He waited, liking his position less and less, yet fearing to move. So often in such a deadly game the first to move was the first to die. He turned his head, scanning the wall of the mountain. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He lifted a hand to mop his brow and a bullet spat rock fragments that stung his face.
Sean dropped on his side and rolled, coming up on his knees. Another bullet struck just before him but he leaped up and ran right out of the mouth of the wash and ducked left into the trees. A gun blasted almost in his ears, and he saw a man crouched, thumbing a load into his rifle.
They saw each other at the same instant and the man dropped his rifle and powder horn and grabbed for the pistol at his belt.
Sean Mulkerin seized the moment. His Cold rifle came up waist high and he squeezed off his shot. Not twenty yards separated them and the chance of missing was slight, yet he took just that instant to make sure as the other man’s gun was clearing the holster.
The Colt rifle leaped in his hands, and Beltran’s mouth dropped open in a wide O of surprise and shock. He took a step forward, his fingers spreading wide as he dropped his pistol. He fell, and as he fell, Sean fired again.
The body jerked with the impact, and then lay still. Sean waited a minute, watching the body, and when there was no movement he went forward and kicked the gun away.
He went through the dead man’s pockets. Several gold pieces and a small bit of torn paper, evidently carried for some time, on it the one word Wooston.
Sean Mulkerin returned to his horse, and mounting up he rode back along the trail. It was a long ride home, but his horse was tough and in good shape and if he pushed it…
Moonlight lay wide upon the Pacific when the trail he had taken led him down to the beach. Despite the presence of Mims and his friends, Sean was worried. Wooston was shrewd, a man whose cunning had no limits, and he was relentless in his pursit of a goal.
All was quiet. The surf rolled lightly upon the sand, and off shore he could see a light from the Lady Luck, reassuring in its peaceful look.
His horse’s hoofs made almost no sound upon the wet sand, and the tracks he left would be gone by daybreak. Despite the calm of the night, he was uneasy, and even the lights of the Lady Luck did not calm him.
He turned off the beach and started up the road to the ranch. He was tired. He had ridden hard these last two days, and far into the night. The thought of his own bed awaiting him was all that kept him going, and the chance to see his mother and Mariana.
He held his Colt rifle in his hands as he rode into the ranchyard. It was long after midnight and all was dark and quiet. That was as it should be, and talking could wait until daylight. He would just—
He had started to swing down and he was moving when the bullets struck him. His leg was lifted to swing back over the saddle when the windows of his house seemed to rip apart with flame. He felt a heavy blow in the side, another on the skull. He felt himself falling, heard the thunder of the guns die away, and he was lying sprawled on the hard clay where he had played as a child.
He had been hit hard, but he was conscious. A wild wave of fear swept through him. Was this how it felt to die? Was he going to die? Were they going to win after all?
He heard heavy steps crossing the yard, steps that stopped, then a heavy boot kicked him in the ribs, and then the same boot turned him over.
“Is he dead?” It sounded like the voice of Fernandez.
“Are you crazy? With seven of us shootin’ at him? Look at him! Blood all over and his skull ripped open!”
“Let’s get him out of the way before she comes.” That was Tomas.
“Hell, let him lay! When she sees him she’ll throw herself off her horse and run right to him. Just what we want. It’ll be night to daylight then and she’ll be right in our sights.”
“She’s got friends,” Tomas warned.
“So’ve I. Better friends. Nick Bell said he’d say that Beltran an’ Velasco did it.”
“What about them?”
“Hell, Mulkerin’s here, ain’t he? If they was alive, he wouldn’t be, you can bet on that. I don’t know what happened, but he’s done them in. Let’s get out of sight. She might be early.”
They walked back to the house.
For the first time he felt pain…and sickness, a terrible, terrible sickness. He was bleeding. His skull was burst, they said. And maybe it was.
He had to warn them. For some reason his mother, and perhaps Mariana, had left the ranch. For some reason Mims was not here, and if Montero was here he was dead or a prisoner.
Prisoner? Not likely. Not Wooston. If Montero was here, he was dead.
What of Polanco and Del Campo?
He lay perfectly still, fighting off the weakness that enveloped him. He dug his fingers into the clay. He must live! He must! He could not die! Not until he had warned them.
By some trick Wooston had got them all to leave and had occupied the ranch and now he was waiting. After the killings he would simply leave the bodies, appear where he could be seen, and nothing could be proved.
Captain Nick Bell would make sure that nothing could be proved. There might be mutterings, but Bell was the law. An appeal could only be made to Micheltorena and he would not interfere.
