With every consideration of respect and by will of the People. I have the honor to be,
Milo Stephens
Commander in Chief
At the Fortress of Sonoma
Something had bothered Reynaldo about that signature. It seemed a little stilted and formal for a document that should be raw with emotional angst and drive. So, since Milo had often stated it was only a draft, Reynaldo had sat in Milo’s chair and crossed out
I have the honor to be
And replaced it with
Your obedient servant
That looked much better. It showed that Milo wasn’t trying to capture California for his ragtag band of backwoodsmen. He was still a faithful servant of the United States government. And besides, the word “obedient” had been in Reynaldo’s tortured mind ever since meeting Milo Stefanski. Reynaldo was Milo’s obedient servant, that was evident to the biggest dumb ox. Three times he’d fallen prey to Milo’s sexual dominance. Three times he’d enjoyed the hell out of it. And now, walking toward Comandante Vallejo’s front door to declare secession from Spanish rule, Corporal Vargas was excitedly anticipating the fourth encounter.
Reynaldo admitted it, if only to himself. He was the most submissive servant on the face of the earth. Was this “being in love”? But a man couldn’t love another man. Was it possible? It was just unnatural.
Milo shared a meaningful look with Reynaldo before banging the door knocker loudly. As expected, it took more knocks and many minutes before Vallejo himself opened the door. By now, the rising sun bathed Milo’s beautiful face, his polar blue eyes steeled for confrontation.
The sight raised such emotion in Reynaldo, he was overcome. “Long live America,” he whispered.
“Long live America,” Milo answered.
They used to say viva los Americanos. But the days of speaking Spanish were over.
Vallejo was belting his dressing gown and squinted at the four men, understandably. He recognized Milo first. “Señor Stefanski, what is the urgency? The sun hasn’t risen yet.”
“It’s Captain Stefanski,” Reynaldo corrected the comandante. He wanted to give his lover his due respect.
“Whatever you wish,” Vallejo said affably. “Capitán Stefanski. What is the matter?”
“As you probably predicted,” Milo said grandly, “we’re here to take command of your garrison from you in the name of the independent Republic of California. It is our object and earnest desire to embrace the first opportunity to unite our adopted country. But we must take you and other commanders into custody.”
“I see,” said Vallejo. “Very well then. Allow me to have my uniform brought. Only then will I allow you in.”
And he shut the door. The four men looked at each other.
Stuttering Zeke declared, “That bastard’s probably sneaking out the back door!”
Milo snapped, “He wouldn’t do that with his wife and children in here.”
“Besides,” said Reynaldo, “I sent Cowie around to guard the back.”
“Reporting for duty, Captain!”
Reynaldo turned and saw the enthusiastic, oiled Origin saluting, this time backed up by his compatriots Scott, Beaulieu, and Sears. They all teetered precariously, two of them using their rifles as crutches to remain standing upright. Milo told Origin, “You go find Semple and tell him to get Jacob Leese, de la Rosa, Prudhon, and Vallejo’s brother. Bring them to Casa Grande.” They were the other four eminent men of Sonoma.
Origin executed an abrupt about-face and marched off purposefully, but when Vallejo opened the front door clad in his uniform, the three roostered fellows fell into the house along with Reynaldo, Milo, Grigsby, and Zeke. They had the effect of stacked dominoes. Beaulieu fell into Scott, who fell into Sears, who fell into Reynaldo, and so forth. Milo wound up falling into Vallejo’s coat front and sticking his face with the pin of some war medal. It wasn’t a terribly dignified way to boldly take over a garrison.
Reynaldo elbowed Sears to get off him. Sears elbowed Scott, and so on down the line. By the time they were all standing upright in the foyer, the rear guard, Cowie, was already in the parlor down the hall, being served cakes by Vallejo’s wife. The idea that their presence was so harmless that Francisca would be pouring coffee for them irritated Reynaldo. He was here to take over a republic, not eat biscuits. He was glad when Milo took charge, or he would have.
Vallejo faced Milo. “Capitán, to what happy circumstance do I owe the visit of so many individuals?”
