Beyond the Grave

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From where he stood on the casa's upper gallery, Don Esteban Velasquez commanded a broad view of all that was his. As far as the eye could see were the hills and valleys, creeks, groves of oaks and fruit trees that comprised Rancho Rinconada de los Robles, his grant from the government of Mexico. Below this oak-shaded hill where he had built his hacienda, nestled in one of the little valleys near the westward roadway, stood the adobe buildings of the rancho's pueblo; the cross atop the church of San Anselmo de las Lomas, rising above the stables and garrison and vaqueros' quarters, was like a brand burned in the gray sky by the hand of God. Down there, too, to the rear of the church, was the cemetery where Don Esteban's first wife, Maria Alcazar, and two of his three sons lay at rest beneath the grassy sod.

But it was at none of these things that he stood looking on this drizzly December morning, three days before Christmas. It was at the rider approaching on the main camino from the south-a single rider forcing his horse at a gallop along the muddy track, where instead there should have been a long column of men and animals returning without undue haste, in triumph.

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