Captain Fly-By-Night

His great body stretched on the dirt floor in a shady corner of the barracks-room of the presidio, his long moustache drooped, his big mouth open, Sergeant Carlos Cassara snored.

His face was purple from wine and the heat; for the air was still and stagnant this siesta hour, and empty vessels on the table near by told of the deep drinking that had been done.

Scattered about were a corporal and a dozen soldiers, all sleeping and snoring. Against the wall, half a score of feet from the slumbering sergeant, an Indian neophyte had dropped his palm-leaf and was glancing around the room from beneath eyelids that seemed about to close.

Outside was the red dust, a foot deep on the highway, and the burning sun. The fountain before the mission splashed lazily; down at the beach it seemed that the tide had not its usual energy. Neophytes slept in the shadows cast by the mission walls. Here and there a robed fray went about his business despite the heat and the hour. There was no human being travelling El Camino Real—the king’s highway—as far as a man with good eyes could see.

It was typical of the times—this siesta hour—with the blue California sky above and the green Pacific sparkling in the distance, and the spirit of present peace over old Santa Barbara and its mission. Yet the peace, being one of decadence and therefore uncertain, was like to be broken at any time, as all men knew.

Gone were the days of the sainted Junipero Serra and his coadjutors, who founded the mission chain from San Diego de Alcalá to San Francisco de Asis and made them strong in service to the natives and of wealth in cattle and horses, olives, honey and wine, tallow and hides.

Now the Mexican Republic held sway, with its haughty governor riding up and down El Camino Real in dignity; Indians—both gentiles and neophytes—were sullen and enraged because of lands that had been taken from them; officials sold concessions and robbed right royally; and dissolute men created an atmosphere that combatted that created by the frailes.

Robed Franciscans raised eyes to the skies and prayed for an end of such unsubstantial, turbulent times. And in this mingling of atmosphere Sergeant Carlos Cassara slept, and his corporal and soldiers slept, and the flies buzzed, and the neophyte servant nodded against the wall.

Half an hour passed. The neophyte, whose duty it was to wave the palm-leaf and keep flies and bees off the face of the sergeant, swept the big fan through the air languidly, glanced around to be sure that all slept, then got slowly and silently to his feet.

Once more he waved the fan, then dropped it and crept like a ghost across the room to the open door. He stood in it for a moment, shading his eyes with his hand, and looked up El Camino Real toward the north. Sergeant Carlos Cassara continued his snoring, but he opened one eye and watched the Indian closely.

Again the neophyte glanced back into the barracks-room, and for that instant the sergeant’s eye was closed. When it opened a second time the Indian was contemplating the highway as before, and the manner in which he stood expressed in itself hope and eagerness.

Presently he turned from the doorway to find that the sergeant was sitting up on the floor and regarding him. Mingled fear and rage flashed in the neophyte’s eyes, then died out, and he hung his head and stood waiting.