by Diego Vega
They saddled fresh horses, filled their canteens, and rode east to make a sweep of the foothills, looking for this year’s administrador, Don Honorio.
The pueblo could boast about its twenty thousand head of cattle. Within the sound of the mission’s biggest bells were several hundred vaqueros hard at work. Yet this great landscape still seemed empty. Except for the little wisps of smoke from the branding fires, there was little sign that anyone lived here. It was so big and empty that they might have been among those first Spaniards to visit this place. Diego had the strange feeling that he and Bernardo were seeing it just as Padre Junípero Serra had seen it when he came up from Mexico City, long ago.
Diego looked across the peaceful plain. “Don Alejandro tells me that the streets of Barcelona are all pushed together for miles. The shops along them stand wall to wall like the boxes in a stable. Miles and miles.”
Bernardo signed quickly: Not for me.
“We’ll see it, Bernardo. Before too long we’ll go to Barcelona and learn to be fine gentlemen as well as vaqueros. We’ll see all those streets and shops and fine ladies. And many wonders, I expect. But Pueblo de los Angeles could never be like that: streets and shops and hard paving everywhere. No, this is the real California.”
They came up onto a little crest. Bernardo whistled softly. Smoke was rising behind a stand of trees.
“I don’t like it either,” Diego said. “That’s too much smoke for a branding fire. Something’s not right.”
Both boys flicked their long reins and spurred their ponies into a gallop toward a thickening bank of gray smoke.
They rode out of the trees into a little meadow. It was alive with flame. A wildfire! This was a cattleman’s nightmare—leaping and spreading, burning up the cattle’s feed, crippling the pueblo’s prime business. A disaster for every Angeleño.
The fire was spreading out through the yellow-dry grass, and a thicket of brush was blazing. “It’s still small!” Diego shouted over the pop and crackle of the fire. “We might head it off!”
Bernardo looked around for help. He pointed to where, across the fire, dim through the smoke, half a dozen vaqueros were galloping away!
“Where are they going? Don’t they see we need help?” Diego shouted.
Bernardo spurred his pony and rode back toward the trees. Diego did the same. No time for dithering!
“The brush! Let’s cut a break in the brush! If we do that, maybe we can do something about the grass fire!”
Leaping down from their ponies, they drew their big blades. A young gentleman might carry a sword by his saddle, but a brush knife was more useful to a vaquero—as long as an arm, thick and wide. They tied off their ponies, away from the fire but nervous in the smoke, and ran toward the brush.
Bernardo sprinted around the thicket to the other side. He would cut inward so they’d meet in the center. Let it have half the brush. They’d try to starve this fire.
Diego began a few dozen paces from the fire, cutting carefully. He threw branches, dead wood, and heavy grass away from the fire, trying to make a lane the fire couldn’t leap across. He stopped for a moment and looked back to the trees where the ponies were whinnying in fright. The top leaves of the trees were still. Good! The afternoon wind from the mountains hadn’t begun yet. As long as the wind didn’t blow, fanning the fire toward them, they had a chance. He bent saplings hard over and cut them off close to the ground. Tossing the young trees and their leaves away from the fire, he moved on to the next piece of fire food.
The smoke eddied and rolled. Diego coughed, and his eyes stung. Pulling the bandanna up over his nose and mouth helped only a little. The heat was scorching.
Once he jumped back as a rattlesnake coiled just beneath him, striking and missing. “Look out, culebra! You’re no help! Get out of here. Save yourself!” Diego seized a chopped limb and whacked at the snake. It slithered quickly away, and he started cutting again.
Now he could hear chopping ahead of him. Yes, and Bernardo coughing. He whistled. Bernardo whistled back, and they kept hacking toward each other.
One moment he could barely see Bernardo. The next moment he had to step back to stay out of his blade’s swing. They had made a fairly straight lane across the thicket of brush, but not wide enough.
“I’ll widen the break!” Diego shouted. “You try to stop that grass fire!” Diego began to cut at the edge of the break, widening it by another arm’s length. With luck, with no wind, he might have time to widen the whole length of the break.
