She crossed to where the old man sat, and he looked up as she approached. He started to rise, but she gestured for him to stay. “I will sit,” she said.
Juan looked older, even quieter if that was possible. Yet something was different about him. “What is it, Juan?”
“There will be blood,” he said quietly, “blood and death. You should not have come.”
“Since when was a woman afraid of blood?” she asked. “The problem is not only Sean’s. It is mine also. If there is to be blood, I will share in the letting or the losing of it.”
He shook his head. “There is no end. Man was born in travail, and in travail he lives.”
“This place to which we go? Will there be safety there? Shelter?”
“There is no safety upon this earth, and no shelter but for a time. There was once a time when my people had shelter, and in a night, it was gone, and in the days and weeks that followed there was not even a stone laying upon a stone that was not shaken down.
“We lived in a world of our making. We had learned things beyond the ways of men, and we believed ourselves secure. We were not secure.
“We had wisdom of a sort. We knew not the things you and your people know, but we knew much else that you do not know, perhaps cannot know, yet it was of no use. The earth trembled and cracked and dust arose, and there was fire, and my people fled, fled they knew not where. Some went to the sea and died there in great waves that followed the fifth week of trembling, and some went to the desert and died of thirst, and many lay dead in the ruins of all we had built.
“A few of us went to the mountains. Some of us lived. Many died because they knew not how to live without all they had had about them. I was young. I was a priest among them, but I was also one who loved the wild lands and often went out to search for herbs for medicines, so I lived.”
“I have never heard of this.” She looked at him, wondering. “Did you ever tell Jaime of this?”
“A little. He found a wall once, in the desert, and beside the wall some broken bits of a pot. It was thin, fragile, beautiful. He wondered how a Chinese pot could come here and was surprised when I told him the piece was not of China, but a fragment of our own. We talked a little then.”
“And Sean? Does he know of this?”
The old man was silent for several minutes, and then he said, “He knows much by himself. He perceives. He feels. He knows where something has taken place, where things have been. It is something deep within him.”
“You taught him something when he was much younger?”
“Taught? Perhaps. All teaching is not instruction, sometimes it is only opening a door or lifting a veil. Lift the veil and one does not need to teach for the mind sees, realizes, understands.”
“You spoke of blood? Will my son survive the bloodletting?”
“I do not know, Señora. Once I was young, and I knew many things, but now the light burns low and what I perceive is but dimly as through a curtain.”
“And your city? The place from which you came? Your people? Who were they?”
“Another people…it does not matter now. I am the last of us, I believe, and I am old, so very old.”
“But where did you come from?”
“Elsewhere, but long, long ago. It does not matter, Señora, and I speak of this to no one.”
“Not even to Sean?”
“Not yet…soon, perhaps. But only a little. The past is gone. My people who were proud and strong and fierce went down as does the grass before the fire.
We were once here, and there was dust and smoke, and there was no more of us.”
“You should tell someone what you know. There should be a history, so that men can learn from it.”
He smiled. “Men do not learn from history. Each generation believes itself brighter than the last, each believes it can survive the mistakes of the older ones. Each discovers each old thing and they throw up their hands and say ‘See! Look what I have found! Look upon what I know!’ And each believes it is something new.
“We had them in plenty, the new discoverers, exclaiming with excitement over what we had long ago tested and found false. We had the greedy ones, too, and those who wished for power or to show power. They are gone now, with all the rest.
“Once a priest talked to me. He spoke long of the sins of this world and wished me to declare for his god that all my sins be remitted. I listened to him patiently and smiled inside for I had no sins to be forgotten and none to be forgiven. He told me of Sodom and Gomorrah, and I listened and felt a sadness upon me, for what had happened to us had happened there also.”
The last of the stars had disappeared. The old man got to his feet. “We must go now. I do not know how, but they have found a way and they are close…much too close.”
She went to Sean. “Juan says they are coming, and he says there will be blood.”
“I have been expecting it.”
Once more they merged with the beginning day, lending their movements to the vanishing shadows and the growing light, riding along the faces of slopes like cloud shadows under the sun, and leaving no mark upon the land they left behind.
Sean dried his hands on his shirt again and turned his head to look at the hills behind them. Nothing…yet.
He knew it was coming and rode warily, sitting light in the saddle, ready to kick free of the stirrups and drop to the ground if need be. He wanted no wasted shots, no galloping horse beneath him. He could shoot from the saddle, and had done it many times, but this time he must be sure, and with each shot a man must fall. His mother was here, and Mariana.
The old man set a killing pace. On through the sun-blasted hills he rode, winding up on the long slopes, along the ridges and into strange canyons. He waded their horses through streams, pushed through thickets, turned and doubled and changed his direction again and again.
Once, far back, Sean thought he saw dust, but Juan shook his head. “I do not know what dust that is, but it is not theirs. They are closer. They simply do not see us.”
Sean saw, once in awhile, a deer track. He saw no others. Yet within the last mile or so the terrain had suddenly changed, for he was weaving a way through canyons of up-tilted strata, great layers of rock broken and thrust sharply upward, the edges only beginning to be worn by wind and blown sand. It was a nightmare of broken ledges, twisted rocks, deep gorges, and desolation.
He spoke of it to Montero.
“It is a great crack,” the Mexican said, “a crack in the earth that cuts through the mountains for many miles, from Mexico to the sea far north of Monterey. At places the trail follows the bottom, and I have ridden it.”
“An earthquake fault,” Sean commented. “I’ve heard of such places.”
It was dark when again they stopped, and Juan drew up and got stiffly down. “Do not unsaddle. We will make coffee, eat, and ride on.”
“Tonight?” Mariana was incredulous.
“We must.”
When they had eaten and had drunk their coffee, Juan got more slowly to his feet. Sean looked at him, suddenly worried. “Perhaps we should rest, Old One. You are tired.”
Juan shrugged. “These days I am often tired. It is no matter.”
“But a little rest—?”
“There is no time. They come quickly.”
As Sean moved to put out the fire, the old man stopped him. “No, add wood, and leave it burning. They will believe that we are here. They will get down, creep up, and find nothing. Nothing at all.”
“And so?”
“We shall have gained a few miles, perhaps a whole night. It is a difference, amigo.”
Wearily they mounted, and wearily Juan led them into the night, into the darkness.
Chapter 8
*
IT WAS DAYLIGHT before they again stopped. The place was a canyon with towering walls that went steeply up, then sloped back. There were junipers there, and piñon pine.
“We will rest,” Juan said.
He squatted against a boulder
. “We cannot go on. They are too close.”
“Close? How do you know? We have seen nothing!”
“I know.”
“We must have the gold, Juan. We will lose the ranch.”
“Is it so important? It is land, but there is much land. If you lose that, go elsewhere and take more. I can show you more land, finer land.”
“It is our home. The mountains are there, and the sea. Our schooner is there. The grave of my father is there.”
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten that.” He paused, then said. “They are too close. They will find us and they will take it all.”
“They will take nothing.” Eileen Mulkerin said flatly. “They will take nothing, Juan. They will get nothing but trouble. I will not lose the place, Juan. I will not lose it, do you hear?”
“Those men who follow? They are bad men?”
“The worst.”
Eileen Mulkerin spoke. “There is the one called Wooston, and there is King-Pin Russell, Tomas Alexander, and Jorge Fernandez.”
“Fernandez? A thin, hard man?”
“Sí…and there is Andres Machado.”
Juan stirred the sand with a stick. “This Fernandez…I know of him. He killed a girl, I think. An Indian girl?”
“He is the one.”
“She was known to me. Sometimes she brought me frijoles…she was a good girl.”
He sat silent, then shook his head. “No. I cannot. You are my friends. I know that. But this is not what you think. It is no great treasure, but only a little gold, not easily had. For you there might be enough…but I cannot risk it.”
Sean squatted, too. “Old One? Take them. I will stay here. I will be sure that no one follows you.”
“They will kill you.”
“Not until I have killed them. You take the Señora and Mariana…go. I will stay.”
“If you stay,” Montero said, “I will stay with you.”
The Old One looked from one to the other, slowly shaking his head. “You are brave men, good men.” He paused again, then sighed and shook his head. “Rest a little then. Let the horses roll, take them to drink in the hole beyond the bushes. We must go soon.”
He moved away from them and, curling up in a shadow, went to sleep.
Eileen Mulkerin looked at her son. “We should not do this, Sean. I think the place he is taking us to is very special. Possibly a sacred place.”
“You are probably right, and I am worried for him, but what I have said, I will do. You ride on with him. I shall stay.”
“We all go…or none.”
“Señora, I—”
“No. I have spoken. That is how it will be. I love the ranch, but the ranch is not worth my son’s blood. I say no…all go, or none.”
He knew better than to argue. “What about the gold?” he asked. “Was it melted down or was it ore?”
“I never saw it.”
Montero led the horses away and Sean leaned back against a rock. He was tired, very tired. The long voyage, the worry, and now this. His eyes closed. He opened and shut his fingers, closing them into fists.
Somehow, somehow he must save them all. Juan, his mother, Mariana.
Montero? He was a good man, and together they would do what must be done. They were men, and they would stand together. What happened remained in the hands of God…or destiny.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. The sun was high in the sky, and the hand was Juan’s. “You sleep well, my son. It is time to ride.”
“Could you not tell us where to go? You could hide nearby and rest.”
“The road I travel is one of memories. It is good for me to go.”
“My husband had much respect for you,” Eileen Mulkerin said.
“He was a good man, Señora. He had respect for the old ways and when the old gods spoke to him, he listened.”
“The old gods?”
“They are here, in all the quiet places. If you are silent in the wilderness they will, in time, come close to you. If you respect their world they will come to love you.
“Those who follow us, they know not what they do.” Juan glanced at her. “You are known to the Old Ones. They know you belonged to him, and you are a quiet woman—”
She laughed. “You do not know me, Juan, or you would not say that. I am a hard, bold, demanding woman.”
