many things I could do; and—” lowering his voice and speaking almost sullenly—“it is the saints, I believe, who have punished me thus for having resolved to leave my people, and take all I had for myself and you. Now they have left me nothing;” and he groaned.
“Who?” cried Ramona. “Was there a battle? Was your father killed?” She was trembling with horror.
“No,” answered Alessandro. “There was no battle. There would have been, if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged me to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He felt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We had often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,—how fair he always was, and kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost, than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order his men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be trouble; and well they might,—turning a whole village full of men and women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like foxes. If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead, if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was no help for us.”
“But, Alessandro,” interrupted Ramona, “I can't understand. Who was it made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?”
“I don't know who they are,” Alessandro replied, his voice full of anger and scorn. “They're Americans—eight or ten of them. They all got together
