Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  One of Machado’s men was in the lead. Suddenly, they saw his horse rear wildly, and the man drew his pistol and fired.

  Rushing up, they saw nothing.

  “What’s the matter?” Wooston demanded. “You gone crazy?”

  “There was a snake, a big rattler, right in the trail.”

  “Well? Where is he now?”

  There was no snake, no winding trail in the dust, nothing.

  Tomas glanced uneasily at Silva, who shrugged.

  “There was a snake!” The man repeated stubbornly. “I saw it. So did my horse.”

  “So? Ain’t you never seen a snake before? Let’s go!” Russell was impatient.

  With a glance of contempt, Machado rode past into the lead. The trail wound down a long, shallow draw, dusty and dry, with scattered rocks and cacti. Suddenly Machado stopped, waiting for Silva. “The trail is gone,” he said. “Find it.”

  Silva rode on past and began casting back and forth for the lost trail.

  “Be dark soon,” Russell muttered.

  The way grew increasingly rugged. Now the junipers were giving way to scattered pines, and along the streams the sycamores were larger, older, and in greater number.

  “Looks like an open place up ahead,” Wooston said. “We’d better camp.”

  Silva had picked up the trail, then lost it again. He led them now down into a flat place near a stream where there were several large sycamores. He glanced around uneasily.

  “What place is this?” Machado asked.

  Silva shrugged. “The stream, I think, is the Sespe. This place, I have heard of it before. It is a bad place.”

  “Looks good to me,” Wooston swung down.

  “There has been death here,” Silva said. “I was told of this place.”

  “Forget it,” Wooston said, “this here’s as good a camp as we’re likely to find.” He turned toward Silva. “They far ahead of us?”

  Silva hesitated, thinking. Then he shrugged. “Maybe an hour, two hours. No more.”

  “What’s wrong?” Wooston’s eyes searched Silva’s.

  “I do not like this place,” Silva said, “and something is wrong.”

  “Wrong? How?”

  “The Old One leads them. He guides them.”

  “So?”

  “Something is wrong, Señor. He no longer tries to get away.”

  “What’s that mean?” Wooston was frowning and King-Pin Russell had stopped loosening his saddle to listen.

  “If he no longer tries to get away it is because he wishes us to catch up, and if he wishes us to catch up, there may be a trap, no?”

  “Trap, Hell! Any trap will be for them, not us.”

  Russell turned to Silva. “A trap? Now where would they be likely to try that?”

  Silva hesitated, looking from one to the other. “This place,” he said, “I think this is the place. This is the trap.”

  Chapter 9

  *

  SHORTLY BEFORE NOON the Old One led them to a creek. “We will rest for a few minutes and water our horses.”

  Sean glanced up at the mountainous ridge before them.

  Judging from the growth they were probably three thousand feet or so above sea level, and at a guess the ridge before them, running roughly east and west, was three to four thousand feet higher.

  He crossed to his mother. She was kneeling by the stream, washing the dust from her face with a damp cloth.

  “I think we are close,” he said.

  “You are right.” He extended a hand and she took it and rose. “I wonder why he stopped?”

  “To rest, he said.”

  She glanced around. “He is gone. So is Montero.”

  Sean turned quickly. The horses were there, but the two old men were gone.

  Mariana came to them. “Is this the place?”

  “No,” Sean said, “but I am trying to decide where we are.” He nodded ahead. “That could be Pine Mountain…and if it is, this might be the Piedra Blanca.”

  “You do not know?” Mariana asked.

  He shrugged. “There are no maps of this country. Men give names to places, but who knows which creek is the one named? Who knows which mountain? Sometimes a man would name creeks and mountains and then another would come who did not know about the first one and he would name them all over again.”

  They waited beside the creek, resting and talking in a desultory fashion.

  Sean was nervous and worried. From time to time he walked back toward the way they had come, but the trail was visible for only a hundred yards or so. He checked his guns again and again.

  Suddenly they reappeared, Montero coming down off the rocks into the little hollow. Immediately he went to his horse and tightened the cinch. “We go now,” he said.

  Juan appeared a moment later and they rode off up a steep, winding trail that led into a notch in the mountain wall that had once been a stream bed.

  The area was thick with forest. Several times they saw Indian writing, faded and old, upon rocks. Twice deer ran away before them. The gorge narrowed until they rode single file, each horse scrambling up the slippery, water-worn rocks in turn.

  They topped out suddenly on a long plateau or mesa, scattered with trees, but mostly covered with yellowing grass. They saw deep tracks, and nothing else. Juan led out, riding straight across the mesa toward the northwest. He dipped down through the trees and drew up on a sandy shore beside a running creek. Opposite there was a high, rocky wall, around them a ring of such walls.

  “We will stop here,” he said, and got down.

  It was a quiet place, haunted yet beautiful. The cottonwood leaves rustled gently and spread wide over the hard-packed earth and sand, offering shade and shelter. There was a spring among some rocks that flowed down toward the creek. On the far side were the fallen walls of a stone cabin of some kind, only a few stones remaining in place.

  “We will camp,” Juan said, “and you and you,” he indicated Sean and Mariana, “will stay.”

