The Legend of Rodeo Cañnon [pp. 170-182]

The Legentd of Rodeo Canon.[
THE LEGEND OF RODEO CANON.
WHEN I was a child, a deep impression was made upon me by the return
from California of my mother's only
brother, Jack Lane; who, early in the
fifties had gone out, a handsome, lighthearted lad, to that golden land. Well,
I remember how different he seemed
from the idea I had formed of him; how
amazed and saddened were my mother
and all at the change in him.
His face, deeply bronzed, with wrinkles
on cheek and brow; his low, sad voice,
absent mindedness, and lack of interest
in all things, even his favorite books,
seemed almost impossible in one who
had been accustomed to occupy himself
in the slightest matters, enjoying everything to the full. In financial affairs he
had been more than fairly successful,
and should have been in the prime of
healthy, happy manhood. When questioned about the charge he gave no satisfactory answer; only saying that life
in California was hard, and men grew
old early.
Shortly he married a neighboring
country girl, who made him a busy, devoted wife, and after a few years he died
quite suddenly of heart disease.
I hoped that among his papers would
be some explanation of the change, over
which I had brooded with all a young
girl's romantic interest, and as Aunt
Jenny went methodically through trunk,
shelves, and desk, I hung around, rendering all assistance possible, watching
everything with anxious eyes. Not a
word of the kind had she found, and the
search was almost over when one afternoon she drew out a bundle of manuscript, yellow and worn, that caught my
attention at once.
"What is it, Aunty"? I cried, as I
edged up to her, eager to examine it
with her.
The parcel was flat, and wrapped with
a black silk cord. All I could make
out of the writing was the title, in faded
letters, " A Story of California Life.'"
While I quivered with anticipation,
my aunt read slowly down the page,
turned it over, glanced carelessly inside,
then without troubling to untie the cord
flung it into the waste basket.
"Oh Aunty!" I cried reproachfully.
"Why, my dear," she answered in
surprise. "It is nothing of any value,
only some Western tale."
"Please, Aunty, give it to me?" I
pleaded eagerly.
"Certainly, my dear, if you like," she
replied, with some astonishment.
Seizing the treasure, I flew to my
room and made fast the door, fearful
lest some one might interfere with my
reading the manuscript. With nervous
fingers I undid the wrapping, and as I
flattened out the papers there fell to
the floor a small package wound in tissue paper. Opening this gently, I found
a curl of silky black hair, and a small
silver ornament in the shape of a lyre,
the latter marred by a reddish stain that
tarnished its brightness. I laid them
reverentially aside, and turned to the
time-worn writing. The following is
the story that dwelt in my mind for
many a day, and then the pleasures,
cares, and changes, of life drove it from
my memory altogether.
IT had been an unusually lively day
in Los Angeles, that sixteenth of September, I85-, the day sacred to the
memory of Mexican Independence. The
sons of Mexico had outdone all previous
celebrations in the fervor of their
patriotism. They had pronounced anathemas against Spain, and glorified her
rebellidus daughter with bombast and
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[Aug.