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I do not know what became of it, if it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look." "Again!" cried Ramona. "What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will not leave me, Alessandro?" At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always vanished.
"Yes, Father," replied Alessandro. The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. "What are you going to do?" he said. "Where have you all gone? There were two hundred in your village the last time I was there." "Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied Alessandro, "some to San Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino." "Body of Jesus! man!
In the Pachanga canon, where they had found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But Alessandro, even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved in his mind a project he would not have dared to confide to her.
But before noon the second day he had another fit, and died in it, died right in his own door, carrying out some of the things; and after Carmena that's his wife's name saw he was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back and forth on the ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to Pachanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession of us."
Alessandro's heart felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and he did not raise his eyes as he replied; "I have been in Pachanga. My father is dead. I have buried him there." "Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?" cried the kindly woman, coming closer to Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder.
Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga." "In Pachanga!" Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona!
The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the Americans were there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her, Alessandro returned, leading her along.
"No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just come from Pachanga," he answered. "Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago," continued Ramona. "But she told me to wait." "She told you!" repeated Alessandro. "How did you understand her speech?" "I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?" replied Ramona.
"Where is Pachanga?" asked Ramona. "About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told the people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any water; that's the worst of it." "No water!" cried Ramona. "No running water.
But I was over in Pachanga with my father. He would not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led him all the way; and then after he got there he was so ill I never left him a minute. He did not know me any more, nor know anything that had happened. I built a little hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he died. When I put him in his grave, I was glad." "In Temecula?" asked Ramona.
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