California Gold

by John Jakes

  “…in answer to that, Mr. Purvis, yes, the prime lots are going fast. I sold four yesterday. But I can show you a couple of beauties up here at the town square. A hundred and fifty dollars each—and each lot comes with full water rights.”

  Soder Erickson swabbed his sweaty triple chin with a bandanna. “What water?”

  Wife Edna clucked. “Now, Soder, we accepted Mr. Paul’s hospitality, we mustn’t be rude.”

  “What is rude? In Norway, where I was born, a question is a question, water is water. I don’t see any water.”

  “And it’s a good question,” Wyatt said. “A very good question, sir. I like astute customers.” Of course he didn’t, and Mack saw that behind the clenched smile, heard it beneath the forced friendliness. “Step this way and I’ll show you the answer.”

  They straggled down a cross street toward the dry watercourse. The obnoxious daughter pulled up one of the lot stakes. “Please put that back,” Wyatt said. Edna Erickson had to reprimand the brat before she would obey.

  “At present,” Wyatt went on, “this property is served by a water well. Not adequate for a town, of course. The town’s supply will flow in here, through the San Solaro Canal.” His sweeping hand painted a rushing blue torrent in the air. “Each individual lot will be irrigated by a zanja, one of those highly efficient wooden ditches you see throughout the Los Angeles basin. The San Solaro Development Company intends to widen and deepen this channel to assure every owner a full and constant supply of fresh pure water for household and agricultural use.”

  Mack stood back, smiling despite himself. My, how it flowed: the charm, the persuasion, the invisible water…

  Soder Erickson folded his arms. “I ask you again, Paul. Where does this water come from?”

  “Why, sir, from the greatest free supply of water on the continent.” He raised his hands to embrace the hills. “The rains from the mountains, delivered to us by nature’s dependable force of gravity.”

  “You say that’s how it’s going to be. I see how it is right now. No water.”

  Wyatt gritted out his reply. “Of course not. Technically this is still summer. The rains don’t fall in California until the winter months. We are building reservoirs.”

  “Show me.”

  “I’ll show you the blueprints. Construction has not yet started. By next year, however, the first one will be finished, along with our primary irrigation system.”

  “How do I know?”

  Wyatt stared him down, ice in his smile. “You have my personal assurance, Mr. Erickson. My pledge and my promise.” Erickson’s snort declared his opinion of that. “I’ll also be happy to put it as a rider in your sales contract.”

  “Won’t be any contract. I’m not buying anything.”

  “Oh, Soder, I like this pretty little valley,” his wife said. “Can’t we at least consider—”

  “No.”

  Everyone else remained silent, embarrassed by the enmity in the air. The walking tour continued, the prospects now subdued.

  At a spot near the rope with the KEEP OUT signs, the obnoxious little girl exclaimed, “Mama, look. Real orange trees.” She dashed toward the rope. Wyatt shot out a hand to hold her back.

  “Orange trees are delicate, miss. You must obey the signs.”

  Soder Erickson pulled his daughter away from Wyatt. “I’ve never seen an orange tree close up.” His stare challenged Wyatt to restrain him. Mack thought, This is getting bad.

  “You’ll see hundreds soon, Mr. Erickson. The San Solaro groves will be a source of beauty and natural wealth for all those who live here.”

  “Soon? I thought it took five, six, seven years for an orange tree to bear. What kind of tricks are you pulling? I’m going up to see those trees.”

  Wyatt stepped in front and pushed him back. “Listen, pilgrim, I told you…”

  Erickson snarled and scuffled with him, while his wife clutched the girls against her skirt. Mack saw the bursting rage in Wyatt’s eyes and ran between the men.

  His pale shadow fell across Erickson’s face. The farmer blinked, startled. Mack gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder and a sunny smile.

  “Look, sir. Any good town has rules for the citizens. San Solaro has rules, and one of them is this: No one, resident or visitor, disturbs the orange trees. That’s clear and fair, isn’t it?”

  “What’s clear is that this whole operation is a damned fraud, and I’m wasting my time. When does the wagon leave?”

  Wyatt shouted, “When I say so.”

