by Daniel Knapp
A town had risen two miles below the South Fork. As yet it had no name, but Esther heard a young prospecting Kentuckian named Coleman and his wife were opening a general store. She decided to add a seventh establishment to her list of wholesale customers, and Murietta accompanied her the morning she took the short ride to speak to Coleman. The woods were unusually quiet as they loped southward. They were almost to the outskirts of the tent-and-shanty village when the sound of angry voices answered their unspoken questions about the absence of men in the creeks and canyons south of the river.
Standing on one of the hills overlooking the small, makeshift town, they watched the movements of a crowd of three dozen men and a few women in a clearing beyond the tents. The latest in a series of unseasonably moderate snow flurries had left the ground moist before dawn that morning. As they stood there trying to figure out what was going on, their horses picked up their hooves impatiently, making sucking sounds in the mud. Snow began to fall again, the flakes gradually increasing in number as Esther and Murietta finally saw the isolated man sitting on a horse beyond the semicircle of people. The crowd grew quiet. The man on the horse, they suddenly realized, had a noose around his neck.
"¡Por Dios!" Murietta said.
They moved closer. A tall, baby-faced, strapping man in overalls and farmer's boots spoke to the prisoner. "Do you have anything to say?"
The accused man smirked at him.
"There are no alcaldes here, no officials, no judges of the ordinary sort," the tall man said, ignoring the prisoner's contempt. "You are the first to be caught thieving in this place. You have been found by your equals to be guilty, and although you have a physical affliction, we find that no excuse for your crime."
The snow began falling more heavily as the tall man continued.
"We do not have time or the luxury of a regular court to lavish on the likes of you. And therefore we will now carry out the judgment and sentence of this miner's court."
Restless, the crowd murmured its approval. "Let's get on with it, Coleman," one man shouted.
"You can't do this!" Esther screamed, spurring her horse down the slope toward an opening through the tents that led to the clearing.
From where they stood, forty yards away, the miners had no idea she was a woman. In addition to the broad hat, workshirt, pants and boots, the gauzy veil stitched to her hat brim and tied around her neck gave her the appearance of a bandit. Halfway down the slope the sling from her small carrying bag slipped from her shoulder. As she grabbed for it, one of the miners mistook the movement for the unholstering of a weapon and raised his muzzle-loader. He pointed and fired just as Murietta caught up with Esther, bowled her out of her saddle, and spun her over him as they fell. The bullet nicked Esther's horse and thudded into a tree trunk just short of the rise.
"Let me go!" Esther screamed as Murietta rolled over on top of her. She wrenched one arm free and struck him a glancing blow on the head, then began pounding his shoulder and chest with her fist.
Murietta kept her pinned, watching, as twenty yards to his right several of the miners moved out in front of the tents. Their weapons were pointed straight at him. "We do not know the man!" he shouted. "My friend hates violence. She cannot tolerate the sight of such an act. She can't help herself."
"Let… go… of… me, you beast!” Esther screamed, as Murietta grabbed for her free wrist and held it down. "Let… me… go!" Squirming, she bit at him, spat in his face, flushed with rage. "You have no right to do this!"
The tall, baby-faced man emerged from the small cluster of miners watching Esther and Murietta from a distance. "That a woman?" he shouted.
"Yes!" Murietta called back.
"Well, keep her under control—and stay out of this!"
Murietta nodded, then watched as the tall man, inaudible from where he stood, gave instructions. One miner stayed behind when the others went back beyond the tents to the main body of the crowd. Pointing his gun at Murietta, he called out: "Don't you come no closer. You try to interfere, Mr. Coleman says I'll have to shoot you."
Murietta moved Esther's wrists together and held them with one hand. "They would have killed you," he whispered.
"I don't care."
