Richmond High School - Shield Yearbook (Richmond, CA)

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RICHMOND RODEO the smiling and bowing Manuel, near the middle of the evening when the merriment was at its highest. ‘‘Yes, Senor,’’ she answered. ‘‘I—’’ here her voice trem- bled and sank to a whisper for she saw, crossing the floor, Joaquin Murietta, so disguised that none less interested than Loretta would have recognized him. The next thing she was conscious of was the low commanding voice of Murietta saying, ‘‘Our dance, Senorita.’’ Slowly she arose as in a daze and al- lowed him to lead her out on the floor. ‘Senorita Lorenza,’’ Manuel hissed in a low threatening voice, ‘‘no one has ever insulted Manuel Piora more than once.’’ But Loretta had not heard for she was already lost in the whirl of the dance. ‘Joaquin, why did you come? You know you will be killed if you are recognized,’’ Loretta whispered, excitedly. ‘ To see you, dear,’’ he answered, smiling as he noted the red mounting to her cheeks, ‘‘and, anyway, no one would ever recognize me in this disguise.’’ ‘‘T did,’’ she replied, ‘‘and surely Piora knew your voice.”’ Joaquin’s only answer was a slight pressure of her hand. At this moment the cry burst from Manuel Piora’s lips, ‘‘Murietta! Joaquin Murietta is here!’’ For a moment there was silence in the room. Then the dance broke into a tumult. The shieks of women and hoarse cries of men arose, for the name of Joaquin Murietta was the terror of nearly every man, woman and child in the country. ‘“‘T’m recognized,’’ Joaquin whispered, hurriedly. ‘‘Good- bye, dear,’’ and he sprang toward the door. Loretta, however, clinging to his hand, dashed out with him. “I’m going with you,’’ she gasped as she ran. ‘“‘Go back, Loretta! Go back!’’ he demanded, trying to force her from him. ‘‘You will be killed!’’ ‘‘No,’’ she answered determinedly, ‘‘I am going.’’ Reaching his caballo, which was tied in a clump of bushes, Joaquin sprang into the saddle, lifted Loretta in his arms and 15

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RICHMOND RODEO | THEIR LAST BAILE mlT was one of the beautiful moonlight evenings of early i summer in California. Scarcely enough breeze crept through the windows in the old adobe salade baile to flutter the flame of the many brilliant candles. The music mingled with the merry-hearted laughter of girls and the carefree jesting of the men. For this was a time which had been long looked forward to by all the young folks for miles around the little pueblo of San Pablo. The event was the marriage of Maria Del Norte, the daughter of one of the oldest Spanish settlers, to Pedro Brignone. The fiesta was to last six days—six days and nights of dancing, racing, drinking and gambling. ‘‘Loretta,’’ Maria said to her pretty, black-eyed Spanish cousin, the day before the fiesta, ‘‘you will just have to quit thinking of Joaquin Murietta for the next few days. Surely you are not ignorant of the fact that Manuel Piora is infatuated with you, and you have treated him shamefully. Since J oaquin left you have neither heard nor seen anything of him, and I should think you would be too proud to let all the people in the village see you grieving so.”’ ‘Yes I know, Maria,’’ Loretta replied, with a sigh. ‘‘I will have to do differently. But,’’ she added, in defense of Murietta, ‘‘It would be certain death for Joaquin to come back here since that price of a thousand dollars was set on his head.’’ So it happened that Loretta Lorenza, the prettiest girl in all the country around, appeared at the baile on that memorial night with Manuel Piora in close attendance. Loretta was at her best. Dressed in a bright, spangled ball-gown, with a red rose over each ear, and her black eyes snapping, she was the belle of the baile. ‘‘The next dance is ours, is it not, Senorita?’’ whispered 15

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RICHMOND ‘RODEO was off like a flash, for already his pursuers, recovering from their excitement, were mounting their horses to give chase. Manuel Piora was soon galloping in pursuit, scarce a hun- dred yards behind Murietta. Raising himself in his saddle with the cry, ‘‘I said I’d have revenge,’’ he emptied his pistol after the fleeing couple. A shriek of pain rent the air, for the bullet, missing its intended victim, tore through Loretta’s arm. Turning quickly in his saddle, with an oath, Murietta took careful aim and shot once. Piora fell from his horse. But Murietta knew every trail and pass in the mountains, and having a far better horse than any of his pursuers, the outlaw made his escape, carrying the limp but breathing form of Loretta in his arms. The silence of night had settled over the land. In a little adobe iglesia back in the hills, an old Spanish priest softly chanted his prayers. Suddenly a loud knocking interrupted him. Crossing himself, the priest called, ‘‘Who comes here?’’ ‘Friends, who seek your assistance, good Father. We wish to be married,’’ was the answer. ‘‘Enter,’ commanded the priest, throwing open the puerta. ‘Are you both of the faith?’’ ‘That we are,’’ readily replied a young Espanol, who sup- ported a half-fainting girl on his arm. ‘‘The Signora is injured, Father, and needs her wounds bandaged.’’ After Loretta had recovered sufficiently, the simple wed- ding ceremony was performed and the midnight travelers made ready to start. Murietta lifted his bride to the saddle, and sprang up be- hind her. Then taking the reins in his hands, he called out to the ancient priest, ‘‘Father, when you see Manuel Piora, tell him that I, Joaquin Murietta, did not get him last time; but the next time I shoot to kill.’”’ ‘““Murietta!’’ gasped the old Father, crossing himself. ‘“‘God help you, Manuel Piora, for you are doomed!”’ —WILMA ROTH, ’10. 17