by Frank Bonham
Hank had seen it—the lowest part of the worst section in town. The Alley of Despair. It was the bottom of the keg, where the lees went fetid. Drunkards and murderers roamed its sordid length.
“We did not have it before the Yankees came,” she said. “I have heard they kill at least one man there every night. The big hacendados have the drunks rounded up by deputies and shanghaied to their ranches, work them until they drop, and send them back with a dollar.”
“All towns get worse as they get bigger,” said Hank. “The town will get sick to its stomach one of these days. It’ll purge itself with a vigilante committee.”
“We are losing what we had. The Rancho Temescal will be taken from me. Owen Pike and his squatters will claim still more of my land, or the survey commission will write a letter to Washington saying that my title was one of the fraudulent ones given when we were losing the war.”
“It can’t be that bad,” he protested.
“It is,” she said. “But there is a way for me still to protect what I have. If I marry an American.”
For an instant he was shocked to silence. Then: “What kind of fool idea …?”
“But of course! With a bona fide American name … the wife of an American … my title would be accepted tomorrow. That is the established policy. But I could not marry a man I couldn’t trust. He must live up to his part of the bargain, or I would be even worse off.”
“Bargain?”
“I could not pretend there was love, where there is not,” she told him. “I would want him to marry me and … and then leave. Go from California for at least a year, so that I could divorce him for desertion. By next week, when the survey commission leaves, my title would have been accepted.”
His face grew bleak as he stared down at her. “You don’t think much of us, do you?”
“But you see,” Julia said quickly, “I would pay for his name. Two thousand dollars! For his name and his promise.”
“Would a Mexican do that for an American woman?” Her eyes, shifting quickly, gave him the answer to that. “Of course not!” His voice lashed her. “He’d be too proud. But a Yankee …”
Before she could move, he pulled her roughly to him. His lips caught hers as she tried to shape a word of protest; she struggled, and then she relaxed against him. What had been meant to be a gesture of scorn did not remain one, and Hank released her, angry at himself.
He left her standing there, one hand held out as if to draw him back. “Ramon!” he called. “You better come get the señorita. She’s ready to go home.”
V
He told Red about it that night. Red was feeling pretty good.
“You mean that nice piece of Mex fluff wanted you to marry her and you turned her down? I’m telling you what’s the truth, Hank. You ain’t got the brains God put into a billy goat. Saying no to something ripe as all that!”
Hank snorted. “It’s not a real marriage. Some idea about a bargain …”
“Bargain’s the word, sure.” The redheaded mustanger smacked his lips theatrically. “It’d be legal … and soooo nice. So very, very nice. Youeeeeah!”
“Damn it,” Hank said, “A man that would do a thing like that would be so morally irresponsible he’d be a menace to society.” His partner’s refusal to be serious about it annoyed him. “He wouldn’t only be making a pimp out of himself. He’d be making every other American in California look like one. Every Mexican widow, or single girl like this one, would be buying a Yankee husband and hustling him out of the state. Pretty soon we’d be stepping off the sidewalk for them.”
“Man, you’re talking like a preacher again. Must be something this California air brings out in you.” In the darkness of the tent Red’s cigar glowed briefly. “All depends now, on who hustles who. There’s nothing says a man’s got to get out of the state once he’s tied the knot legal to a Mex gal. A man could do himself right proud with one of these here ranchos. Maybe even turn it into cash … Build himself a palace in San Francisco …”
Red’s voice trailed off. He began to snore. Hank got up, took Red’s cigar out of his limp fingers, and tossed it outside. He left the tent flap open to air out the heavy odor of the cheap whiskey that rose from his partner’s body.
Sleep, for Hank, was a long time coming. He chased it down a lonely road, where the smells that came off the trees were the tantalizing odor of Julia’s raven hair, where the hoof beats beneath him were his own pounding heart.
In the morning, Red groaned and held his head as he struggled with his coffee. Some men from a livery stable came by to look at horses, and Hank was busy.
Sometime after noon, Red said morosely: “My stomach ain’t speaking to my throat. Hank, I don’t know what I was drinking last night, but it sure peeled the lining. Nothing will fix a belly like mine but good whiskey. Hold ’er down while I’m gone, eh?”
Very late, Hank did not know when, Red was back. He was cold sober. He went right to sleep.
But the next morning Hank knew something was wrong. Red fooled with his breakfast until the mustached proprietor, cracking his knuckles, asked: “¿Demasía pimienta, quizas?”
“Nothing wrong with the chuck, dad,” Red said. “Something wrong with me.”
“What’s the matter?” Hank asked.
“Had a bellyful of town, that’s all. I’m broke, Hank. Now I’m itching to travel.”
“Where?”
The redhead hesitated. “Why … uh … up to the north. North California … the mines!”
“And you’re leaving today. Is that it?”
“That’s it. Sell you my interest in these plugs for a hundred dollars.”
“Deal,” Hank said. “Some advice, kid. Slow down. We worked like hell for that money. Save a little of the next you get and stick it in the bank. Or you’ll wind up in Calle Desesperar.”