Bernardo ran toward the whinnying ponies. They hated the smoke and the fire. He couldn’t blame them.
He mounted his pony and patted it gently, trying to pour confidence into the frightened beast. Riding around the meadow outside the spreading fire, he found what he needed: a fallen tree. It was a handsbreadth thick in the trunk, dead for several seasons, no leaves. Bernardo hitched his reata to the trunk and dallied the end to his saddle horn. When he pulled back, the tree moved without much difficulty. He turned the pony and moved ahead, pulling the tree behind them. The leather rope burned across his thigh, squeezing it painfully, but he didn’t have time to think about it.
The tough cow pony shied and danced away from the flames. Bernardo fought the pony’s fear and his own as he rode along the burning edge. The dead tree’s branches dragged across the fire, mashing the grass down, kicking up sparks but stubbing most of the flames out. He rode one way and another along the black edge until he and the pony were exhausted. But they had stopped the fire.
Bernardo tied the pony in the trees again and ran back with his brush blade. He stalked the edge of the burn, stomping embers and kicking apart clumps of smoldering grass, digging into smoking pockets with the blade and scattering the bits of fuel. Breathing so much smoke had made him sick. He coughed painfully and threw up.
The fire wasn’t as loud as it had been. He could hear Diego cutting brush and coughing. The firebreak had worked. The fire was burning itself out.
The afternoon wind finally swept in. The cool air was welcome. But it also blew up new sparks and fanned old embers into flame. They worked for hours at the stubborn fire. A dozen times it threatened to revive itself and devour the great plain.
“Any more water?” Diego asked, shaking his own empty canteen. They were both lying against the trunks of trees near their horses, gasping and trying not to cough, more tired than anyone had ever been. Or it seemed that way.
Bernardo gave him his canteen, which had a few drinks left. It tasted wonderful. Anything that didn’t taste like smoke was wonderful.
They helped each other up and walked toward the center of the black, burned ground. “Here’s where it started,” Diego said, then spat several times, trying to get the grit and dryness out of his mouth. “Those vaqueros that rode off started the whole thing. At least we’ll know what rancho they ride for,” he said, stooping to pick up the warm branding irons.
They looked at all the irons. “No we won’t,” Diego said. “I’ve never seen irons like this before. There’s no brand here I recognize. Do you?” They weren’t real brands but curves and circles and squiggles.
Bernardo shook his head: None that I know.
Diego looked around them. “I think the fire’s out now. And Don Honorio still needs the tally book. Unless an angel in a chariot will deliver it for us, we’ve got miles to ride.”
They gathered up the irons and walked back toward the trees and their horses. They had their arms around each other, partly out of brotherly affection but mostly to stay upright.
Don Honorio was sitting under an oak tree sharing a pitcher of wine and fruit juice with Don Moncada when the boys rode up.
“Hola, hijos,” the administrador called to them as they approached. “Where have you been? Have you been digging in the mines? You’re as black as Barbados fishermen.”
“Sí, your honor. We have been digging in our gold mines. It is messy work, as you see. But the profit is too great to ignore. We will put up with a bit of blac
kness for a bit of gold, yes?”
When the boys came closer to them, Don Moncada wrinkled his nose at the sour smoke smell. “Truly, Diego, what has happened to you?” He was more polite than his son, and much more charming.
“We stumbled onto a wildfire, Señor, and paused to put it out,” Diego said.
The older men were concerned by his news, but Diego went on. “It was not a big fire as such things go. It was just our size. Large enough to frighten us, small enough to put out, and nasty enough to turn our stomachs.”
Diego handed Don Honorio the book.
“The fire was begun by some vaqueros,” Diego continued. “They were branding calves with brands I have never seen. We brought them with us. Perhaps you will recognize them.”
“But first we must see to our brave young fire-eaters,” Don Moncada said quickly. “While our administrador copies the numbers of your tally, I will have your horses watered and seen to. You will sit down with some cider or juice to clear your throats. It is only right. I insist.” Such a hospitable demand could not be politely refused. Diego and Bernardo bowed, and Don Moncada pointed them to a tent near the cook camp. “I will have my vaqueros see to your horses and join you in a moment.”