He shrugged. “You know to be silent in the wilderness. It is that which matters, to learn to live with silence.”
He walked to his horse. “It is time now. We must go.”
*
ANDRES MACHADO WAS in the lead when they reached the place of the fire. He rode quickly around, then back. Russell followed him. “This was the smoke we saw. What do you suppose it was for?”
Machado shrugged. “Coffee.” He swung down from the saddle, a lithe man, easy in his movements. “We will have some ourselves.” He turned. “Silva! We will have food now.”
“It was a signal,” Silva muttered.
They all looked at him. “A signal? To whom?”
He shrugged. “They cooked. There is spattered grease and a few coffee grounds from an emptied cup. But it was a signal, too.”
“Who could he signal to?” Alexander asked, impatiently. “There is nobody out here, Silva. Not even Indians live in this wilderness.”
“It was a signal,” Silva insisted.
“What about that old Indian?” Wooston asked. “I only saw him once, but he had some tie-up with Mulkerin.”
“I do not know him,” Tomas said, looking away.
“I saw him once,” Fernandez spoke reluctantly. “He was strange…he was an Old One.”
“Strange? How?”
“Well, just strange. Kept to himself. Never came into town. The other Indians fought shy of him, never seemed easy around him, almost like they were scared.”
“What’s to be scared of?” Russell asked, contemptuously. “I seen him once. Just an old man…looked to be a hundred years old. Good puff of smoke could blow him away.”
Tomas lifted his black eyes to Russell. He did not like him very much. “But none has,” he said. “In a hundred years a man sees much smoke.”
Silva was slicing bacon into a pan. “They say he can call up the spirits…that he can will things to happen.”
Russell laughed. “Nonsense! That’s pure nonsense!”
They sat together, dozing and talking. Wooston, Russell, Alexander, Fernandez, and Andres Machado. Their party had grown in size, and among the additions were a dozen Californios, of whom Silva was one.
Silva was a short, square-shouldered man, three-quarters Indian, one-quarter Spanish. He was a good cook, an excellent vaquero, and a tracker. Few of the Californios had any use for wild country, but Silva was an exception, as Pedro Fages and Father Garces had been.
“What you figure on doin’ when we catch ’em?” Russell asked, glancing at Machado.
“It is a wild country,” Wooston said, “it’s easy to get lost out here. Be surprisin’ if they ever found their way back.”
Russell took a cigar from his vest pocket. “Be a real surprise to me,” he said. “Any number of accidents can happen.”
Machado looked at them with distaste. “Your business is your business,” he said shortly. “I want that girl and a whip. That is all.”
“And Sean Mulkerin? Who stole your woman?”
“I do not know that he stole her. She fled…it was some silly girl’s whim…and it was his boat. However,” he added, “I shall fight him and kill him.”
“Better just kill him,” Russell advised.
“Him?” Machado sneered. “I never liked him, anyway. No, I shall fight him and kill him. It would give me great satisfaction.”
Tomas glanced at Machado. “Be careful, Señor. He is very strong, a good fighter. If I were you, I would shoot him…from far off. When he falls I would shoot into him five more times, just to be sure.”
Machado snorted, and reached into the pan for a strip of bacon.
Tomas went on. “In my cantina one night…it was only last year…five men from another ship decided to rob him. Mulkerin was coming up from the shore with the money from the sale of a cargo. These were bad men. And they started a fight with him.”
“I remember somethin’ about that,” Wooston said. “Killed a couple of them, didn’t he?”
“I cannot afford to have killings at my cantina,” Tomas replied gravely, “so bodies are never found there. However, two bodies were found on the road near the cienaga…and there were two other men who became somehow disabled.”
“And the other?”
“He ran, Señor. He had less courage but greater wisdom. Captain Mulkerin had a few scratches, I think, and skinned knuckles.”
“Knives,” Machado said. “They should have used knives.”
“Two of them tried, Señor Machado. Two of them tried very hard with knives. One died with his own knife in his ribs, the other had a broken arm and collarbone.”
It was a somber day. Low gray clouds lay upon the mountains, shrouding the peaks and the higher ridges. The canyons were silent, awesome, haunted.
When they started out again, Fernandez led off. But he had gone only a short distance when he drew up sharply.
“What is it?” Machado demanded impatiently.
Fernandez pointed.
Two crossed sticks lay in the trail.
“Well? What of it?” Wooston demanded, as they bunched around.
“I do not like it,” Fernandez said. “It is a sign.”
“Bah!” Machado said contemptuously. “We waste time!” He rode over the sticks and on down the trail, and the others followed.
From high in the rocks above them there came a weird, lonely howl, a howl that sent chills up their spines. Once more they drew up, guns in hand. The howl rose, died away, then lifted again.
Their eyes searched the rocks above them, but they saw nothing.
“Coyote,” Russell said.
“That?” Tomas stared at him. “That was no coyote. It was a soul of the dead, a lost soul.”
Wooston laughed. “Well, I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Let’s go.”
Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) Page 6