by David Xavier
Salomon looked up from his work to the distant rider coming over the hill. He did not drop his ax. Vicente sunk his blade and looked up at the soundless gap between chops, his chest heaving. He followed Salomon’s eyes to the hills in a squint. He let go his ax handle, still sunk in the stump, and stepped forward. He spoke over his shoulder not taking his eyes from the rider.
“Who is that?”
Salomon hoisted his ax one last time with a grin and sunk the blade. He bent and gathered the firewood scattered at his feet, then plucked his coat from a hook curled from the adobe wall. Working his arms through the sleeves, he walked out to stand beside Vicente.
“You know him?”
“Yes, I know this man,” Salomon said, ducking under his collar. “I know the way he rides.”
They watched the rider gain features as he crossed the wet grass, misting in the sunset so his horse stepped in clouds. The rider rode with one fist on his hip and wore a jacket embroidered gold upon the lapels. A gold watch swung from his pocket. Coattails flapped at his saddle on both sides. His hat was flatbrimmed, the band ornamented.
The rider reined up and opened his arms. His beard parted in a smile. “Cousin.”
Pío Pico’s appearance had altered some. His dark skin appeared to have darkened because his hair had gone white. A beard of the same color hid his face. He moved with more paunch. His political influence still reigned by reputation, although his involvement had given way to business. The fine clothing and the confidence of his youth remained, perhaps flourished anew. And the voice.
“You stand outside in this cold and you are likely to die by it.”
“I stand at all beyond those hill,” Salomon pointed, “I am likely to die by other means.”
Pío eyed him for a moment, then dismounted on heavy feet. He took Salomon’s handshake and pulled him in, patting his back. He held him by the shoulders and looked at him. “I know, cousin,” he said. “I know.”
They entered the hacienda and Pío removed his hat as he crossed the threshold. The fire had been recently stirred and the room flickered in warmth. The table was reset for four, and Marisela stood smiling with her hands folded.
“I saw you coming over the hill.” She bowed. “You are welcome to eat with us. It would be a pleasure.”
Pío looked to Salomon. Salomon gestured to her. “Pío, this is, Marisela. She is soon to be my wife.”
Pío stood blinking, looking back and forth between the two, then he smiled and bowed. “Your wife.” He kissed her cheeks and held her face in his hands and looked at her with twinkling eyes. “And a beauty.”
“And this young man is Vicente.”
Pío turned to Vicente. “Young man is right.” He reached out and gripped Vicente’s shoulders. “I was afraid to approach the place. Look at those shoulders.”
Vicente smiled.
They ate in the dimming light and Pío spoke with his mouth full. Marisela did not sit. Each time she served his plate and filled his glass he was quick to empty them.
“You are doing well, cousin,” Salomon said. “I would have recognized you from the papers alone.”
“They never know how to take a man’s picture. They are lucky I cut such a striking figure.” He looked up from his plate and smiled. He spoke between bites. “Yes, I am doing well. I sell plenty of cattle, I tan plenty of hides. I sell land. People come to me for loans and I help them. There is nothing I like more than a man with a business. I am building a hotel in Los Angeles. The biggest this country has ever seen, with red carpets, grand chandeliers and a staff of butlers – one for your bags, one for your coat, one for your hat, and three to rummage your pockets. English royalty has already requested a reservation for the first night in my finest suite.” He waved his fork. “I have not yet broken ground.”
They cleared the table and Marisela turned down the lanterns and she and Vicente said goodnight and retired to their rooms. Pío watched them go.
“It is a peaceful life you have made here, Sal. I am happy for you. And it is a nice place you have fixed up here.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke in my house?”
Salomon shook his head smiling while Pío’s quiet laughter moved to the chair by the fire. Salomon looked up from stoking the flames. He held forth a glowing twig and Pío leaned forward from the shadowed chair. Soon fine cigar smoke drifted around the room.
“That is the fattest cigar I have ever seen.”
“A fat cigar for a fat man.” A slap sounded in the dark.
“How did you know I was here?”
Pío sat behind the smoldering cigar end, a tiny planet in the dark. His face was smudged by dark to a mere sketching. Every so often the fire flamed up and revealed the swirl of red smoke and the wrinkles around his eyes, his beard.
“A sorry businessman I would be if I didn’t know what was on my land. I have many eyes and ears. You are recognized from the papers too, my cousin.”
“I know.”
“You have the lives of a cat. How many times have you had a noose around your neck?”
“Just two.”
“It is not just American law that seeks you, Salomon. The Mexican police are purging the land of bandits. Men like you make it difficult for men like me, for men like my brother, to maintain peace. The Californios may love you – the image of you riding for them, against the easterners who crowd their land and change their culture – but it is just an image. They are more in love with a notion of peace these days. This is the new California, Sal. It is not the vision I had ten years ago, but visions change. It is still my California. It will always be my California. Your days as an outlaw are over.”
“I have left that life behind.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
There was a moment of silence as both men stared into the fire. A new cloud of smoke billowed from the chair.
“Did you make this chair?”
“Yes.”
“Is it going to fall to pieces beneath me?”
“It shouldn’t. Don’t move around too much.”