It was cool in the tent, and there were elegant folding chairs. Moncada arrived with an Indian servant bearing a tinkling tray with pitchers, glasses, and pastries. Bernardo’s eyes were wide in appreciation. Diego smiled, gulped down the sweet juice, and worried about smudging the cloth of the chairs with his sooty clothes. In a few minutes, Don Honorio joined them, carrying his large tally book under his arm. He handed Scar’s smaller book to Diego.
“I have recorded the numbers, young de la Vega. The apartado for this year is nearly complete. We can look forward to the fiesta now.”
Diego rose and said, “With God’s blessing, we can be hopeful for a good increase of cattle. Yes, and we will have a grand fiesta. But, with respect, gentlemen, we must return to what duties remain. Our mayordomo is, you know, a man of iron will. We must be where we are told to be.” He bowed again, and they all walked out of the tent.
Bernardo’s horse was waiting, but a hard-eyed vaquero the boys had never seen offered Diego an unfamiliar horse and saddle. “Excuse me, Don Moncada, but this is not my horse,” Diego said.
“We had a minor excitement,” Moncada said. “Your horse, a fine mount, must have been upset by the fire. When my men tried to rub it down and give it some water, it bolted. Galloped clean away. I had a few vaqueros ride after it. They’ll bring it back to your hacienda tomorrow, along with your saddle. Until then, please accept the use of a Moncada mount and one of our saddles.”
Diego paused a moment, then his natural courtesy returned. “Many thanks, Don Moncada. You do me a kindness with this beautiful stallion. I will use it with respect for its bloodline and for your generosity. Again, muchas gracias and adios. Vayan con Dios.”
“Yes,” Don Honorio said, “go with God.”
The boys rode west toward the river in silence. After a while Diego said, “It’s a good horse. But I’d sooner ride my own horse.”
Bernardo looked over his shoulder to the distant Moncada tent. He made the sign for trickery.
“I bet we’ll never get those irons back. That must be why Moncada took my horse. The irons are a clue to something.”
Bernardo pursed his lips.
“Did that vaquero who brought this horse look a little strange to you? Did you see his boots and chaps? They’re not local gear, are they? A bit foreign?”
Bernardo looked at him, looked back toward the Moncada ranch, and whistled low and soft.
The sun was only two handsbreadths from the horizon. They flipped the reins against their horses’ necks and headed for the river marsh.
12
PRACTICE
IT HAD TAKEN HOT water and harsh soap to scrub away the last traces of the smoke from their hair. Their shirts and pants were riddled with burn holes from cinders. Estafina whiffed their boots with a disgusted face. “The smoke will preserve these boots forever. Unfortunately.”
“Ah, but Estafina,” Diego said, “think of the good work we’ll be doing. Wherever we go, sinful folks will smell our boots and think of the fires in hell. They will mend their wicked ways and take up charitable works.”
“God shouldn’t hear you! Reminding people of hell! You are a strange boy, Diego. Bernardo, you should light a candle in the church for your odd milk brother!”
Their throats were still smoke raw and they still had burns from flying embers, but they would rather fight the fire again than face the awful task ahead of them: dancing.
They stood like convicts in a row before the fireplace: Diego; Bernardo; Regina; Estafina; her husband, Montez; Francisca from the kitchen; and the laundress, Gracia. With Don Alejandro, they made four couples to practice the pattern dances. The furniture of the big room had been pushed back against the walls. Two of Padre Mendoza’s neophytes sat with guitar and harp to make the music.
“A true gentleman is graceful on a horse, on the fencing mat, and on the dance floor,” Don Alejandro insisted.
The boys groaned. Regina groaned. But the don would not be discouraged: the house of de la Vega would present itself with elegance at the administrador’s ball. Every hidalgo, soldier, and Spanish lady would attend this high point of the apartado fiesta at Don Honorio’s hacienda.
“Dancing is a conversation in movement,” the don lectured them, “and it must be played out in rhythm. Light but restrained. Casual but deliberate. Balance, flow, grace! Now form two lines: ladies on this side, gentlemen over here. Thank you all for filling in.”