Out of the octagonal gold pieces Hank put down, Red tossed one back. “Make you a bet, amigo. Five years from now I’ll be wearing better clothes than you are. And eating better.”
Hank smiled. They drank a half bottle of wine on it, and shook hands.
* * * * *
And now it was a waiting game that began to drive Hank crazy, too. He all but gave away the last of the horses, retaining only the one he had earmarked for Julia. He stabled it and counted his money. He had $3,200, gold. He clinked it in the chamois bag. Maybe money would grease a balky land title.
The office of the survey commission was in the Union Hotel. In a large room facing on the hotel corral, four men worked with maps and scrolls and drafting instruments. They looked harried, and at once Hank had sympathy for the big, gray-haired man who was in charge. Colonel Proctor must have had every landowner in California crying on his shoulder by now, honest or dishonest. There was a fat little man doing it when Hank arrived.
The Mexican had a cowhide volume under his arm. His eyes were black and miserable and desperate. “Seguro, Coronel,” he whined. “The name is different, but you see, my grandfather, he was unpopular after the revolution, and he change’ his name. Then my father … he was muy fiero! … he change’ it back! But when he married …”
“It’ll be looked into,” Proctor said. “We’re here to protect landowners, not rob them.”
He began escorting the man to the door. “But I have friends who have lost everything!” the Mexican protested.
Proctor shrugged. “We make mistakes.”
After the old man had gone, the colonel looked at Hank. “What do you want?”
Hank knew at once that this man could not be bought. “What’s the story on throwing squatters off your land?” he asked,
“That’s up to the courts.”
“But it’s no different with a Mexican than an American, is it?”
“Well, what do you think? The case comes up before an American judge, and the squatter turns out to be a Yankee who fou
ght for his country and brought his family out here to settle. But there’s no place to settle. It’s all big ranches forty miles square. Who’s going to blame him if he squats?”
“That’s right,” Hank said. “What if he’s single, though, just a drifter?”
“Every case is different,” Proctor said. He opened a sheaf of papers, frowned at it, then growled: “What ranch is it you’re interested in?”
“Rancho Temescal. Julia de la Torre.”
“That’s different. She’s all right.”
Hank blinked. “But she told me …”
“That was before she was married. Her husband was in to record the land in his name.”
“Oh?” Hank said. “What’s her name now?”
“Wolfe,” the colonel said. “Missus George ‘Red’ Wolfe.”
Hank went out and had a drink on it. Clinking the gold piece down on the bar reminded him of what he had intended doing with his poke. Get her title papers cleared for her—hand her Rancho Temescal all wrapped up in legal ribbons and say: “Here it is, a present. From a Yankee.” A real gentlemanly thing to do, worthy of a grandee of old Spain.
Hank stopped counting the drinks, and sometime later found himself in Calle Desesperar, fighting with two drunken sailors who had tried to lift his wad. He beat them both into the ground, while other drunks howled wild encouragement. Hank was filled with pain and glory. It was like the hell pictures in a Doré Bible.
Much later he was sitting on a doorsill in front of a shop. It was dark. The street was quiet. His stomach, after a sleep, was tender as a boil. What had he been drinking—lye? He was sick, and came out of it shaken but sober.
Crawling through the low door of his tent, he halted, rigid. It stank of sweat—the sweetish, nervous odor you smelled on soldiers after a battle. Someone had been here, or was here, someone who was nervous from waiting.
Pike and his squatters, he thought.
He held himself unmoving, waiting for the first small sound that would tell him from which direction the attack would come. He had no way of knowing how many of them there were and his ears strained for some indication. In his throat was the brassy taste of fear.
Breath hissed between set teeth. It was all the warning Hank had, but it was enough. He went sprawling forward to the small noise, one arm sweeping for his gun, the other held out before him, clutching. He touched something, knocked the man sprawling, and they both went down in a tangle. There was no clear chance to use his gun; he hit the man in the crotch with his elbow and felt him convulse. They swore savagely, the words twisting into snarls of effort. Hank caught a blow against his shoulder and his hand was fast enough to grab the other’s gun hand and turn it away from himself.
A sob of pain reached out to him, even as he realized the wrist he clutched was swathed in bandage.
“God dammit!” Hank said. “Calder!”
“Señor!”
He felt the fight go out of Ramon instantly and held his own gun to one side, out of the way.
“What the hell you trying to do?” Hank released his grip. “You danged fool!”
“I am sorry, señor,” the young Mexican said. “I did not know it was you.”
“Thought you was Pike and his bunch.”
“And I thought that you were your partner, Wolfe.”
Hank shook his head. “You came to the wrong corral.” He turned and led the way outside.
In the thin light Ramon’s face was set in harsh, hard lines. “Did you know your partner has married Julia?”
“I found out today. Only you got it wrong, amigo. He ain’t my partner now.”
“I did not know that. I thought I might find him here.”
Hank picked a spot beside the peppertree. He sat down, got his pipe going. “You ain’t looking for him to offer your congratulations, I reckon.”