  “And I?” Eileen Mulkerin asked.

  “You will come.”

  “I don’t like the idea,” Sean protested, “we should stay together.”

  “She will be safe.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Until daybreak, perhaps a little longer. I will tell only her…for now. You ride, you shoot, you sail about on the big water…perhaps tomorrow you die. I will tell her.”

  His mother took her rifle and turned to them, smiling. “I’ll be all right.”

  Juan started off, Eileen Mulkerin following.

  “I’ll be all right,” Mariana said, “if you wish to follow them.”

  “Follow him? He would know, somehow. He always knows. If he says stay, we stay.”

  “I will make coffee.”

  Montero stripped the saddles from the horses as Sean began to gather wood.

  Several times Sean paused to listen and to look around. There were no deer tracks here, no tracks at all. The realization worried Sean, although he did not know why. Twice, in gathering wood, he saw arrowheads. They were longer, slimmer than any he had seen before, and beautifully worked. Stooping to pick up a stick he saw an egg-shell thin bit of pottery. It crumbled to dust in his fingers.

  “What kind of a place is this?” he asked Montero.

  The Californio shrugged. “It is a place in which to be still,” he said briefly. Then after a moment, because after all he had known Sean since he was a child, he said, “It is a place of the Old Ones.”

  Sean glanced at him, then strolled back to where Mariana had started the coffee. “Don’t wander around,” he said to her. “Stay close to the fire and the horses.”

  “You think there will be trouble?”

  “Not yet, but this place is eerie. Don’t you feel it?”

  “It is quiet.”

  “I wonder where they went.”

  “After the gold, I suppose. Better stay back under the trees. If anyone should come up they’d not be likely to see you.”
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  “What about you?”

  “I thought I’d look around the ruins, over there.”

  “I’ll come with you then.”

  Montero spoke. “Señor, I would not go over there. It is not a good place. Under the trees is best, or near the fire.”

  “All right.” Sean glanced again at the ruins, puzzled. Not a good place? Superstition, probably. There was a lot of it among the Indians and some of the Californios.

  This place was far from any he remembered. There had always been talk, of course. Here and there some hunter of wild horses had penetrated this wild country and returned with stories, and occasionally trappers had added their bit. But actually very little was known.

  Sean paced uneasily, aware that somewhere, not too far off, Machado and the others would be searching for them. Wild as the country was, and scarce as trails were, they might still be found, and he had no desire for a pitched battle in such a place as this with Mariana and his mother along.

  Jesus Montero was an old but careful man, and a good shot. He was not the kind to pull out when the going was rough. Nor was his mother, that stubborn woman.

  “Let’s cook up now,” he suggested, “then we’ll eat and put out the fire. No point helping them find us.”

  Montero agreed, but took over the cooking himself. Sean wandered about, studying the rim and places where he could be without offering a target. He avoided the ruins because he had no wish to anger Montero. He liked the old man and respected his wishes.

  Yet he grew more uneasy. Twice he climbed out of the basin, and from the rim above, studied the country around. There were too many concealed approaches, too many places men could hide.

  When Sean returned to the fire, there were tortillas, bacon, and coffee. As they ate, he talked to Mariana. She was, he decided, not only beautiful but also uncommonly sensible.

  “You said he was an Indian? The Old One?”

  “Who knows? We call him Juan, and my father called him that, but whether it is his name or not, we’ll never know. Nor will we know whether he is Mexican, Indian, or Anglo. I think he’s Indian, but as I’ve said, of some tribe we do not know. He’s supposed to be from a vanished people.”

  “We have those in Mexico. Vanished people, I mean.”

  “Indian wars…they were always fighting, just like our ancestors were in Europe, only the tribes were not large and if too many men were lost the tribe died out.”

  “Will she be all right with him?”

  “The Señora? She will. She can take care of herself. But the old man, he would die for her.”

  “You call her the Señora when she is your mother. Why?”

  “Stay around awhile and you’ll see. She is the Señora, believe me, she is. Rarely raises her voice but everybody knows who’s boss. She was that way with everybody but Pa. Everybody called her the Señora. They still do.”

  He checked his gun again. “I wish Mike was here.”

  “Mike? You mean your brother Michael?”

  “Sure. He’s hell-on-wheels with a gun or a rope and can ride anything that wears hair. I know he’s gone peaceful, the Church and all that, but sometimes I wonder how peaceful.”

  Somewhere up in the rocks, an owl hooted.

  “You’d better get some sleep. If they’ve found anything we may ride out of here early in the morning.”

  “I am not tired.”

  “After that ride? You get some rest.”

  “My father ran cattle in the mountains of Guerrero. I have ridden much further.”

  “Can you use a gun?”

  “You ask me that? Of course.” Then, reflectively, “Andres would not have liked me, anyway. He did not know what he was asking for. When he saw me all dressed, he did not know that I could ride and shoot like any vaquero. He would not have found me so easy to handle.”

  “You must sleep. It will be after daylight, they said, before they are back.”

  In the darkness there was no sound but the leaves and the water. No birds, no frogs.

  Mariana walked deeper into the shadows and lay down on her blanket, using her saddle for a pillow. Sean followed and covered her with a poncho.