He walked them through the geometry of the dance without music first. The head couple joined hands, bowed, and stepped down between the lines. Then the next couple. When all the couples had gone down the line, the ladies joined hands and formed a circle. It went on and on. Diego wanted to die. He was certain that any one of his cow ponies could do a better job at this dancing business.
But when the harp and guitar played the lilting Spanish tunes, it was a kind of game. They made mistakes, they tripped now and then, but the dance played itself out and they were all laughing, breathless with the effort. They sat on the window seat and panted. As a game it was not all bad.
The don put his hand on Diego’s shoulder, his forehead damp with the effort of dancing. “Dancing. It may feel silly at times. I promise you this, though: as much serious business has been settled on a dance floor as on a battlefield. Maybe more.
“This is social business, a show of confidence. A gentleman who proves himself on the dance floor and in the dining room can be more powerful than a merely skillful swordsman.”
Diego and Bernardo looked at him, not quite believing. He must have seen their doubt. “A steady blade and fighting skill will go a long way. A gentleman who can manipulate a conversation as well as his sword point can be truly powerful. And truly dangerous.” Don Alejandro laughed. “The deadliest swordsman I ever knew was also the best dancer. Swordplay and dancing require the same things: rhythm, balance, timing, confidence, and a bit of audacity. It all goes together.”
Regina rose and drew her skirts up around her, then began to chant. She was singing in the Shoshone tongue, and began the flat-footed, shuffling, beat-beat-beat dance of the Gabrieleños. Estafina and Gracia leaped up to join her. The neophytes played the rhythm on harp and guitar. Montez began to clap out the rhythm, then the boys and even Don Alejandro clapped as the women turned and turned in a Gabrieleño corn dance, faster and faster. They collapsed on the window seat in a breeze of laughter and panting. The men applauded.
When their breath returned, Don Alejandro got up again. “Now we do a dance from Madrid, the slow paseo dance in a circle. Women on the inside, men on the outside.”
Bernardo’s head drooped. Diego cried, “No! You mean there’s more than one dance?”
Bernardo found Diego sitting beside the fountain pool, his fists balled, his eyes damp with tears. He sa
t down and put his arm around Diego’s shoulders.
It was hard for Diego to speak for a few moments. Finally he said, “I’m not going to the fiesta. And I’m surely not going to the stupid ball at the Honorio hacienda. No. Never.”
Bernardo looked at him, waiting: Why not?
“My new clothes. Embroidered pants, buttoned seams. Fancy little jacket and sash. Ridiculous. Stupid.”
Bernardo shook his head: That’s not the reason.
“No. It’s not. My finery is hanging in the sewing room beside your new clothes. Except you don’t have a hidalgo’s suit. Yours is a cotton smock with braid and a blue sash. I asked Papá why you didn’t have a suit as well. He told me that you wouldn’t be coming to the ball. You would be outside with the servants. The servants! As if you weren’t good enough for the highborn hidalgos. I told him I wouldn’t go anyplace you couldn’t go. Period. He called me foolish and stubborn.”
Bernardo nodded: He’s got a point there.
“It’s not right. It’s not fair. Did you know you weren’t allowed to go to the ball?”
Bernardo looked down at the paving stones. They said nothing for a time. Then Bernardo nodded again: Yes, I knew.
“Then I don’t go either.”
Bernardo shook his head hard: No, you’re wrong.
“Why should I go? Why, when I’d be making myself part of something so unjust?”
There was only the sound of the fountain for a time. Bernardo turned. He took Diego’s shoulders in his hands, as if to tell him that something was important.
He laid his left hand on his own chest and then sent it curving out to the left in the sign of a path: I take a path.
He put his right hand on Diego’s chest and his hand curved out to the right: You take another path.
Both of his hands curved out. But this time they met each other. They joined, and their fingers locked together: You go your way, I go mine, but our paths meet. We are together, we are always together. He looked hard into Diego’s eyes and nodded: This is the way it is; this is what we have.