  “Wyatt,” Mack began, turning to him, away from the others, trying to calm him with grimaces of warning. He heard Erickson’s wife pleading, Erickson saying, “No, no,” the obnoxious girl whining. Finally, Soder Erickson stumped away up the street. His family followed, and then the confused and embarrassed Purvises. Wyatt watched them, trembling so hard it scared Mack.

  “Goddamn that fat fucker—”

  “Wyatt, stop. Calm down. Let me take care of it. Stay here. Stay right here.”

  Wyatt seemed too overwrought to do anything else. He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed at the sweat on his face. His eyes remained on Erickson. They were venomous.

  Mack dashed after the prospects. Band music drifted through the still air and he exhaled, relieved. He spread his arms like a shepherd behind a flock.

  “That music means they have the buffet ready, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll be more comfortable back at the tent, in the shade. There are cold drinks too. Please step right along.”

  Obediently, the Purvis trio shuffled in the direction Mack suggested. Edna Erickson clutched her husband’s arm to restrain further outbursts. When their obnoxious daughter whined that she wanted sweets, he yelled, “Be quiet or I’ll tan you.”

  Mack let them get well started and then turned back to Wyatt, who stood at a corner with an air of embittered defeat. He was no longer trembling, Mack was happy to see.

  “Thanks for that,” Wyatt said.

  “I had to prove that I could be of some use when you hire me.”

  Wyatt managed a smile. “When. You’re pretty certain.”

  “You need a helper. I need work. Come on now, you have to stay with those people till they leave.”

  Wyatt started to argue but changed his mind. Apparently his crazy violent mood had passed. He fell in step. “Wasted effort. I won’t sell anything today. One bad apple sours the whole basket. I’d like to kill that sneering son of a bitch.”

  Mack shot a quick sideways look at Wyatt Paul. He sounded ready to do it.

  Moths flew through the open window of the depot’s back room and fluttered at the chimneys of two feeble kerosene lamps. Wyatt picked up a pork chop from his plate and gnawed at it. Mack put a boot heel on the scarred table and gazed at the lamps. Out in the dark hills, wild dogs barked.

  “Wyatt, how are you going to get gas illumination out here?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “How will you get the water in?”

  “I don’t know. Hire an expert. A zanjero—a water commissioner. Do you want to be the commissioner? What the hell does it matter? Even if no town is ever built, anyone who buys a lot in San Solaro is making a prime investment. Land is always a prime investment.”

  “Granted. But you’re selling a town. On promises.”

  “I can take you to a dozen tracts doing exactly the same thing. What brought you to California? Promises.”

  Wyatt gnawed the last meat off the pork-chop bone. “You’re a damn good cook.” He tossed the bone on the stained plank floor. Then he picked up a lamp and prowled past the ticket window into the office half. As soon as Wyatt’s back was turned, Mack threw the bone out the window. Then he walked into the other room. Wyatt had just finished inking his pen, and now turned to a sheet on the wall headed daily sales. He scratched a large zero in the box under the day’s date. Single digits filled a few other boxes.

  Suddenly Wyatt stabbed the pen into the tally sheet, tearing and spotting the paper with in
k. Mack held his breath.

  “Might have closed that Purvis couple. Erickson bastard ruined it.”

  Mack said nothing. Wyatt stalked to the open door and leaned there against his raised forearm, staring out at the night. Mack tried to lower the emotional temperature by sitting again and putting his feet up. “I wouldn’t take it so hard. I don’t think the Purvises were enthusiastic. I heard in town that people aren’t buying the way they were last year.”

  “That’s right. Competition’s fierce. You have to work and scheme that much harder.” Wyatt came back and found a bottle of red wine in a desk drawer. He held it out to Mack, who shook his head. Wyatt uncorked the bottle and took three long swallows.

  “Let’s talk business,” he said then. “You could be a big help to me. Having another honest face out front is important. And sometimes my temper gets away from me. It did today. You stepped in, and if that farmer hadn’t been such a complete shit, we might have closed the Purvises. So I’d like to hire you. But there are considerations. Every sale on that tally sheet involves a contract. In other words, the cash down payments are small. Sometimes no more than five percent. That money gets eaten up by overhead—the food, the musicians, thirty-five cents a head on the train. What I’m saying is, I can’t afford to pay you a salary.”

