“Gracias, Tia.” Del Campo drew on his gauntlets. “Finish your wine, Polanco. I think we will ride.”
A cool breeze came in off the blue water, a breeze that stirred the leaves of the old sycamore, lingered among the stiffer leaves of the oaks. The breeze cooled the water in the ollas that hung from the porch beams, stirred the lines of peppers hanging from strings along the porch.
A horse stamped in the corral, then blew dust from his nostrils. In the chaparral, a dove called.
The two vaqueros rode into the ranchyard on lathered horses. They swung down and Del Campo went to the door. “Señora?”
She came from within the cool house, and they explained. She listened, then shook her head. “He is gone. He rode out this morning to find the body of the Old One, to bury it. He is miles away by now.”
“We must follow, then.”
Montero came from the corral. “Stay,” he said. “He wished to ride alone. He spoke to me of this.” He hesitated. “I think it is something between the Old One and him.”
“But if they come?”
“There is the Señora. We must think of her.”
Johnny Mims came up from the bunkhouse they had built from the poles and tules left from the fandango. “He told us he wanted to ride alone.”
Mims took tobacco from his pocket and filled his pipe. “You boys stay here. Won’t do no good to kill him ’less they get her, too. Me an’ my friends, we’ll sort of trail over to Auntie’s place and scout for some sign. If they been comin’ down, they been leavin’ signs. We’ll scatter around and find them…or wait for them.”
“But if they follow him?” Polanco protested.
“They take their own chances,” Larkin Campbell said. “I rode with him a time or two. Ain’t nobody comin’ up on him.”
Saddling up, the three rode down the trail. After all, a visit to a cantina was in order. And if those two showed up?
Johnny Mims had no doubts about that. If they showed up.
*
SEAN MULKERIN RODE easy in the saddle. This route was not the one he had followed before. Riding rough country where a man had enemies, it wasn’t a good idea to become too familiar along the same trail. This time he crossed over the eastern flank of the Topatopa Mountains, watered his horse and made camp at Ten Sycamore Flat, and thought out his route. Riding alone toward a known destination was easier than scouting a doubtful trail for the first time.
He let his horse graze, watered it again, and then went back into the rocks of Red Reef Canyon and holed up in a hollow with an overhang of rocks. If anybody was following him, he could see them first from there.
Nothing in his life had given him confidence in his hold upon the future. All he had learned indicated that one lived by avoiding trouble, or if it could not be avoided, seeing it first.
To a wandering man in the wilderness a back trail must be as important as that ahead, for it might be the direction to be taken tomorrow, and when one faced around the trail looked far, far different. Gigantic boulders seen from one direction might be low, flat rocks seen from another…all things were different. Studying trails had taught him much about life, that much depends on the viewpoint.
They had been followed before, so why not again?
A deer came to the water to drink, then another and another. Sean Mulkerin lay quiet and watched. He had meat enough, and no desire to kill or to fire a shot, and if somebody was coming they would be apt to hear it before he did, although he was a man who watched his horse. A mustang was like any other wild creature and alert to sounds and sights, as wary as a deer and even more difficult to approach.
He slept, awakened, slept again. All was quiet. Only the rustling leaves of the sycamore, their mottled trunks ghostly in the night. At daybreak, after a brief scouting around, he moved out.
He rode no trail, but scouted his own way through the brush, studying the terrain before him for obstacles that must be skirted. As always there were canyons cut by runoff water, and these must be skirted or a way found into and out of them. The sky was cloudless, so entering them disturbed him not at all. What runoff there was came from the mountain right above him, so there could be no surprises. Often distant rains would start flash floods down canyons that would suddenly appear out of nowhere in the desert, miles from there, with a hot sun overhead. The wilderness delighted in surprises.
The sun was high in the sky when he topped out on the mesa above Beartrap Creek. From that vantage point he could look right into the open mouth of the great horseshoe of mountain that his mother had described.
From this distance it resembled any other mountain, dry, pine-clad, and rocky. He studied it for sometime with the telescope brought from the Lady Luck, but it told him nothing.
He walked his horse forward, and drawing up in the shade of some pines where the outline of his horse was lost in the shadows, he took a long time to survey the area before him. He would camp down there tonight, somewhere between Beartrap and Reyes creeks and tomorrow morning he would go into the horseshoe, find the cave, and if the Old One still lay there, he would bury him.
Sean put his hand to the butt of the Paterson. It was still there. And the Colt revolving rifle was also. He started his horse down a steep slide among the pines and within the hour had discovered what he wanted, a level place among the pines with a view into the hollow beyond. It was above Reyes Creek and in a small cove of about two acres.
He watered his horse in the creek, then rode back up and picketed it on the grass. Building his fire under a tree where the rising smoke would be dissipated by the branches and leaves, he prepared a small meal of broiled beef, the last of his tortillas, and coffee.
When he had eaten he put out his fire and moved back against the rock face where some trees offered shelter. After a glance at the sky he rigged a lean-to of branches and bark from a dead tree.
*
LOST HIM,” BELTRAN swore in short, bitter words. “We clean lost him.”