“Comandante,” Milo said respectfully, “we know you agree that it’s futile to try to live any longer under the Mexican government. Their representatives, Castro and Pio Pico, don’t respect the rights of Americans living in your Departmento. Castro continues to issue proclamations declaring every Yankee a bandit. To stop all of these insults, we are declaring California independent.”
Vallejo sighed deeply. “Would you like a peach cake?”
Reynaldo already knew Milo well enough to tell that when he squeezed his eyes shut, he was attempting to teach himself patience. “We will have to take you into custody, Comandante,” he said loudly, tightly. “I hold nothing but sentiments of regard for you. But this is my only choice.”
“Mariano!” cried Francisca with alarm.
Reynaldo turned to the comandante’s wife. “No tengas miedo.” Do not be afraid. “Usted y sus hijos estarán seguros en la hacienda de Sutter.” You and your children will be safe at Sutter’s hacienda.
Reynaldo saw that Beaulieu and his cohorts were freely serving themselves aguardiente from the sideboard, though the sun had just barely risen, so he touched Milo’s sleeve and nodded in their direction.
“Men, put down that liquor,” said Milo, but returned to his business of getting Vallejo to sign a letter of surrender.
Soon, Origin was back with Semple and the esteemed Sonoma residents. They must have known what was coming, because Salvador Vallejo was also clad in his Mexican dress uniform, and Don Pepe de la Rosa had a mochila knapsack full of daily supplies.
“I’ll take them to Frémont at Sutter’s Fort,” Reynaldo offered. “They’re safer there anyway. Once your proclamation to Stockton makes its way to Castro, we will be destined to certain destruction here in Sonoma.”
Milo smiled in that pleased way that was becoming more familiar to Reynaldo. “You must have read my proclamation. I wrote that in there. ‘Destined to certain destruction should we prove unsuccessful, we have the honor to be your fellow countrymen, and whether we conquer or perish we are resolved to prove ourselves not unworthy of those who built the glory of the American Flag.’”
“You see?” Reynaldo teased. “That’s why we chose you, Captain. You’re the most eloquent, the best-read. And I even took a degree from Yale.”
“Yes, but what was your degree in? Engineering? You’re a topographical engineer, and I’ve read literature and poetry my whole life. I’m better able to compose documents that require emotion and flowery prose.”
“I made a change to your document, late last night,” Reynaldo admitted. “Just a very tiny change to the closing. I know you’re the most eloquent writer, but I saw an improvement.”
“I look forward to seeing it.”
Reynaldo was soaking in the change that leadership had effected on Milo. Of course, it suited him very well, being in charge. He was what they called a natural born leader, and the new pride and assurance in his face made him handsomer than ever, if such a thing was possible. “But I don’t want you going to Sutter’s Fort with the prisoners. I need you here to keep military order, something I know nothing of. These are not gunners or artillerymen but simple bear hunters and farmers. I’ll send Semple to Frémont, and a few other levelheaded men to watch over the prisoners. These men are far from fit to—Hey, now!”
Over by the sideboard where the men were freely sampling and ingesting everything Vallejo had on offer, Beaulieu had lifted a silver candlestick on high and was inspecting the bottom for a maker’s mark. This seemed to enco
urage Sears in tearing a very lovely oil painting of a California landscape from the wall and tucking it under his arm.
“Get the loot!” yelled Scott, heading for an oriental vase.
Reynaldo was hot on Milo’s heels. It seemed to take Milo only four long-legged strides to cross the parlor floor, and like greased lightning the barrel of Milo’s revolver was to Beaulieu’s temple. Beaulieu froze, wide-eyed, still holding the candlestick above his head. No one around him seemed to notice, and now a cherry farmer named Terrell snatched a jade horse from the sideboard and headed for the foyer, encouraging others to “get the loot!”
“Avast,” Milo bellowed with such authority that most everyone in the parlor immediately fell silent, open-mouthed. “Put that damned candlestick down, you corn-fed yokel.”
Beaulieu did so. As slow as molasses, he lowered his hand and replaced the candlestick on the sideboard. As Terrell was whistling through the foyer like the glint in a pirate’s eye, Milo squeezed off a ball at his shoulder. It hit the corner of the adobe wall, lodging probably two inches inside the clay—Reynaldo had seen many balls go astray like this into adobe walls but knew Milo had missed on purpose.