  “I don’t work for nothing, Wyatt. Never have, never will.”

  “I don’t expect you to work for nothing. I’m just telling you a salary’s out of the question.” He paused, whether to think or induce a response, a concession, Mack wasn’t sure. Wyatt’s brilliant blue eyes were as blank as a newborn’s. Grease glistened on his delicate, almost girlish mouth. Mack waited him out.

  “I’ll give you an equity position in San Solaro, an interest in all unsold lots, common property, everything.”

  Mack fought to hide his excitement. This was a big step—a huge step. And unexpected. “What kind of position? What percent?”

  Another prolonged pause. Wyatt toyed with one of his bushy eyebrows. “Twenty.”

  “With full water rights?”

  He could see Wyatt thinking that over. Mack struggled to keep a straight face. His eyes gave it away. Wyatt’s laughter boomed.

  “Damn right. I hereby appoint you water commissioner of San Solaro.” He uncorked the bottle and drank again. “How do you feel about living in a tent, commissioner? Best I can offer.”

  “It’s no problem. I like the outdoors.”

  Wyatt’s chameleon face changed again. The blue eyes became like a child’s, guileless. But Mack now understood that it was deliberate, a protective ruse.

  “If I give you a stake in this place, I want to be sure you stick around a while. I don’t know you very well yet so I think we need something on paper. I’ll write up a little agreement that says if you no longer work here, I’m entitled to buy back your equity for a dollar and you have nothing to say about it.”

  Mack played Wyatt’s game, waiting a moment. “An agreement like that should work two ways.”

  That surprised Wyatt. “You mean that if I leave, I forfeit—?” This time his laugh was derisive. “Not likely. Not damn likely.” Grudging respect flickered on his face. “But if those are your terms…”

  Mack looked at him steadily. “Yes.”

  “All right.” Wyatt held out his hand. “Deal.”

  They shook. Wyatt pushed the wine bottle at him. This time Mack drank, sparingly, of the heavy, acidic wine. Wyatt slugged away the rest and brushed his palms back over his sleek shining temples. “I’ll have the hack in Newhall draw up the paper. In the meantime—What is it?”

  Mack had bent over, spying something white under the corner of the desk. It was a woman’s handkerchief, fine linen and lace, smelling faintly of lemon. “One of the prospects leave this?”

  Wyatt took the handkerchief with a sly smile. “It belongs to a lady I met this summer. Now and then she drives over from her ranch on the Santa Clara. Ventura County. Wish I wasn’t so damn busy with this place—I’d see her more often.” He tucked the handkerchief in a drawer. “She usually comes for supper and spends the night. Never thought I’d meet a woman who could keep up with me in bed, but I have.”

  Mack laughed in a good-natured way, though Wyatt’s boast made him feel a keen loneliness for Nellie. “You were about to say something—‘in the meantime’?”

  “Yes. While the hack draws up our agreement, you can start learning how things are done in The City of Health. First lesson: The suckers don’t fall off the trees. We’ve got to reach up and pluck ’em. In Los Angeles. From now on, that’s your primary job. I fired the greaser kid after he got back from depositing our guests at Newhall.”

  “But I wasn’t hired yet.”

  Again Wyatt laughed. He tilted his head and touched Mack’s arm. Mack could feel some invisible apparatus switch on.

  “I knew you’d say yes. People do what I want.”

  “Erickson didn’t. What if I said no?”

  “You wouldn’t, because that would make me angry. Very angry.”

  He was still smiling.

  They pulled a canvas tent from a storage shed and, working by lantern light, set it up on a lot beside the dry streambed. The tent was large and comfortable, and Wyatt located some blankets for Mack to use until they could buy a cot. Mack asked to borrow paper and pen. Around midnight, he wrote a long letter to Nellie. He found himself describing Wyatt.