Velasco shrugged. “What of it? He must go to the place of which Francisco spoke. There will be tracks. If he has taken another way, he still must come there. We will go there and wait.”
“All right,” Beltran said grudgingly, “only I don’t see how he got away from us.”
“He is a bad one, this,” Velasco said. “I think it is better we ride carefully.”
Beltran had been thinking the same thing. Of course, they had taken too much for granted. They knew where the man was going, so they had ignored tracks until suddenly realizing that there were none. Already they had been out longer than expected. Beltran was hoping Mulkerin carried enough grub. Then they would not have to go hungry on the way back.
When they found the place where the Señora had left her horse, they scouted carefully around. No one had been there for days.
Francisco had ridden away, and returned to see King-Pin go into the hollow. It must be that one they now looked at. “So?” Beltran said. “What is it? Just some other hills?”
“I heard something,” Velasco said suddenly. “It was when we drank wine at the cantina. I heard the woman speak of this Russell. He was a young man when he rode out, but an old, old man when they found him again.”
“Bah! It is foolishness! Woman’s stories!”
“Perhaps. It is a thing to think of.”
“Run out of water…thirst will do that to a man.”
“Not as this one. He was truly old…in the space of one week, or less. I do not know how long.”
“Forget it.”
Beltran did not like to talk of such things, nor to think of them. It was all nonsense, of course.
With rifles in their hands they settled down to wait.
It was just before nightfall when they moved into position, and Sean Mulkerin had just gone to sleep. His camp was above and behind them but not over six hundred yards away.
Sean was awakened by the restlessness of his horse. His eyes opened, and he listened, watching the gray gelding he had ridden on this ride. Its head w
as up, ears pointed. Nostrils flaring, it looked off to the south.
Sean got quietly to his feet. “What is it, boy? What’s the trouble?”
The gelding twitched at the touch of his hand, then turned its nose toward him. He rubbed the nose affectionately. “Something down there that bothers you, is there? Is it a cat?”
The gray tossed its head as if understanding but disputing the point. “All right, what do you say if we move out now? I’ve had some sleep, and you’re not going to get much, worrying this way.”
Swiftly, he saddled up, gathered his few belongings, and stepped into the saddle.
He rode off the mesa on an angle, descended into Reyes Creek and watered his horse. The horse had sunk its muzzle into the shallow stream when suddenly its head came up.
“Steady, boy! Steady!” Sean whispered.
Dimly, through the trees, he could see movement. A horse! No…two horses.
Fortunately, the bottom at that point was sandy so no hoof would click on stone. He walked his horse across and was up the bank and into the trees before he heard a horse whinny behind him!
He dropped quickly to the ground and held his own horse’s nose. “No, boy, no!” he whispered.
He waited, heard some vague muttering, and after a moment a man appeared from the trees where he had seen the horses. He could make him out only as an indistinct figure and largely because of the gray or white pants he wore.
Sean waited, his left hand holding the horse, his right on the pommel ready to mount. After a moment the man disappeared and Sean mounted and walked his horse up the narrow opening along the creek.
All was quiet, only the rustle of water from the small creek, probably dry most of the year. He rode on, then came to a point where he had to walk. Dismounting, he tied his horse and went on up the hollow on foot.
Suddenly, he saw on his left the flat place of which his mother had spoken. He walked out to it and stood there, waiting. Nothing happened.
The moon was rising.
Once he thought he heard a vague stirring around him, but he remained still. He could see the dark mouth of the cave.
Suddenly a voice spoke. “You have come for gold?”
“No,” he replied quietly, “an Old One was left unburied here. He had no son to bury him, so I have come.”
“There is no need.” The voice sounded strangely hollow as though the person spoke down a well. “He has been cared for.”
“Nevertheless, I must see for myself.”
“Who are the two men beyond the portals?”
“I believe them to be enemies, but I have not seen them.” Sean paused. “No doubt they will be waiting when I go out.”
“You are not afraid?”
“Of them? No.”
“Not them, but of this place?”
“No-.”
“You do not wish to come through?”
Sean paused. “Through? No, I am content with what is here.”
“So be it.”
There was no further sound, and no more of the voice. Sean waited, then went back to the rocks and sat down. He leaned his head back and looked at the stars. Was he afraid?
No.
The Old One had taught him that. One need not be afraid. Fear was a thing of the mind, and if one did not offer it a place, it had none.
He must have dozed, for the dawn was suddenly there, and he arose swiftly and went into the cave.
There was no body. It was as Russell had said, the Old One was gone.
On the shelf was the row of jars…four of them.
His mother had said there were five.
He looked into each one, and each one was empty.
But one was gone…where?
Chapter 20
*
GLANCING QUICKLY AROUND, Sean saw nothing of the missing jar, but it was of small matter. He was finished here. Sometime it would be good to return and look around more carefully.
It was obvious that work had been done here, very ancient work, for the marks of chisels and picks were apparent.
