Since the first flush of dawn the dismal squeal of wooden-wheeled
ox-carts had hushed the bird songs all up and down El Camino Real, and
the popping of the drivers' lashes, which punctuated their objurgations
to the shambling oxen, told eloquently of haste. Within canopies formed
of gay, patchwork quilts and gayer serapes, heavy-jowled, swarthy
senoras lurched resignedly with the jolting of the carts, and between
whiles counseled restive senoritas upon the subject of deportment or
gossiped idly of those whom they expected to meet at the fiesta.
The Picardo hacienda was fairly wiped clean of its, comfortable
home-atmosphere, so immaculate was it and so plainly held ready for
ceremonious festivities. The senora herself went about with a linen
dust-cloth in her hand, and scolded because the smoke from the fires
which the peons had tended all night in the barbecue pits was borne
straight toward the house by the tricksy west wind, and left cinders and
grime upon windows closed against it. The patio was swept clean of dust
and footprints, and the peons scarce dared to cross it in their
scurrying errands hither and thither.
In the orchard many caballeros fresh from the rodeo were camped, their
waiting-time spent chiefly in talking of the thing they meant to do or
hoped to see, while they polished spur-shanks and bridle trimmings.
Horses were being groomed painstakingly at the corrals, and there was
always a group around the bear-pen where the two cubs whimpered, and the
gaunt mother rolled wicked, little, bloodshot eyes at those who watched
and dropped pebbles upon her outraged nose and like cowards remained
always beyond her reach.
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