Murietta moved his weight to ease the burden on her without losing control of her movement. In doing so, his pelvis and legs fell between hers. She kicked at his calves as he reached out and gently stroked her cheek, trying to quiet and soothe her. Esther squirmed again and felt the warm, hard pressure of Murietta's body on her. The sensation, amid her fury, was not unlike that caused by a slightly loose tooth; positive and negative, welcome and discomfiting at the same time. "Get… off… me," she shouted, biting at his ear.
Both their heads turned as the tall, baby-faced man named Coleman walked to the prisoner's horse, slapped the animal hard on the rump, and shouted, "Heeeeeeeyaaaah!" Murietta gently gripped Esther's chin and tried to prevent her from seeing it. She struggled, forcing her head back around, staring as the man in the noose dropped and the sharp snapping of his neck could be heard in the silence of the falling snow. As the swinging, jerking man's eyes bulged, his bladder and bowels opened involuntarily, and a deep stain spread across his light-colored trousers.
Murietta carefully turned Esther's head away. He lay his temple next to her cheek and, one arm extended over his own head, kept her from seeing any more.
She struggled a moment longer, then heard one of the dispersing miners say, "Teach trash to think twice before robbing an honest working man. This be called Hangtown from now on. And let the name be a lesson."
It was over. There was nothing she could do now. Nothing either of them could do. The finality of it dissolved what was left of Esther's anger. Her shoulders slumped, the rigidity went out of her, and she stared up at the snowflakes spiraling down onto her face. She turned her head and buried it in the crook of Murietta's neck, and began to cry silently.
"I am sorry," Murietta said.
"The man had a right to a trial," she sobbed. "What they did is savagery."
"I know. But there was nothing you could do against so many."
Esther's anger flared again. "You coward!"
Murietta winced at the momentary hatred and contempt in Esther's eyes. "I have seen this thief before. He was not a good man."
"So they have the right to kill him?" she snapped.
"I did not say that. If there were more of us, I would have tried to stop them. It was simply a matter of not being foolish, not attempting the impossible at the sure cost of your own life."
He let go of her wrists. Slowly, she brought her arms down and held him until the crying stopped. The faint, not unpleasant smell of his hair and body began pulling her thoughts in another direction.
"I am sorry if I hurt you."
She pushed him away gently and wiped at her nose. "It's all right, Joaquin. I understand. What you did was sensible. It probably saved my life. I'm grateful to you."
They stood up, and he noticed she was still holding one of his hands. She looked down at their entwined fingers, then at him, and finally pulled her hand free.
"Can we go now?" she sobbed. "I never… want to set foot in this place again."
Murietta glanced back once, just before the woods between the town and the river closed behind them. He stopped and took one last look at the hanging man's face and the hand that was only a stump just above the place where the knuckles would have been. He remembered the day the bear had bitten part of the dead man's hand off in Claussen's high-walled corral. He shivered and wondered for a moment where the dead man's tall, hawk-nosed friend, Mosby, was at this moment. Shrugging, he rode on toward the cabin after Esther.
He caught up with her at the edge of the clearing, just in time to see Miwokan take note of the stains and mud on Esther's clothing, the tangled mass of her moistened hair. He didn't understand the grimace on Miwokan's face, or the abruptness of Miwokan's movement when he took one jealous look at Murietta's soiled clothing, turned on his heel withou
t a word, and stomped off toward the river.
Thirty-six
The snow fell off and on for three weeks, blanketing the land around the cabin and bringing the placer mining to a halt there and everywhere else in the Sierras. Working during the intermittent stretches of dry weather, Murietta built an extension on the shed for himself. Miwokan had kept silent about his suspicions concerning Esther and Murietta since the day of the hanging. Esther sensed only that he was reluctant to leave when his men retired to their camp, more than ready for two or three months of lassitude, frequent sex, and the supportive, purifying rituals of the sweathouse. Taking some reassurance from Murietta's new bunkhouse, Miwokan held his tongue when she asked him what the trouble was, and glumly followed his braves toward the village.
