“Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, Majella,” said Alessandro. “I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and thought if there should come another war against the Americans, I would fire them again, if I could. Does Señor Felipe think there is any likelihood that his people will rise against them any more? If they would, they would have all the Indians to help them, now. It would be a mercy if they might be driven out of the land, Majella.”
“Yes,” sighed Majella. “But there is no hope. I have heard the Señora speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for hate, Alessandro,—for hate, or in anger; never for gold.”
“Indians, also,” replied Alessandro. “Never one Indian killed another, yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella, they are dogs!”
Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred which would never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty.
“They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “There must be some that are honest; do you not think so?”
“Where are they, then,” he cried fiercely,—“the ones who are good? Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished
