They turned into the street, her black horse prancing a little and stopped before the door of a trading post. Sean swung down and offered his hand to his mother, and she stepped down like a princess. The two vaqueros tilted their sombreros and looked about with the confidence of men who know their strength and for whom they ride.
Eileen swept through the door Sean held aside for her and entered the post. She glanced around, smiled at the storekeeper who almost dropped his broom and hastily straightened the leather apron he wore.
“Yes, Señora?”
She placed her order before him. “I will pay,” she said quietly, “in gold.”
He looked up quickly. There was little coin in California, and less gold. Men paid in hides, tallow, furs, or in whatever they might have to trade.
“Gold?” The merchant was startled.
“In gold,” she repeated, dropping the remark carelessly while looking at some fabric on the counter.
She ordered quickly, moving from one counter to the next, wasting no time. She ordered food, wine, dress material, several imported delicacies rarely found in California, and then she paid for it with small nuggets.
“We are entertaining,” she said then, “a small fandango. Will you tell our friends? I shall send riders…but you know how it is, and someone might be missed.”
“Of course, Señora.” He swallowed with some difficulty as he gathered the nuggets and weighed them. “I have not seen so much gold since…since…”
“My husband was here?” she shrugged a lovely shoulder. “It is difficult…the gold, I mean. One does not have it close by, and it is rather a bother.
“I must have more mules,” she added, “for the next time.”
“Yes, yes of course.” There was respect in the merchant’s eyes. “Perhaps Don Abel Stearns, or Señor Wolfskill will have mules to sell…or loan.”
“Oh, yes, they might have.” Eileen Mulkerin gathered her skirts. “Will you have this ready? Our cart will be here soon to pick it up.”
“Of course! Of course!”
They would all be there, of course, and there were forty or fifty foreigners in the vicinity now. William Wolfskill had been a trapper, now he owned a vast ranch and was growing oranges to ship. Don Benito Wilson, Hugo Reid, Don Juan Temple, William Workman, John Rowland, had also come west and most of them had married daughters of old California families.
Eileen Mulkerin left the store, pausing briefly on the walk outside. Her eyes swept the dusty street. It was a far cry from Dublin or Cork, far different from London and Paris, yet she loved the old adobes where the whitewash was peeling from the bricks, the dogs lay comfortably in the dust, wagging lazy tails at the occasional passing rider.
Three riders came down the street, handsome boys scarcely into their teens, yet already magnificent horsemen. All three were richly dressed, and they bowed to her with decorum and a certain flair that was all their own. Two of them were Sepulvedas, and the third was Antonio Yorba.
She knew she could expect them at the fandango, for they never missed anything of the sort, and people of all ages came, for there were no parties for the young, the middle-aged, or the old. All gathered together, falling into their various groups at times, and mixing at other times.
The Californios were great dancers and they possessed a manner and style like nothing she had seen, even in France or Spain.
“Señora! It is good to see you!”
She turned quickly. Pio Pico was a somewhat portly man, shrewd and kindly, always active in local affairs.
“I have been shopping, Señor. You will come to our fandango?”
“This is the first I had heard. A fandango is it? But of course!”
Even Pio might be fooled by the gold, but he would wish to be fooled, for he had been a friend of Jaime’s, and was a friend of hers.
“You have had trouble, Señora?”
“Señor Wooston has a small debt. He wishes to take the ranch! It is absurd, is it not? I shall pay him, of course, but the gold takes time, and at this season there is much to do. It is not,” she added glibly, “as if we did not have it. Jaime always found enough to handle such affairs, but Sean has been away, and with Michael in the Church—”
“I understand, Señora. Of course, you will not lose the ranch. Of course not.” His eyes twinkled a little. “And what a time for a fandango! Beautiful, Señora! Simply beautiful!”
There was no fooling Pio, of course. Her chin lifted a little and she smiled impudently. “I thought you would approve, Don Pio, and would you please pass the word to all our friends? There will be much to eat, wine to drink, and there will be dancing!”
After a few minutes more, she watched him go up the street, pleased that she had scored a point in her favor, for in Los Angeles the word of Pio Pico counted for a great deal and public pressure was something not even Zeke Wooston would dare to challenge. Her fandango would be popular with the pleasure-loving Californios, and the knowledge that she had money, even if not readily available, would make any move to force her from the ranch decidedly unpopular.
Too many were in the same position. Cash was always in short supply and many of the wealthiest saw little actual money from one year to the next. Most of the Americans or Europeans who had come to California had married into local families, had become Mexican citizens, and adopted the ways of the community. Wooston had stood aside from all that and was not popular.
Nor was his connection with Micheltorena popular. The governor had made enemies, and his refusal to curb the excesses of the army was making him more enemies. The casual, easygoing Californios could handle their own affairs, and on more than one occasion had banded together to pursue horse thieves or fight off attacks by bands of Indians from the desert.
Sean left his mother talking to a woman on the street and walked to the corner. Despite the Señora’s confidence, he was worried.
Zeke Wooston was not a Californio and did not have the tolerant, somewhat casual attitude that was typical of them. Fernandez was a dangerous man, ready to take any advantage, as was Russell. Tomas Alexander? Well, Tomas would be more careful, and if possible, more dangerous.
Sean’s eyes searched the street. The pueblo was small, but there were many places where a man might keep out of sight. He glanced at Wooston’s office, but there was no sign of movement, no activity. It could be possible they had not yet found their way from the mountains.
He turned on his heel and strolled back the way he had come.
His mother turned to him, and he was again struck by her great beauty. If there was gray in her hair it was not visible, and if there were lines on her face he could not see them. “Come, Sean. We will go back. I wish to stop along the way.”
The air was clear, the sky blue. He looked again to the hills where no clouds gathered. The Santa Monicas curved around, and in the distance he could see other mountains lifting their raw backs against the sky.
This was home, this sunny land along the sea with the mountains to shield it from the desert beyond. This was the place where he planned to live out his years, and he wanted no other. Yet he could see the changes that were coming, although many of the Californios still lived in their dreams of a peaceful, quiet world secluded from all that lay outside.
The coming of such men as Stearns, Wilson, Wolfskill, and the others should have been a warning of what lay ahead. These were hard but honest men, energetic and accustomed to competition and the drive to succeed, and their coming could not help but bring changes. It was these changes for which they must prepare.
In a land where the sun shone nearly every day of the year, where cattle ran the hills in thousands, where anything grew almost without effort, it was too easy to sit back and relax. The trouble was that the men from eastern America and Europe who were now coming had lived in no such easy land and loved the struggle for existence.
His mother had grasped that at once, as soon as she met the first of them. Each day saw them out and doing, and their Californio neighbor
s smiled at their energy as one smiles at an excited child.
He remembered what the Señora had said, “Remember, Sean. These men are different. They have come and they like it here, and more will come. They will move fast, they will work hard, and in the end they will own it all.”
In New England and in northern Europe the seasons were short and the air brisk. One had little time to do what needed to be done. In California the seasons merged, dreamed one into the other, and what was not done today could be done tomorrow.
Sean looked again along the street and eased his Paterson into a better position on his hip. He helped his mother to her saddle and handed her the reins.
Del Campo and Polanco came from a cantina and swung to their saddles. A man came from the cantina behind them, and Del Campo turned his mount to face him. “There was something, Señor? You wished to speak?”
“I speak when I wish. I do not now wish.” He was a surly fellow with a knife scar over his right eye and what looked like an old powder burn on his right hand.
Del Campo walked his horse slowly forward. “Do not forget me when you wish to speak,” he said gently. “I shall be listening.” He smiled, showing white, even teeth.
The scarred man only stared at him, unsmiling. Del Campo wheeled his horse, stirring a cloud of dust, then he galloped after the Señora. Polanco had stayed off to one side, apparently unaware, but the man with the scarred face was not fooled.
Fernandez came from the cantina behind him. “Who are they, Diego? I do not know them.”
“Nor I, but they are bad, amigo, ver’ bad. I feel it. They are no strangers to the knife, not those.”
Fernandez walked back inside, spurs jingling. He walked to a back table where Zeke Wooston sat with Tomas. “It is talked about everywhere,” he said. “The Señora has spent gold. She will give a fandango. She has bought much, ordered more, and paid in gold.”
Wooston swore. He swore slowly, bitterly, emphatically, giving the words an ugly twist. “Gold! And we were that close!”
“The fandango,” Fernandez said, “will bring them all to her house. You can do nothing, Señora.”
“I’ll show them! By the Lord Harry, I’ll—!” He broke off suddenly. “Has King-Pin come in?”
“No, Señor. Nor Francisco. I think they look for the gold, Señora.”
“Then they’d better come here with it! By God, I didn’t hire them to go runnin’ off when they’re needed.”
Fernandez shrugged. “Maybe they cannot come, Señor. Maybe they are dead…or gone.”
“Gone?” Wooston stared at him. “What’s that mean?”
“The Old One,” Fernandez said. “Follow him into the mountains and sometimes you come back, sometimes not.”
“Nonsense!”
Fernandez shrugged. “Perhaps, Señor. It is odd, I think that they never find them…not even the bodies…they find nothing.”
Chapter 15
*
KING-PIN RUSSELL RODE into a clearing and drew up, waiting for Francisco. He had become aware that despite his companion’s seeming boldness, he was droping back more and more, and it made Russell uneasy.
He sat very still, listening.
That was it…the silence. Why couldn’t there be some sound? What was it about these mountains? About this place?
He turned in his saddle, looking all about. There were only mountains, only rocky, brush-covered or pine-clad hills. There were canyons or draws here and there that led to…what?
Nothing, probably. Just back to some spot where the water had started a cut into the rock. He wet his lips, considered, and after a bit lifted his canteen and uscrewed the cap for a short drink. He rinsed his mouth carefully, holding it there for a time, then swallowed. His eyes were busy.
The gold must be up here. This was where they had come, and from somewhere up here they had turned back. If he could find the source of that gold…to hell with Wooston and the rest of them. He’d take a bit of it, enough of it, and ride right out of here for the north. He could hole up somewhere around Monterey until he could get a ship. Then after awhile he’d come back for more gold. By that time Zeke Wooston would be, hopefully, out of the picture.
Francisco?
He spat. To hell with Francisco. The Mexican would probably try to kill him as soon as they located the gold but he would do it first. Then he’d get out by himself.
He heard the faint footfalls of a horse, and then Francisco appeared, easy in the saddle.
“Where y’ been? I figured you was lost.”
Francisco shrugged. “I thought my horse had thrown a shoe. It hadn’t though. It took me just a little while.”
No use arguing. Of course, Francisco was lying. He simply wanted to bring up the rear far enough back so that any trouble that came upon them would strike Russell first. Well, so be it.
“Run out of tracks?” King-Pin asked. “They surely come this way.”
Francisco rode past, made a wide sweep, came up with nothing, and began at once to search more carefully.
Still nothing.
Contemptuous at first, he now became irritated. Yet he could find no tracks.
Suddenly a stone fell down among the rocks, bounding from rock to rock. And in that instant, Russell’s gun was out and ready. Francisco looked on thoughtfully. Very fast…very, very fast.
Only the stone rattling, then quiet. The same quiet as before. Not simply a stillness, but a total absence of sound.
Sweat trickled down the back of Russell’s neck. He mopped it with his bandanna, then pointed. “I figure they went along the back side of the mountain.”
Francisco looked at the direction with no relish. Dark pine forests alternating with rocky slopes. Not good riding, any of it, and beyond broken crags along a ridge and great tumbled slabs of rock.
“You’re the tracker,” Russell suggested. “You’d better lead off.”
Francisco walked his horse forward, scouting a way through the rocks. They had gone a quarter of a mile before he suddenly said, “Ha!” and pointed.
Russell saw it, after a moment of searching. The cut made by the outer edge of a horse’s shoe. It was the trail.
He looked ahead with misgiving, but followed on. If there was gold he meant to have it. He had covered country much like this in many places in the West, so why did this give him that edgy, haunted feeling? Why did he feel that unseen eyes were watching him?
They rode into the pines, a dark, silent place where they wove a slow trail among the pillared trunks. On these trees the growth only started when high off the ground, yet there were other pines here with gray-green, long needles. The trail dipped down, then went up between the rocks and among a thicker stand of pines.
Twice they lost the trail, twice they found it again more by chance than by good sense. On their left ahead of them was a great gouged-out hollow in the ridge. The trail seemed to stop there, and Francisco, casting about, suddenly called him.
King-Pin walked his horse over to him. The ground was marked and scarred by horse tracks. Here the horses had been tied, evidently for some time.
“They walked,” Russell said. “It can’t be far now.”
Francisco looked slowly about him. Gold tinged the ridge beyond Beartrap Creek. The hollow was in shadow now. Darkness came swiftly in these closed-in places where ridges held off the light.
“We’d better camp. We’ll find it in the morning.”
Russell got down. A thin trickle of water came down from the hollow. He tasted it…not bad. “All right,” he said.
He was a tough, bitter man with no loyalties, and no ideals. He wanted money for gambling, for women, for power. Yet the few times he had money it had not lasted, and he was left with nothing. He dreamed of the big strike, the big success that would leave him with money for everything. He had not grasped the fact that he was one of those to whom success was a stranger because he lacked persistence. He was forever grasping at chances to get rich in one swift move, and failure taught him nothing.
He sneered at the vaqueros who herded cattle for other men, he had only contempt for hard-working citizens of any kind, never seeming to realize that even the poorest lived better than he did, year in and year out, and without fear of the law.
He had courage and skill with guns. He had belief in his ability to outfight any man and believed himself smarter than most, with no evidence whatever to prove it. He had worked for a number of other men who planned crimes and always for smaller pay than he had expected. In his life there was always a Zeke Wooston who somehow skimmed the cream, but he never asked himself why this was so.
He invariably pictured those who were successful as lucky or thieves who stole what they had by devices imagined but unknown.
Now he was sure he would find the gold. He never doubted the legend of the gold because to doubt it would mean to doubt his whole existence. The gold had to be there, but if somehow he failed to get it he would shift quickly to another treasure to be stolen.
As for Sean Mulkerin, Russell had no doubt he could defeat him in any kind of a fight, although he would prefer it to be with guns. He was wary only of Wooston, for Wooston was more than a danger to be faced. He was a shrewd, conniving man. If Russell respected any man it was Wooston. In California, as in many other lands, death could be bought, and Wooston had money and was friendly with Captain Nick Bell. Russell knew far too much about Bell for comfort. Bell could kill, or have someone killed because he was the law.
Each man carried a little food and they prepared it now. They had eaten and were drinking coffee by the fire when they heard the sound.
At first it seemed far off, then close by. It sounded like someone chanting, but no words could be distinguished.
Francisco crossed himself quickly, and Russell shifted his cup to his left hand and reached for his rifle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing but the darkness beyond the circle of firelight.
The sound vanished, and Russell wet his lips with his tongue. Wind, probably, he told himself, yet it was no wind that he had ever heard before.
“Funny sound,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “What could it be?”
Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) Page 11