sleep for another hour."
We waited an hour, for two hours, for three. When he continued to sleep, the
mayordomo
shook him awake and reminded him that this was the day he was to leave for San Diego. The soldier asked for me and, out of sorts, I went trudging off to his room.
He was sitting up in bed, looking more forlorn than he had the day before.
"I feel weak," he said in a very weak voice.
"Then you do not wish to leave today?"
"Perhaps tomorrow," he said. "I should feel better in a day or two."
But on the morrow the soldier was still not ready to go, nor on the following day.
"Do you want me to send for the doctor?" I asked him.
"That will not be necessary," he said. "I feel a little stronger every day."
And he looked strong as he sat there in the bed, his blue eyes clear and alert. It struck me suddenly that he had chosen to be an invalid, that he was playing a game to delay leaving the ranch as long as he possibly could.
"If you are not better by tomorrow or the next day, I will send for the doctor," I told him.
The thought of my calling the doctor brought a shadow over his face.
"The doctor has a lot to do," he said. "I'd feel like an old woman, asking him to make a long journey out here just to look after me."
In two days he was back on his feet, and on the third day we sent him off with three vaqueros for the pueblo of San Diego.
"I hope there are no hard feelings," he said as he settled himself in the saddle.
"None," I answered. "May you go with God."
He blew me sort of a kiss, which embarrassed me in front of the vaqueros, and said, "
Hasta la vista,
" which means, roughly, in English words, "Until we meet." This embarrassed me also because I really did not wish to see him again.
23
We had no rain that winter. Wherever you dug, the earth was dry. A few showers came in April, but by June the grass and filaree had shriveled up and died. It was a bad year for us and many of our friends.
In June, on a day when white clouds were wandering around on the horizon, my grandmother and I sat in the parlor and talked about the drought.
"A year ago," Doña Dolores said, "we sat in this very
sala
and watched the rain pouring from the sky."
"And coming down through the roof," I reminded her.
"We caught it in jugs."
We both tried to laugh. Rosario, who crouched in front of Doña Dolores, tried to laugh also. She told him to shut his mouth, that this business of the drought was not funny.
Doña Dolores would have liked to blame me for the drought, but somehow she just couldn't make a connection between the weather and the way I ran things.
After my father's death the problems of the ranch fell upon my shoulders. I had learned about the workshops and I could ride with the vaqueros, but still I was not ready to run Dos Hermanos. I had looked to my father to make decisions since I was old enough to remember. Now the decisions were suddenly mine. I could not count upon Doña Dolores, upon anyone, only upon myself.
The worst trouble I had at this time came from the
mayordomo,
Juan Diaz. The first order I gave made him angry.
"Can you take some of the vaqueros," I said to him, "and dig a new well? The one in the patio is giving us a scarce ten gallons a day."
Diaz was part Indian, solid as a tree stump, a young man of many talents. I wanted to keep him, so I spoke softly and asked if he could undertake the task. He was not used to receiving orders or even suggestions from a woman, a sixteen-year-old at that.
"A new well," he replied, "will yield no more water than the old."
"Are you certain?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Why are you certain?"
This question puzzled him, but he said, "There are things that you know and things that you do not know."
"True," I said. "And one of the things I know is that we need more water. Perhaps you would prefer to build a flume from the stream and bring it to the house that way?"
The stream was half a league away. Trees would have to be felled, sawn to length, fastened
We waited an hour, for two hours, for three. When he continued to sleep, the
mayordomo
shook him awake and reminded him that this was the day he was to leave for San Diego. The soldier asked for me and, out of sorts, I went trudging off to his room.
He was sitting up in bed, looking more forlorn than he had the day before.
"I feel weak," he said in a very weak voice.
"Then you do not wish to leave today?"
"Perhaps tomorrow," he said. "I should feel better in a day or two."
But on the morrow the soldier was still not ready to go, nor on the following day.
"Do you want me to send for the doctor?" I asked him.
"That will not be necessary," he said. "I feel a little stronger every day."
And he looked strong as he sat there in the bed, his blue eyes clear and alert. It struck me suddenly that he had chosen to be an invalid, that he was playing a game to delay leaving the ranch as long as he possibly could.
"If you are not better by tomorrow or the next day, I will send for the doctor," I told him.
The thought of my calling the doctor brought a shadow over his face.
"The doctor has a lot to do," he said. "I'd feel like an old woman, asking him to make a long journey out here just to look after me."
In two days he was back on his feet, and on the third day we sent him off with three vaqueros for the pueblo of San Diego.
"I hope there are no hard feelings," he said as he settled himself in the saddle.
"None," I answered. "May you go with God."
He blew me sort of a kiss, which embarrassed me in front of the vaqueros, and said, "
Hasta la vista,
" which means, roughly, in English words, "Until we meet." This embarrassed me also because I really did not wish to see him again.
23
We had no rain that winter. Wherever you dug, the earth was dry. A few showers came in April, but by June the grass and filaree had shriveled up and died. It was a bad year for us and many of our friends.
In June, on a day when white clouds were wandering around on the horizon, my grandmother and I sat in the parlor and talked about the drought.
"A year ago," Doña Dolores said, "we sat in this very
sala
and watched the rain pouring from the sky."
"And coming down through the roof," I reminded her.
"We caught it in jugs."
We both tried to laugh. Rosario, who crouched in front of Doña Dolores, tried to laugh also. She told him to shut his mouth, that this business of the drought was not funny.
Doña Dolores would have liked to blame me for the drought, but somehow she just couldn't make a connection between the weather and the way I ran things.
After my father's death the problems of the ranch fell upon my shoulders. I had learned about the workshops and I could ride with the vaqueros, but still I was not ready to run Dos Hermanos. I had looked to my father to make decisions since I was old enough to remember. Now the decisions were suddenly mine. I could not count upon Doña Dolores, upon anyone, only upon myself.
The worst trouble I had at this time came from the
mayordomo,
Juan Diaz. The first order I gave made him angry.
"Can you take some of the vaqueros," I said to him, "and dig a new well? The one in the patio is giving us a scarce ten gallons a day."
Diaz was part Indian, solid as a tree stump, a young man of many talents. I wanted to keep him, so I spoke softly and asked if he could undertake the task. He was not used to receiving orders or even suggestions from a woman, a sixteen-year-old at that.
"A new well," he replied, "will yield no more water than the old."
"Are you certain?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Why are you certain?"
This question puzzled him, but he said, "There are things that you know and things that you do not know."
"True," I said. "And one of the things I know is that we need more water. Perhaps you would prefer to build a flume from the stream and bring it to the house that way?"
The stream was half a league away. Trees would have to be felled, sawn to length, fastened
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