Sean walked outside. For a moment he stood looking around but there was nobody in sight. As a matter of fact, he had expected no one. Men could come and go in these hills easily enough, for there were cracks in the rocks, tumbled boulders, clumps of brush and trees.
He did not even wonder about the voice. Was that because of something the Old One had taught him? Or was it simply that he respected the desire for privacy on the part of the Indians or whoever they were? In any event, the Old One had been cared for and his body disposed of in a manner fitting to his nature.
Sean stood for a moment on the terrace and said quietly, “Good-bye, then,” and walked away.
He had no illusions. Whoever those men had been, the chances were they would be waiting outside the hollow.
If they were chance travelers they would be gone, but he had no such notion. That they were here, at this time, was too much of a coincidence.
He went into the brush near the trail, paused to listen, heard nothing, and went on, as soundlessly as possible. To follow the trail itself seemed at this moment to be less than wise.
When he had gone almost to where he had left his horse, he paused. This would be the first of the crucial spots. If they had found his horse they would be waiting for him to return to it, and if they had not they would be waiting outside the hollow.
He listened, but heard no sound. Not even that of birds or insects. For some reason they avoided this place. He started on, then paused. He was now on the edge of a small clearing. Three paths pointing toward a place among the trees, a flat stone lay across two other stones, and the three paths met at this stone table.
The altar! This was the place of which Russell had spoken.
He walked toward it, checking the ground as he went. He could see the boot tracks left by Russell, some of them smudged by the tracks of sandals…not moccasins, but sandals.
The altar stone was smooth as if polished or worn from much use…what use? He looked carefully around. The place was in no way distinguished except by the stone table and by the converging trails.
Turning, he walked away. He was now within no more than fifteen or twenty yards of his horse. He found an opening in the brush, and touching not so much as a leaf, he sidled through, eased himself past a clump of manzanita.
Sean Mulkerin could see the horse was dozing, quiet, unalarmed. Yet he waited, letting his eyes and his senses feel out the situation. He scanned the trees nearby.
A bird was scratching at something in the dust, a squirrel was high on a branch opposite, busy on some activity of his own. All was quiet.
Rifle in hand, he worked through the brush to his horse, gathered the reins but did not mount. Instead, he turned toward the opening of the hollow carrying his rifle in one hand, leading his horse.
“Quiet now, boy,” he whispered.
In his mind he tried to picture the trail up which he had come. It would point him right at their camp, and a good man with a rifle would have him dead to rights. He considered what lay to right and left. Correctly, right was his way to go, but opposite the opening of the cul-de-sac there had been a dry water course on his left while the small stream took a sharp bend to the right before joining Reyes Creek.
He walked on, hesitated, listening. Hearing nothing he went on again. Then he crossed over the trail and the trickle of water and went into the trees and boulders west of the trail. It was rough going, but he found a thread of deer trail and followed it.
He glanced up at the walls. He was at the end, the towering shoulders of the mountain reared up at the very opening, one close above him, the other a couple of hundred yards off. His eyes searched the place where their camp had been and he saw nothing.
He looked carefully around, still nothing. He moved on, tiptoeing among the rocks, careful to disturb no stone or pebble. Suddenly the dry water course was there, on his left, and at the same moment, he saw them.
They were fifty yards away, and spread out, wa
tching the opening.
As his eyes found them, Velasco’s head turned. The man was quick as a cat. As his eyes touched Sean’s, Velasco reacted. He spun and fired!
The bullet smashed into the rock at Sean’s feet and Sean’s gun lifted.
He fired, the Colt jumped in his hands and shifting his aim by a hair he fired again. The second bullet caught Velasco and the man stumbled, then went to the ground.
Not dead…perhaps not even wounded badly, judging by the way he went down.
The other man had disappeared like a shadow, and Sean moved, working his way back through the brush, leading his horse. He found a place in the dry water course where some slabs of rock offered shelter for his horse, and he tied it to some brush there, loosely, in case he got hit. If he was killed he did not want the horse left there to die.
Crouching, he worked his way back through the brush and up through the trees, trying for a better position.
Suddenly there was a sharp whsst in the air and a loop dropped over his shoulders. His eyes followed the rope as the roper jerked. It was Velasco, but the Colt rifle was still in Sean’s hands and he fired from waist level. The Mexican jerked on the riata but a second too late, for the heavy slug caught him in the chest.
His great dark eyes wide, Velasco took a staggering step forward, then half-turned and fell, sprawling upon the rocks.
Sean Mulkerin shook off the rope and crouched down beside a rock.
The other man would have heard the shots. By now he would be wondering what had happened.
Sean drew back slowly, keeping the body of Velasco in view, and he waited.
The shadow of a rock indicated the passing of time, and he noted its position.
A bird was twittering in a tree, a squirrel scurried nearby, but there was no other sound. The dry water course in which he found himself was probably just runoff from the rocks, and not what he had suspected. It was probably dead-ended not far back. It was not the water course he had originally noted. That one was further along the mountain.
He must be careful. Such a mistake could be fatal.
He shifted hands on his rifle, drying his palms on his shirt front. It was getting very hot.
Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) Page 15