  He’s crooked, though I suppose no more so than the other “Escrow Indians.” He’s wily, and nervy, and he can charm almost anyone. But he isn’t straight. I mean in his head. I don’t really understand him, but I recognize a bad, dangerous combination—no conscience, and a temper like a flask of nitro. A lot worse than mine.

  I want to make money. A lot of money. But my pa raised me to believe a man has to give thought not only to what he does but how he does it. I don’t feel altogether good about what I’ve got myself into…

  He signed it “Yrs. affectionately” and settled down to uneasy sleep while the wild dogs barked.

  18

  THE WOMAN WHO PREPARED the free lunches found Mack a serviceable suit of dark-brown broadcloth. Wyatt told him how the Mexican boy had operated in town, gave him $10 cash for bribes, and put him on his own. Mack’s first three trips into Los Angeles yielded no prospects. When he returned empty-handed the second time, Wyatt had already started drinking—it was not yet noon—and cursed him like a deranged man. Mack turned and left.

  About the only thing he accomplished on those early trips was bringing Railroad from town on one of them. The ride took almost all day, but it presented some interesting sights. Up a steep-sided canyon near Newhall, he spied a rickety oil derrick. He followed the canyon a short distance and found three more, their little steam engines chuffing away. He knew of the oil bonanza in Titusville, Pennsylvania, of course, but he wasn’t aware of similar drilling out here. Another item to file away.

  He asked Wyatt about the derricks.

  “They’ve been hauling that tar out of Pico Canyon for years. Reason I know is, the old still’s near Newhall. It was a scheme of General Andreas Pico and his brother, the governor. Lamp oil, medicine oil, axle grease—you see how successful that was, don’t you? Pío Pico’s a pauper. People with money to waste have drilled wells near here, but there’s nothing in them but sand, water, and grief. Forget it.”

  By the start of his third week Mack was acquainted with town. He introduced himself to some of the agents and called on Southwood again. He familiarized himself with the commercial hotels and those working there who could be paid off for leads.

  On one of his train trips he fell into conversation with a man who knew something about oil. The man expanded on what Wyatt said. Yes, there were wells throughout this part of Southern California—Tar Canyon, Sespe Canyon, Ojai—some drilled for practically nothing by the old Chinese spring-pole method. Lyman Stewart, a wildcatter from Titusville, was pumping oil from Star No. 1 in Pico Canyon, and early in the year he and his partner had brought in
a genuine gusher, Adams Canyon No. 16, above Santa Paula, over in Ventura County. The well produced five hundred barrels a day, but Stewart and his partner had yet to see a substantial profit. Many failures canceled out the occasional success. And if the oil business was chancy everywhere, it was more so in Southern California. The man explained that the geology of the region, the underground faults and rock formations, ran every which way, making drilling more difficult than in the East. A strike was virtually a matter of blind luck.

  It was something to keep in mind.

  Autumn was settling on Los Angeles. Days were still warm but the evenings cooled, and the sun fell toward the Pacific a little earlier each afternoon. There were a few prospects, but the supply was definitely drying up. A baggage man at the depot reported some trains completely empty of visitors. On a siding, Mack saw an excursion flatcar decorated with flags and bunting, the kind used to haul prospects out to remote tracts. The car had been standing unused for a week.

  Still, he was determined and willing to work long hours—to exhaustion, if need be. On Wednesday of the third week, he caught a 5 A.M. train for town and went first to the Pico House.

  In the busy lobby, he noticed that the double doors of the banquet room were open. Waiters were clearing breakfast dishes for a sizable crowd of well-dressed men. He looked in the door, thinking that his contact, Reilley, might be working in there. On the dais under a banner reading PROMOTE A GREATER LOS ANGELES, a man in military blue decorated with shoulder straps and medals addressed the gathering. He was about fifty, with a gray soup-strainer mustache and imperial. As he spoke, he beat the podium with his fist or chopped the air with slashing saber strokes, fairly radiating energy and spleen. Curious, Mack lounged in the doorway and listened.

  “…the boom is clearly over, my good friends. While we may not care to admit that in public, it is a fact. Our enemy, an economic slump, is advancing to overwhelm us. What, men, should be our strategy?”