Even Terrell froze now, eyes straight ahead as though mentally calculating how many balls Milo had left in his revolver.
“Everyone choose!” Milo roared, his voice shaking the solid wood beams. “Choose today what you will be! Are we robbers, or are we conquerors?”
Even the vanquished Californios were silent with awe.
Finally it was Origin who squeaked, “Conquerors?”
And it was Semple who yelled, “Damned right!” Leaping forward, he wrenched the landscape painting from Sears and replaced it on its nail.
Milo lowered his pistol, but his voice resonated with rage. It was actually a fearsome sight in the magnetic, untamed man. Milo may not have been a military man, but he certainly was no stranger to using force. He spoke with a tight jaw. “I will kill the first man who commits robbery and casts a blot upon this expedition. As long as I’m alive, this will not turn into a looting expedition.”
Vallejo whispered, “Thank you, Capitán Stefanski.”
Milo’s arctic eyes flashed. “Grigsby, place Beaulieu, Scott, Terrell, and Sears in the barracks under guard. Doctor Semple, take the prisoners to Sutter’s Fort. Take Stuttering Zeke and Bidwell to guard them.” He looked at the Californio prisoners. Reynaldo saw his look soften, almost the same way it softened when looking at Tallulah. “I know you’re prepared to give a brotherly embrace to the sons of the California Republic. If all goes as we hope, you shall be welcomed back in your own homes within a month.”
Reynaldo had never seen such triumph and grace in a man’s eyes as now when he gazed upon Milo. Not even in May in Oregon when Frémont had saved Kit Carson’s life by trampling that Klamath warrior with his horse. No, not even the arrogant Frémont could trump Milosz Stefanski for a face of triumph. But when he spun on his heel and stalked out the front door unaccompanied, Reynaldo only had eyes for the superbly rounded ass, and he was the first to follow his captain.
Chapter Nine
Tallulah had been waiting nervously since daybreak, clinging to the doorjamb of the Blue Wing Inn.
There had been much bustle in the plaza in the past couple of hours. Men darting about, men shouting, men falling down drunk. At least two rebels were prone in the middle of the dusty street. A scholastic Irish bachelor named McCarthy was so roostered he couldn’t drag himself up onto the horse’s drinking trough. He gave up, collapsing with his open mouth pressed to the dust.
Tallulah knew it had been a futile effort to withhold liquor from the men. That was why the Blue Wing Inn wasn’t terribly full last night, even though the men were planning a monumental rebellion. She wasn’t serving liquor, so the ones who wanted to go on a binge had holed up in the barracks with the kegs. That was all right. It was cozy in the bodega watching her two men—like hell! She was already thinking of them as “her two men”!—hunched over their rickety table by the light of the whale oil lamp. Milo scratched out his manifesto while Reynaldo, the military man, consulted with Zeke Merritt, Cowie, Todd, and Lieutenant Gillespie, who would later ride to Sutter’s Fort to give Frémont intelligence of the uprising.
Since there was no liquor to serve, Tallulah kept busy shuttling between the inn and Vallejo’s ovens to get the men tortillas and frijoles. It was cozy and comforting watching Milo’s broad shoulders moving under his buckskin shirt as he scribbled and blotted out ink. Several times she caught Milo looking sideways at her, his lovely hawk’s nose in profile, the lamplight flickering on his exquisite face. She always cast him a knowing, lewd smile when she caught him doing this, and she could swear a flicker of a smile flitted across his lips, too. She knew she had gotten under his skin. And this was a foreign, strange feeling for him.
She must tread lightly with him. In fact, it was acceptable to her if their relationship continued as merely a physical one, with mutual sexual gratification being the goal, as long as Milo didn’t dally with anyone else. She couldn’t bear this, she knew now after her experience with Four-Fingered Sam. She had thought she was light and easy, maybe even sort of a fresh judy. After fleeing from Ned on the California Trail, she had bitterly thought to get a strange sort of revenge on him—strange, since he could hardly ever have heard news of her, having probably settled in eastern Oregon—by having a string of affairs with hardy, virile pioneers.
