There was little money in that time. The golden skeleton within
the sleeping body of California had not yet been laid bare. But ranchos
were lost and won; thousands of cattle would pass to other hands at the
next rodeo; many a superbly caparisoned steed would rear and plunge
between the spurs of a new master.
And caballeros were not the only living pictures of that memorable day
of a time for ever gone. Beautiful women in silken fluttering gowns,
bright flowers holding the mantilla from flushed awakened faces, sat
their impatient horses as easily as a gull rides a wave. The sun beat
down, making dark cheeks pink and white cheeks darker, but those great
eyes, strong with their own fires, never faltered. The old women in
attendance grumbled vague remonstrances at all things, from the heat to
intercepted coquetries. But their charges gave the good duenas little
heed. They shouted until their little throats were hoarse, smashed
their fans, beat the sides of their mounts with their tender hands, in
imitation of the vaqueros.
"It is the gayest, the happiest, the most careless life in the world,"
thought Pio Pico, shutting his teeth, as he looked about him.
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