Pío exhaled. “A man by the name of José Castro was a Lieutenant in the Mexican Army in San Juan Bautista when I was governor. He is now a Colonel in the presidio near Loreto in Baja California. I can count on this man. You can count on this man.”
“Are you telling me to cross the border?”
“José Castro would do as I ask. He would give you a respectable position at the presidio, in a land where you are not known.” He drew on his cigar and held it forth to look at. “There is a man like you, Sal. Let me say there was a man like you. Young and angry at the world. This man ran with a crowd much the same as the men you rode with. And here I find out you have ridden with the Comanche Devil.”
“Tsunipu,” Salomon said. He nodded. “Yes, I have ridden with him.”
“You are lucky your head is not stuck cross-eyed on a pike. I am surprised he did not peel you in your sleep and wear your skin in the rain.”
“He is a loyal man. He has defended me in the past and I believe he would defend me again if he needed to.”
“It is foolish to think that. A notion of brotherhood. Cain killed Abel. He would just as soon eat you alive. That indian would dismember his own mother without an expression on his face. If he had a mother.”
“I told you I left that life behind.”
“Has it left you?”
“I think so.”
“What would the world have become if it was Abel killed Cain?”
Lightning flashed in the window and they waited for the thunder. It rumbled long after.
“This man I spoke of. The one like you,” Pío said. “The young and angry.”
“I am not angry.”
“His name was Joaquin Murrieta.”
“I have heard of him.”
“His associate was named Three Fingered Jack. I have seen his hand, however, it was not to shake. Murrieta and Three Fingered Jack were perhaps as notorious as yourself. They were wanted in doz
ens of towns. They murdered and raped. They slashed limbs from animals. They once beat a man to death with the buckle end of a leather belt. They stole from Americans and Mexicans alike, and Murrieta kept a string of ears as trophies.”
“I have heard the story. Ears stacked as tall as a man.”
“Even taller. The United States cavalry sought Murrieta and Three Fingered Jack. Sheriffs searched the land for them. Mobs were formed. The Mexican Army rode the hills to clear out all men like this Murrieta. Men like you, Salomon.”
“I am not like him.”
“Maybe not in truth. Not in the heart. But in the eyes of justice you are one and the same, Sal. One and the same. Make no mistake. They sent a party of troops into the hills where Murrieta was thought to hide. They returned, several of them in boxes. But they came with something else. The San Francisco newspaper advertised it, and that weekend the public was invited to see for itself – the untouchable Joaquin Murrieta and Five Fingered Jack. I rode from Los Angeles to see. When I arrived there was a line in the streets leading to a small tent where two armed guards stood at the entrance. They were selling viewings for a dollar a piece. The people of San Francisco, mostly miners, mostly Americans, shoved to the front and paid their fee. People who rode in fear of Murrieta, people who wanted to see him captured. They went in and came out the other side sick, Sal, clenching themselves, holding fast not to faint, some crawling away in their own vomit. Your fire is going out.”
Salomon stirred the flames. In the flamelight Pío leaned forward and checked the doors across the hacienda. He eased back in the chair and drew on his cigar. He spoke in a lowered voice.
“Curiosity got the best of me. I had my dollar in my hand, ready to pay the fee. What would I see? I expected the outlaws to be chained inside the tent, perhaps beaten. I thought Murrieta would be bleeding from his ears. An ironic sort of payback. People began pressing forward. They could not wait. The guards pulled their pistolas but people did not care. They wanted to see the bandit, they wanted to see Joaquin Murrieta and Three Fingered Jack brought to justice, see it for themselves. The guards ran. The tent was torn away. Have you ever heard a grown man cry in shock? In fear? It only served to push my curiosity more. I saw something lifted high, passing along the top of the crowd from hand to hand. People shouted as it came their way, women screamed. It caught the sunlight and I could not see what it was, a glass jar filled to the lid with a dark liquid, black as a ruby except when the sun came through. I stood in the crowd, unable to turn away when the jar came over me. A hand floated, three fingers crawling against the glass to circle around the jar, and the face of Joaquin Murrieta turned to me with a mouth wide in a horrible scream. His hair drifted like tentacles, and his eyes were slightly open, as if he were but an observer of the spectacle. His brows were frozen in an inquisitive arch. And all this time that horrific silent screaming in disbelief from inside.”
“Jesus almighty.”
“The shadow of the ax is cast on you too, Sal. They will not stop searching until they have you on a wheel. They will chase you until you are old and ready for a grave, and they will dig up your bones for a noose if they do not catch you alive.”
“I have already run.”
“Go to Baja California. Find this man José Castro at Loreto. You will never be safe here, where your stories are still told under cantina lanterns. They will search here, eventually. They will haunt your dreams to nightmares, the dreams of you and your wife, and you will never again wake by peaceful sunrise. You will lurch from your bed in screams and sweat until you have not slept in months. Your fever will run as hot as a crown of screws and your bedsheets will feel like you are bound in ties.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Flee, Salomon,” Pío said. He leaned through the smoke, his eyes revealed in the firelight. “Flee.”
Read the conclusion – Salomon Part Four
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This book is a work of fiction. All people and places are fictional and any resemblance to any person, alive or dead, is a coincidence.
Copyright 2015 by David Xavier Pico
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