English walnut trees, ran straight as a string for nearly a mile to end in a slight curve around the low wide knoll on which grew the Cathedral Oaks. Just before this ascent, however, they were turned aside by a very polite Mexican into a sort of paddock enclosure where were provided an astonishing number of hitching posts and rails. Already nearly a hundred animals were there securely anchored. The rigs varied from ramshackle buggies white with dust to smart surreys or buckboards. In the centre was even a high four-seated trap. The four horses stood tied to the wheels. They were good looking animals and possessed the (then) astounding peculiarity of reached manes and banged tails.

      "Who's that outfit belong to?" asked Boyd, his attention attracted by the smartness of detail of all this.

      An expression of disapproval clouded the banker's prominent eyes.

      "Young fellow named Corbell," he replied shortly. "Wild young fool. Owns a ranch out beyond here."

      They left the paddock and made their way up the knoll and across the lawn to the ranch house.

      The Colonel and Mrs. Peyton stood at the foot of the three veranda steps receiving their guests. Many of the latter were strolling about beneath the trees and on the lawn; others were wandering in groups down the slope and across the way to the picnic grove. The women looked very cool and fresh in light ​coloured dresses. Among those who lingered as by right on the lawns were the élite of Arguello, and they bore themselves accordingly. The men were very bluff and sententious but with a roving eye on the punchbowls. The women wore huge excrescences called bustles and little hat-bonnets on the front of their heads and they walked with elegance. To the elders all this imparted an air of great dignity and virtue; but some of the younger, fresh-faced dashing creatures managed to make of these rather awful appurtenances weapons for conquest. They flirted the bustles from one side to the other; or they looked out from under square banged hair beneath the little hats, and great was the slaughter.

      III

      The stream past the Colonel and his wife swelled and slackened, but never ceased. As Boyd moved on after his conventional greeting, he heard the Colonel mention the name Corbell, and turned in curiosity to see the owner of the four-in-hand. He looked upon a rather short, dapper individual with a long, lean brown face, snapping black eyes, and a little moustache waxed to straight needle points. This man was exquisitely dressed in rough clothes of Norfolk cut—in that time and place!—a soft silk shirt and collar, a pastel necktie. He wore no jewelry but a large signet ring. His concession to the West was his hat, which was probably the widest, highest, and utmost turned out of the factory. With him seemed to be somewhat of a group of young men; of whom, however, Boyd noticed particularly only one. Indeed, that one could hardly escape notice. He stood well over six feet and bulged with enormous frame and muscles. His complexion was very blond, so that the ruddiness of his open-air skin showed in fierce and pleasing contrast to his bleached moustache and eyebrows. To make it all more emphatic he wore garments of small black and white checks. It would have been impossible to compute how many thousands of these little squares there were spread abroad over his great round chest and thick arms alone.

      "Lord, there's a strong-looking chap. How'd you like to tackle him, Ken?" commented Mr. Boyd, as they drew apart.

      ​"He's powerful big. He looks strong."

      "He is strong," broke in a stranger who had overheard. "I saw him once crawl under a felled tree and raise it on the broad of his back."

      "Who is he?"

      "Rancher. Owns the next place to Corbell—that little dude there. Named Hunter, Bill Hunter.