Free Carlota by Scott O’Dell

their headstalls, carrying the green flag I had made, we rode down the valley in a direction close to the one the gringos had taken. Most of the rancheros had silver on their bridles and pommels and their hooded stirrups. Andrés Pico had silver everywhere, even on the broad band of his sombrero.
    We rode at a quick trot through the mist, down the valley between the dripping trees, on our way to intercept—that was the word my father used—to cut off the gringo soldiers at San Pasqual. It was the first time since the day word had come about the gringos, since the hour that we had left Dos Hermanos, that I felt good. It was exciting to ride through the mist, with the sound of hoofs and the jingle of harness. Though no one was watching, it was like riding in a parade.

16
    Late in the afternoon it began to rain, a soft rain from the sea. We pulled our sombreros down over our eyes and huddled deep in our ponchos. The green flag got wet, and hung down from its staff like a string.
    The canyon that ran westward out of the meadow was heavily wooded and narrow. A stream ran through it and this we followed. Where the canyon suddenly widened we found two old shacks connected by a
portale
that the Indians had abandoned. Here we tethered our horses and made ready for the night.
    One of the men had lassoed a wild goat on our way down the canyon, so we all looked forward to something besides the jerky we had been eating. Vaqueros brought in armloads of dead manzanita roots and made a fire out of the rain under the
portale.
    My father skinned the goat and twisted the hind legs, folding them over the back, the front legs over the head. The whole thing he firmly worked down on a skewer, solid and flat. Then two vaqueros squatted opposite each other and turned the goat slowly over the fire.
    The Indians came riding into our camp while the goat was roasting. They brought word that the gringo soldiers were camped nearby, some in small tents and others without tents.
    "How far?" Don Andrés Pico said.
    "Close," both of the Indians answered.
    "How long on a horse?"
    "Part of a morning," one of the Indians said.
    "What part? Large or small?"
    "Small," both of the Indians said.
    We were all sitting around the fire, trying to dry out.
    Don Roberto said, "The two trails, the one we traveled and the one the gringos travel, join here at the head of the meadow. The gringos are on their way to San Diego. They will need to pass this place to get there."
    "Yes, there is no other trail," my father said. "They must pass here. They have no choice."
    "But what if the gringos are not going to San Diego?" Don Andrés Pico said.
    "Where else?" my father said. "They do not travel just to travel. They are on their way somewhere. That place must be San Diego."
    "There are American warships in the harbor at San Diego," one of the rancheros said. "They are going there to meet the ships."
    "They could be going to pueblo Los Angeles," Don Andrés said.
    "Not on this trail," my father answered. "From the springs they would have gone northward if they were going to the pueblo."
    "What happens if they want us to think that they are going to San Diego when they are not? When they are really going to Los Angeles or somewhere else? To Santa Barbara, perhaps."
    It was not settled where the gringos meant to go, but it
was
settled that they would need to pass the place where we were now camped. There was no other way out of the mountains.
    My father scraped some fat from the goathide and fastened it on a stick and held it in the fire until it blazed. He then put the fat over the turning goat and let it dribble and spread. The meat grew brown and crackled and gave off little spurts of fire.
    The rain had ceased but wet fog had come. We could not see much beyond the ring of the fire. When the goat was done, each of us took our knife and cut off a slice of meat. None of the men stood aside for me. I took my place with the others at the feast, which made me feel