  “You’re nice.”

  He looked at her a moment. “Thanks.”

  She closed her eyes and listened to the slight jingle of his spurs as he walked back to the fire. He thrust sticks into the coals, just enough to keep it alive and then walked away. She listened to the sound of his crunching steps on the sand. It was a friendly, pleasant sound. She snuggled down under the poncho and slept.

  He stood in the shadows some fifty feet away and listened. Mentally he sorted out the sounds of the night. Each place had its own sounds, only here there were fewer. What was there about this place?

  There were people who believed that the sorrow or happiness or fear of people who had lived in a place left their mark upon it. He had known houses that were always damp and cold, houses that never seemed to be warm, and there were others that one felt to be home the moment one went through the door.

  There had been frightful happenings in some places, and people said a mark was left upon them. Had that happened here? Or was it something else?

  He had grown up to stories of the strange and mysterious, both from his mother and from the Indians. The Celts had a strain of darkness and mystery in their blood…was it that?

  Unexplainable things happened. He had known a few of them at sea, and then there was that time when he had gone ashore in Pegu…over Burma way. He had talked to an old man in a ruined temple—

  Something was stirring out there in the darkness. Like a shadow, holding close to the rocks, he moved back.

  Montero was there. “I heard it, too,” he said, “but we must wait. It might be one of the others.”

  *

  ONLY A FEW miles away, Juan had stopped. He had led the way to a high meadow rimmed with low, boulder-strewn hills. They were nearly at the top of the range, she decided.

  “The horses will be safe here.”

  “We are to walk?”

  “Only a little way.” He paused. “Señora? There is not much gold, I think. Maybe there is not enough. I do not know what gold means to you, or how much it would take.”

  “Can we be back after daybreak?”

  “You are afraid for them?”

  “Sean is strong. He is a very good fighter, I have heard, but there are many of them.”

  “He will not be alone.”

  “You mean Mariana? And Jesus?”

  “There are others.”

  Others?”

  “You are very young, Señora. I am very old, very, very old. Who knows what others there are, out here in the silences? We who are very old are closer to Them than you.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Some say this place is haunted, and the place where I left them, but the ways of evil are always haunted, and evil breeds its own destruction. I think that is so, Señora.”

  She did not reply, and after a moment, he spoke again.

  “The mind is fed by the imagination and the imagination feeds upon the intangible. Men have seen things and heard things and such things remain in their minds. These things breed fear, worry, a desire to be away, far away.”

  “You do not talk like an Indian, Juan.”

  “What is an Indian? How does an Indian talk? An Indian is someone to whom the word seems to apply. It says no more than that, Señora. An Indian can be anything or anybody. You whites have just come, but what you call Indians came not long before you. Before them there were other peoples, and who knows who was the first?

  “The land belongs to those who live upon it, Señora, and people come and go. We will not be the last, you and I, and these about us.”

  “You spoke of evil as though it had a power in itself?”

  “Does it not? Once there was a city out there, and the city became evil, and perhaps it was the evil it created that destroyed it. And perhaps it was just a changing of the earth. I am all that is left.�
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  “Someday,” she said quietly, “you must tell me all you remember. We know of the Aztecs and the Incas, but not of this place you mention.”

  “The Aztecs and Incas were not old people. They were newcomers. The Aztecs marched down from the north and settled in the reed beds around the lake. After awhile they grew strong and defeated many other peoples. The Incas were upstarts also, building on what had been done before.” He chuckled. “But then, we all do that. But I am only an old Indian and have nothing to say that needs to be remembered. You must rest, Señora. Tomorrow we will go the last few steps.”

  “Can’t we go now?”

  “Does gold smell? Does it taste? It must be seen, Señora, and for that there must be light. Sleep, now.”

  Chapter 10

  *

  A HAND TOUCHED Mariana’s shoulder and she awakened instantly. Sean was squatting beside her. “Better wake up. I think they are coming now.”

  “The Señora?”

  “The others.” He glanced at the glowing coals. “Stay out of sight. I do not want them to know who is here or how many.”

  She got up quickly and took up her saddle and blanket, carrying them into the shadows. Sean took the saddle from her, and the blanket. Quickly, he saddled her horse. “Don’t get too far from your horse, and if the worst comes, ride out of here, and fast. Go to Los Angeles and see Pio Pico. Tell him the story.”

  He walked back to the edge of the darkness.

  The moon was up and the small clearing was bathed in light. From down the canyon there was a click of a hoof on stone, a stir of movement, and they came forward riding in a tight bunch. There were nine or ten of them. Too many.

  Sean’s position was excellent. He had fairly good cover, and his body merged with the trees and rocks behind him. On his left and some twenty yards off was Mariana, and with her, the horses. Montero had disappeared, but he was not worried about Montero. He would be where it was best for him to be.

  They came on, walking their horses. The shadows from the moon, the trees and weird rock formations made a mystery of the darkness.

  “I can smell smoke,” Russell said.

  “There’s a fire,” someone else said. “It is almost out.”

  “You are near enough,” Sean spoke in a conversational tone, making no effort at a threat. “Just stand where you are.”