“No, señor. Julia should not marry an American,” Calder said. “But she went through with it, and gave him the money she had promised. But he did not leave. He intends to keep the ranch for himself!”
“So?” Remembering what Red had said the other night, Hank was not too surprised. Legally Julia could do nothing to stop him. In a way, the situation was funny.
“It is not for smiles, señor,” Calder said hotly, watching Hank carefully. “Julia pleaded with him to keep his bargain … and he laughed at her. She offered him more money. He scorned it. Rancho Temescal is his now, he told her, and she could stay or leave, as she chose.”
“He’s pretty stubborn, when he sets his mind to it.”
“I have offered Julia the sanctuary of my hacienda.” The young Mexican spoke with careful severity. “Señor Wolfe shall not claim her, too. Soto says that Wolfe rode out this morning to look over his property, now that he is the hacendado. I searched but was unable to find him. I thought perhaps he came here.”
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’im,” Hank growled. “Like I told you, Red and I are quits.”
“Good,” said Calder. “Then it will not matter to you when I kill him.”
VI
Hank awakened to the sound of bells—the voice of every Mexican town he had ever been through. Near and far, they chimed and bonged and tinkled for an hour.
I wonder what I’d have done if I’d been her, he asked himself. If I knew I was heading for the street corner with nothing left but my clothes. Would I have been damned fool enough to have trusted any man on a deal like that? Couldn’t she have seen that Red Wolfe was a harebrained devil-may-care, looking for all he could get?
It did no good to think about it. The thing for him to do was pack and get.
Accordingly he busied himself throughout the morning, striking the deer-hide tent, fashioning a bedroll that would sit easily behind his saddle. There were some things of Red’s around and Hank made a separate bundle of them to take over to the Alta Vista Hotel.
“Hold these for Señor Wolfe,” he told the proprietor. “If he should come in.”
The man looked sourly at the blanket-wrapped bundle, muttering behind his mustache. Hank caught the words Temescal, and something about the damned gringo who probably would not need these things now that he was a big hacendado.
He supposed Red would be just one more reason, shortly, that these Mexicans could say so bitterly: “We had no Calle Desesperar before the Americans came.”
Yet weren’t people like Julia de la Torre to blame, as well? With her bargain that was equally demeaning, and which offered such temptation? But the argument made him feel no better, and by the time that he had downed two glasses of tequila in a Calle Alameda saloon, the strange compulsion that burned him made up his mind.
He went to the livery stable and got the horse that he had held out for her. Rope trailing it behind his own mount, he took the road toward Rancho Temescal and Ramon Calder’s hacienda.
He rode in late daylight through fields of dried mustard weed. He had expected to find the carts laboring in from the vineyards and truck gardens at Calder’s hacienda; there was no activity of any sort.
In the yard the silence was even more noticeable. The smell of charcoal smoke hung faintly in the air, yet there was not the frying food smell of supper. The quiet bothered him as he sat there, trying to get some taste out of a cigarette.
What the hell? he thought, and called out, “Hello!”—waiting for a stable boy to come out to take his horse. But no one came. After another few minutes, Hank hitched the horses and went on inside through the stone arch that was the entrance.
Above the ringing of his boot heels on the tile floor he heard the murmur of voices in a high-vaulted room off to the left of the main hall. In there, he found the crowd of Mexicans, the men and women and children of the rancho, bunched like frightened cattle. Some of the women were sobbing openly, wringing their hands in their voluminous skirts; the men stood, slack faced and bleak eyed, their hats in their hands.
He caught the shoulder of the nearest man. “Señorita de la Torre … adónde?”
The man pulled away from him. “Gringo pig!” he spat.
Like a spark, the action seemed to ignite the crowd. A growing surge of anger ran through the room. Hank eased his hand to his holster instinctively.
“Hold!” someone commanded, pushing through the crowd. It was Soto, Julia’s mayordomo. “What do you want here?” he demanded.
“Where’s Julia?”
“She does not want to see you, I am sure,” the old man said. “Go from here now, señor, before there is more trouble.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There has been a shooting.” The Mexican’s eyes burned Hank’s face. “Between your redheaded partner and Ramon Calder. The doctor is inside with him now. I do not think he expects Señor Calder to live.”
Even as he spoke a door opened at the far end of the room and Hank saw Julia de la Torre emerge. She wore a simple gown of gray, unrelieved by any ornamentation, and her face, as much as he could see of it, was white and drawn. Tears had stained her cheeks that she dabbed with a square of lace.
He could not hear what she said to those standing nearest her, but it did not take a wise man to guess. The women’s sobs went just the least bit higher, rising on their indrawn breath, in the way it does when tragedy embraces them. The men passed the dread word “muerto” softly.
Hank pushed his way through the press of bodies. He saw Julia look up at his approach, saw her eyes go larger with the briefest mark of hope, before the grief and disillusionment crumbled her face again. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she was in his arms, sobbing bitterly, her small body shaking beneath his hands.