Sean Mulkerin had been hit hard. He was hurt, and he must have appeared dying or dead or they would have shot him again. He dug his fingers into the earth and fought bitterly, desperately against the tides of pain.
He must somehow be alive when his mother came home. His gun was in its holster. When he had been hit he had been dismounting and his rifle must have flown from his hands. The gelding had run off.
Wooston and his men had gone back into the house. He struggled against the weakness. With his fingers he inched himself along. The effort left him gasping and empty. He fought against a wave of nausea. Slowly, carefully he willed his right leg to move out from the line of his body, and slowly, it moved.
That leg was not broken then. Bleeding, yes. He could feel wetness inside his pant leg. Slowly, he tried to move his left leg, nothing happened. He tried again…nothing.
Six feet away on his right was the beginning of a wash cut by runoff water. If he could get into that—
But they would see he was gone and come at once. He lay still, fighting the sickness and trying to think. His head was throbbing with pain, his left leg was numb.
On his right, along the edge of the wash, were some rocks, a dozen of them as large as his head, placed there in a row to mark the edge of the wash and where his mother had at one time planned a flower garden.
Reaching out slowly with his left hand he rolled one of those stones nearer. From the house they would be unlikely to see anything but the dark bulk of his body. He rolled the stone even with his head. Slowly, he edged his body to his right, then rolled that stone back and another in line with his head.
After that he lay still, eyes closed, too weak to move. After a long time he fought another stone into place, and worked a little further toward the edge. He had now moved nearly two feet, and had the fourth stone in place, hoping they would mistake the stones for his body and not come to look.
Why were they so sure his mother would return now? Were they tricking her into coming back now? What was happening?
Somewhere along the line, he passed out, and when he was conscious again he had a throb of pain in his head, another in his side, and a stiffness and agony in his left leg.
He lay very still. Somehow he had rolled over on his back and was staring up into a starlit sky. The moon was gone. He lay very still, trying to breathe slowly and carefully, fighting by sheer will to get his mind to working.
He had been out cold. Now he was aware again. But how long before his mother came? How much time did he have?
He tried to move his left leg, but it felt heavy and awkward, the muscles refused to respond. Using his right hand he pushed himself up a little and managed to roll over. Now he was within inches of the wash.
After a struggle, he got h
is hand on another stone and rolled it into line. Slowly then, he eased himself back into the wash and lowered his head to the sand. For a long time he lay there, knowing such weakness as he had never imagined, his head throbbing heavily with a dull, solid pounding. His side seemed wet, and when he touched himself there a spasm of pain went through him.
He looked around for his rifle, but could make out nothing but the deep shadows in the wash and the vague light in the ranch yard, light from the stars overhead.
They should be coming soon, and he must be awake. He must be ready to warn them. He must be ready to shoot.
Over and over he said it in his mind. He lay gasping slowly, heavily. He desperately wanted a drink, and the thought of the ollas hanging under the porch was almost more than he could bear. There they were, gallons of cold, clear water.
There was water at the trough near the corral, too, but that was far, far away, beyond the limit of what strength he had left.
Suddenly his eyes were open and he was aware that he had been asleep without remembering even closing his eyes. He listened…somebody in the house was talking.
He could make out none of the words.
He blinked his eyes…why, it wasn’t in the house! It was there! Right in front of him.
His mother was on a horse and someone was beside her. It was Mariana.
Someone was talking.
“He’s dead, and we killed him.” Wooston suddenly stepped from under the overhang. “Look for yourself. He’s there!”
He stepped out another step and pointed at the rocks. Suddenly, as the skies had paled somewhat since he had gone inside, he seemed to see the rocks for the first time.
Unbelieving Wooston took a step forward and Sean grabbed the bank and pulled himself erect. He grabbed a stick and using it for a staff, propped himself up. His gun was in his right hand.
“Not yet, Wooston. I’m not dead yet.”
With an animallike cry, Wooston swung his gun up as Fernandez ran from the house. Sean shot, firing quickly but smoothly.
Wooston wore a white shirt and the target was perfect. Fernandez ran into the open and began firing rapidly. Bullets dusted around Sean but suddenly somebody else was shooting and then another. Sean shot Fernandez and saw the man fall.
Tomas Alexander suddenly appeared in the door, his hands up.
The shooting was over, and all was still.
Sean Mulkerin stood weaving on his feet, staring around him, and then he had two women holding him and crying, and Johnny Mims was riding into the yard with Honeycutt and Campbell.
Chapter 21
*
SEAN MULKERIN HAD been in bed three weeks when Andres Machado came to see him.