Late in the day on Christmas Eve, after he had hammered in the last nail on the enlarged shed, Murietta snared a quail. Turning his back to Esther, he snapped its neck quickly and began dressing it for the fire. They had kept a discreet, unspecified distance from one another since the incident at Hangtown. Unexpectedly, the physical closeness had aroused and alarmed Esther. She was not ready for it, and Murietta sensed her need for time to sort the matter out.
Time had softened the terms of their wary sexual armistice, and by now, as Esther watched Murietta finish plucking and trimming the bird, his tactfulness had pushed the concern from her mind.
"I was going to offer you some cured deer meat this evening," she called from the door of the cabin. "After all, tomorrow is Christmas. But now that you have something fresh, I will make a deal with you."
"And what is that?" Murietta said, smiling. "It will have to be equitable for me to give up so much as a morsel of this soft, tender, plump, and obviously delicious creature."
"Well," she said, twisting the end of an apron string with a coyness she did not realize was only half contrived, "if you will contribute your soft, tender, plump, and obviously delicious bird, you may sit at my grand table this evening. And I will provide the remainder of a complete dinner you would not have otherwise enjoyed."
"I will have to think about that…"
"Oh, well, if you would rather—"
"For about twenty seconds," Murietta interrupted, grinning.
Esther pursed her lips. Her veil was flipped back over her hat, but Murietta was oblivious of the pale scar. "Well," she said, mock-seriously. "You have had five seconds longer than this exchange usually allows its traders."
"Done!" he said, laughing and moving toward her. He remembered himself and stopped just close enough to hand over the bird.
She took it with her thumb and forefinger by one leathery talon. Making a face and shaking her head, she cocked an eyebrow and sighed. "I don't know, Señor Murietta, it seems to me you have struck the better part of this bargain."
"That remains to be seen," he said, relaxing again. "I must wait until I have sampled your cooking."
The fire crackled as they finished the meal, sipped at their coffee, and stared, smiling, at one another. Murietta's stare became a gaze, and he felt a longing for her he knew was out of place. Quickly, he wiped his lips with a napkin Sutter had given her and stood up. "Well, now I must go out to the shed."
Inexplicably, she was annoyed with him. "You don't have to leave so early, do you? It would be nice to sit and talk for a while. You have never told me much about yourself. Do you realize that?"
"Señora, it is absolutely necessary that I return to the shed…"
"Oh, all right," she said, surprised at her pique. "We'll talk some other—"
"For a moment or two," he said, smiling.
She was puzzled, but she waited. He returned with a small velvet pouch and placed it on the table before her.
"Whatever is this?" she asked, surprised again.
"It was obvious to me that I did indeed strike the better bargain." He pointed to the small pouch. "This is a small gesture of appreciation."
She took the velvet material in her hand, immediately aware from its weight that it contained something of substance. She undid the strings. Inside she found a small, oval, gold locket-watch on a delicately wrought gold chain. It was an antique, engraved exquisitely with an italic capital E.
"My God, Joaquin, it's beautiful. I… I cannot accept something so valuable from you."
"I wish to trade it for the silver spur," he said, laughing and immediately easing her mild discomfort. "I have kept this to myself, but without the spur, I find it extremely difficult to turn my horse to the left."
She burst out laughing. "Haven't you ever thought of moving your one spur to the other boot before you need to turn?"
"There is not enough time for that. I tried turning around in the saddle and riding backward—but the branch of a tree nearly gave me a haircut."
She was completely disarmed. "Thank you, Joaquin. I will treasure it. Where did you find such a lovely watch?"
"It was my grandmother's. Her name was Esperanza." Seeing her renewed reluctance to accept it, he added quickly, "Many, many times I have almost damaged it. Accepting the watch would be a great kindness. You would be taking care of it for me."
He ached with longing again as Esther opened and closed the locket, stared at the delicate black roman numerals and scalloped hands that stood in sharp contrast to the bone-white watch face.