This was a safe enough occupation in the Far West, where there were thirty men to one woman, and that one woman was usually a whore. Sadly and ironically, though, these hale men had proven to be not much better than her husband at remaining faithful. One after the other, she’d caught them dipping their wicks at the brothels, and in the case of Four-Fingered Sam, when she lived only yards down the road from the hog ranch!
She knew now, since meeting Milo, that the premier quality she required in a lover was faithfulness. No French pox for her! She had relaxed since Milo had also expressed disgust for adultery. As domineering, steely, and brutal as this man was, she knew she could trust his word that he wouldn’t dally with another belle—probably because she was his first in five years.
And that knowledge filled her with pride and joy. The most eligible stud on the entire frontier and he’d chosen her to toy with! That was enough for now. After the heart-stopping shock of discovering Ned had screwed everything with a hole, including the butter churn and beer keg, she’d considered herself unlovable anyway. There were no more thoughts of romance in Tallulah’s heart. Those silly frivolous notions had been burned away with her husband’s betrayal. She was perfectly content, even excited, to play the slut behind closed doors for the magnetic, powerful mountain man. She had never seen such icy blue eyes, such a magisterial Jewish nose, such shimmering athletic shoulders. Yes, this was satisfactory to her. And even better if they could include that delicious Spanish corporal. It didn’t upset her to watch Milo touch another man, for some odd reason. In fact, it stimulated her to heights she had never dreamed possible.
Now there was a rebellion to attend to. Milo and Reynaldo had vanished inside Casa Grande and had not emerged. Origin, a silver flask of bug juice stuck into his gun belt, had gone to round up the distinguished Sonoma citizens, and they, too, had disappeared into Casa Grande. Many antsy farmers and vaqueros were gathered either at the barracks or the Blue Wing, murmuring in low voices in a mixture of English and Spanish. Everyone fully expected shots to ring out any moment, and at least a dozen men were cleaning their pistols and rifles. Untended longhorn cattle lowed in the plaza, munching at the few remaining sprigs of dead grass, milling among the bones of their brothers.
Unable to withstand the tension, Tallulah exhaled loudly and strode back inside the bodega. Standing at the bar, William Todd was still fiddling with that infernal flag he’d started to design last night. “See?” said Todd, his fingers stained with blackberry juice. “The bear is looking proudly at the star.” Tallulah herself had provided the lon
g red cotton strip that decorated the bottom. She’d whiled away an hour last night stitching it. Todd had then mixed up some brick dust, linseed oil, and Venetian Red paint donated by Jacob Leese, ironically now a prisoner, to paint a red star in the corner. The alleged bear, however, was a sorry mess.
“That still looks like a pig,” Tallulah heartlessly commented.
Apparently, Todd had finally reached his breaking point. He whipped off his coyote skullcap and slammed it onto the bar. “It does not look like a pig! That’s a bear! That’s a damned bear! Why would I paint a pig, for God’s sake? We’re all bear hunters, and we’re brave and spirited like old Bruin!”
“All right, all right!” Tallulah cried, placing calming hands on poor Todd’s shoulders. “I’m sure it’s sufficient enough to run up the flagpole just as soon as Milo and Corporal Vargas come out of Casa Grande. Later, I can stitch you a proper bear.”
“This is proper!” shrieked Todd. He slammed his hand into the bowl of blackberries. Black juice spurted everywhere—onto his white shirtfront, her bar, her apron. “What’s so improper about this?”
A vaquero Tallulah knew from an outlying rancho leaned over the bar. “Es un cerdo.” That’s a pig.
Tallulah had to snatch up the still-wet flag when Todd grabbed the blackberry bowl and smacked the vaquero across the face with it, sending his sombrero flying. She whisked the bowl of Venetian Red paint away and scurried down the bar away from the brawl, where she smoothed the flag out on the bar.
“That is a pig,” opined Four-Fingered Sam. They had barely spoken since their falling-out, but Tallulah didn’t harbor much resentment against him anymore. She knew what she had done wrong, she had rectified it, and would never repeat that experience. Especially not with Sam. “They should just raise the Stars and Stripes, in my opinion, instead of declaring this new and separate Republic of California.”
Tallulah sighed. “I know. Spaniards think the swine is an emblem of rape and force. This might be taken the wrong way. I’ll get to work immediately sewing one that more resembles a bear than a pig.”
The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 9