Mariana opened the door for him, and Machado stepped in. “So?” he said. “You choose this way of escape! Anything to avoid fighting Machado! You go out and get yourself shot by a pack of dogs! Well, so be it. I shall have to wait.”
“Sorry, my friend,” Sean said, smiling a little. “First time I can ever remember keeping any man waiting, but I guess it will have to be.”
Machado walked closer to the bed. “My friend, you are a brave man, a very brave man. I am sorry that my anger would not let me think wisely.
“You were right, of course! Why waste time on a girl who does not love me when so many do? Of course, it is true! I shall stay here awhile, and then I shall go back to Mexico, but I shall miss you, my friend.”
Sean held out his hand. “You’re a tough enemy, amigo, but you’ll make a better friend.”
When he was gone, Sean closed his eyes. He could hear the voices outside, the soft murmur of them, slowly receding as they drew away from the house.
His eyes closed. It was good to rest, and he would have to rest a great deal. He had been hit three times, and he had lost blood.
The curtain stirred. He heard his mother’s voice outside. She was talking again of planting flowers where the stones were…how many times had she planned that?
Michael was coming out. He was back from Monterey. Things were happening and there was talk of a rebellion against Micheltorena.
Suddenly his muscles tensed, then slowly, very slowly they relaxed. His eyes closed. Somebody was in the room with him, somebody who moved very, very softly. He thought something brushed against the bed, he thought someone leaned above him, then a faint click of a stone on stone and a faint shuffling.
Under the blankets his fingers closed around the butt of his Paterson. He waited, but there was no further sound, nothing but a faint, lingering smell of crushed cedar.
Suddenly someone was singing outside, then Mariana came in. She stopped suddenly, and he opened his eyes. His mother was behind her and they were staring with eyes that would not believe.
He lifted himself up and looked.
On the mantle above the fireplace was the missing jar from the cave in the mountains.
The Señora crossed to the mantle and started to pick it up. Then with both hands she lifted it down. It seemed to be heavy…quite heavy.
She looked within. “It’s gold,” she said, her voice trembling a little with surprise. “It’s gold, Sean.”
He lay back and closed his eyes. “Wherever you are…whoever you are…thanks.”
Historical Note
*
THIS IS A fictional story of the Malibu coast and some of the mountains that lie inland.
Shortly after the period of this story the people of California rebelled against Micheltorena and he was expelled from the province. His place was taken by Pio Pico.
Many of the names along the coast were given by an unknown people before the coming of the Chumash. Who these people were we do not know.
There were two peoples before the Chumash of whom we know a little: the Oak Grove people, and the Hunting people who followed them. The Chumash seem to have been an intelligent, generally well-built people whose boats show considerable sophistication, and judging by their construction, the Chumash must have been skilled in rough seas and landings through the surf.
Actually the Chumash area extended from Malibu and perhaps Topanga to the vicinity of San Luis Obispo, and inland beyond the Cuyama River, Pine Mountain, and Mt. Pinos.
Presumably the first man to own the Malibu was Jose Bartolome Tapia, a colonist who came north with de Anza in 1775. The grant was made about 1802. In 1848 the Malibu was sold to a young Frenchman, Leon Victor Prudhomme who married a daughter of Tiburcio Tapia.
In 1857, with the title in question, Prudhomme sold the Malibu to an Irishman, Matthew Keller, for ten cents an acre. Thirty-four years later his son sold the place for ten dollars an acre, and the Malibu comprised 13,316 acres. The buyer was Frederick Rindge, who had found his dream home and lived many happy years on the rancho, leaving it to his wife, May Rindge.
The story of her defense of the property against the oncoming tide of highway and subdivision is an epic in itself, too long to be entered into here.
Before the tides of change few things remain the same, and the shores of Malibu are crowded with the homes of motion picture and television stars. Further along there are beaches, motels, restaurants, and cottages.
Behind them are the mountains. Roads now cross these mountains and wind along their flanks, yet isolated spots remain, unchanged in the passing of years. The graves of the earlier peoples have often been looted by the unthinking, destroying any chance of proper dating, and vandals have marred cave paintings left by the Chumash.
When people from Los Angeles “go to the snow” it is often to the vicinity of Pine Mountain, but the hollow where lay the Old One’s cave is as it was, unchanged from one hundred, perhaps one thousand or ten thousand years ago.
Only do not look for the cave. You might find it.
About Louis L’Amour
*
“I think of myself in the oral tradition—
as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man
in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way
I’d like to be
remembered as a storyteller.
A good storyteller.”
IT IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are nearly 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
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