Unaware of the depth of feeling beneath Murietta's misleadingly easy banter, Esther suddenly thought of Alex, and of what it would do to him if he knew. For a moment she was filled with guilt. Well, she thought, there will be no reason for guilt. It was my choice not to return to Alex. But I am his wife. And I love him still. As long as I am his wife, or at least as long as he is not married, I will try to honor my vows of fidelity.
Sighing, she stood up. Moving close to Murietta but keeping her arms at her sides, she leaned over at the waist and kissed him on the cheek. "You are a wonderful man," she said, the thought of Alex still strong in her mind. "I only wish…"
"Wish for nothing," Murietta said, placing his palms on her cheeks and lifting her gaze to his. "Accept what is in you, and what is not in you. And do not trouble yourself for things that come only in their proper season."
The fleeting hint of disappointment, pain in his eyes cut into her. "Oh, Joaquin," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I… a part of me… wants… to…"
"Simply wait. I know the place your heart and mind still ride across. I have been there. I understand. And until you feel such things, if you ever feel them for me, it is enough that we are friends."
They sat facing one another across the table and talked for hours. She stuck to the truth about her life up to the meeting of Alex Todd, substituted a nameless "husband" in his place, and then, paraphrasing, tried to leave Murietta with the impression that she had lost her husband, two fingers, and the normal pigment at the tip of her nose during an accident coming west on the Santa Fe Trail.
He did not fully believe her. The scar was plainly the result of frostbite. He had seen it before. And she had mentioned nothing about winter or the mountains. In time, he thought, perhaps she would tell him all of it. He decided not to probe for additional details.
His own story was just as complicated. His grandfather, Don Miguel Murietta y Guitterez, had been the padron of the Rancho de los Encinos, south of the Mission San Fernando. Don Miguel and his wife had adopted a beautiful Gabrieleno Indian girl, Esperanza, when both her father and mother died in a fire at the rancho. Don Miguel doted on the child, treating her as he did his natural son and daughter. Nineteen years later, after his wife died of cholera on a visit to Mexico, he became hopelessly infatuated with his ward.
"At first," Murietta explained, "he flouted his passion and ignored the outrage and the pleas of his family and wellborn friends among the gente de razon. He even set a date for marriage. But during the engagement the entreaties of his bishop swayed him. By that time, however, Esperanza was pregnant."
Don Miguel ensconced her on one end of the hacienda just as though they were formally
married. She gave birth to a son who eventually married and became Joaquin Alejandro Murietta's father. There were other grandchildren. One of them, Ramonda, lived on the rancho with her parents, Don Miguel's legitimate son and daughter-in-law. During their childhood, Murietta and Ramonda were inseparable. Neither Don Miguel nor Esperanza gave the affection the children held for one another a second thought.
"She went to school in Spain for several years during adolescence," Murietta went on. "When she returned a young woman, we edged slowly toward what we knew was forbidden. We were in the grape arbor hours past sunset one summer night, locked in each other's arms, half-naked and almost paralyzed with love and fear when my father surprised us. Tears were streaming down his face. He beat me senseless and banished me from the rancho on the threat of death."
Murietta had spent a year in the desert and the mountains, alone, healing both physically and spiritually. During this solitary period, he said, before he passed a second year herding sheep in the hills along the southern, end of the San Joaquin Valley, he had come to understand his precise place in the universe. He had reached a state of mind where he could slip off his boots and clothes, dig his feet into the earth, tilt his head upward, and lose consciousness of himself. It was as though, he continued, he blended completely into the earth and sky. He had tried peyote and mescal, and while they were interesting, they did not take him to the amorphously serene place he could reach himself by ridding his mind of all thought.
He returned at least once every few years, he told Esther, to the desolate and nearly unreachable places to renew himself, feel the earth spin, and hear the soothing rhythms of water and wind. Death had long since held no fear for him.
"If all that happens," he said, "is that I return to being part of the earth, the waters, the universe, it is enough. If there is more, all the better, but more is not necessary."