The leonine-appearing Señor Higuera squared his yard-wide shoulders to attention as he sat in his high-backed chair. His eye ran slowly over the slender and dapper Señor Zelaya. A trace of humor stole into his eyes, then over his bearded face. "Brandy in the head seldom lends swiftness to the feet. Is it not so?" Pedro Zelaya was the swiftest foot-racer in the province of California. He was also a lover of good eating and drinking. When training for his famous races he must forego the delicacies of his French cook, and the bouquet of imported wine, which deprivations he relished not over well. "A thimbleful of brandy is given even to a bull-fighter before the contest," replied Señor Zelaya, bowing politely and suavely smiling. Years before the doughty Señor Higuera had seized and held by the horns an infuriated bull which, maddened by eating the dreaded rattleweed, a venomous plant then common, had left the herd and rushed up on Higuera, who was standing, with his wife and children, in the open before the courtyard of his hacienda house. The peons served the cognac in long, slender-stemmed goblets. Señor Mendoza raised his glass, looked for a moment at the amber liquid, then sipped it gently. Lowering the glass he glanced around at the assembled company. Each man, following the example of the host, tasted the contents of his own glass, and then allowed his eyes to rest on the Señor Administrator. This process was repeated once, twice, three times, until each had finished his beverage. Señor Mendoza's aquiline features, garnished by mustache and imperial, and embellished by a waving iron-gray hair, fell into severer mold. "Señors, my friends, may I have your attention?" No one spoke. "Señors," his tones serious and resonant, "it is not raining to-day." His assertion was not disputed. The rays of the sun streamed into the room. It was afternoon and the delicately tinted stained glass of the windows was resplendent in the light. "It rained not yesterday, nor in the yesterday of many months," looking from one to another of his company, as if in search of opposition. The señors, in solemn concord, bowed in corroboration of his statement. "The soft south wind blows not. Overhead is the summer sun. I see no hope of rain to-morrow." The grave señors acquiesced. "Indians in thousands, beasts in tens of thousands, are on our lands. Responsibilities, neither few nor doubtful, weigh on our shoulders. If it rains not to-morrow, nor yet till the to-morrows touch late spring, how can we fulfill the duty this province of Alta California lays at our door, that our aborigine wards lack not the sustenance their condition demands?" His look went from face to face. Suddenly he stood upright. "Señors, to save our people we must save our cattle. Even if the rain comes, the feed will be late. Therefore our herds must go elsewhere soon, or only their dried bones will see another year. Whither shall we take them?"