by S. L. Hawke
“We have to move.” I found my voice. It was hard to calm myself but having Ingram think he knew my ‘secret’ was an unexpected help.
“Oh yes, I agree.”
“No, I mean, now. The Army has found out somehow that we are here.”
Ingram stared hard at me. The thrill of landing his trust pushed me forward with the bait. “I can arrange for us to go deep into the mountains on a parcel of land that belongs to the Consulate.”
“Good man,” Ingram managed to say, after looking, to my intense pleasure, completely shocked. He patted my shoulder.
“We have to get out of here. I’ve sent Faustino to the ridge with orders to warn us when the Army is in range.” Here I hesitated, waiting for Ingram to understand what should happen next. If he thought he was giving up Poole, he’d feel safe and continue to let us operate. I was so close to landing him, I could taste it.
“This is perfect.”
“What is?”
“We give the Army Poole. It will keep them occupied. He knows nothing of value.”
“They will change the schedules and the routes.”
“Yes, and we will make sure we know exactly where they will be. And that, my friend, will be your payment for my keeping of your very important secret.”
The hook went deep. I had him. “Good enough,” I agreed and we shook on it. Ingram turned to leave. There was one more thing I needed to do.
“Do you know who killed Sally Towne?”
Here Ingram paused. “And what would you think of me if I told you I did?”
All manner of murder came to my mind. But I simply said with a half-smile: “I’d say you saved us all.”
Ingram smiled at me then took his finger and shook it at me. “Hm! I like you, Sloan.” Then with a swirl of his dark cloak, he strode away, like a character in a Bronte novel.
“SLOAN!” McKenna was saddled up and cantering over to me. I whistled for my mare and climbed up. McKenna headed out east, on the Corralitos trail. I followed wondering how this was all going to play out and hoping we could relocate the camp without being seen. The cart of supplies was getting ready to move forward. Manufactured rifles were tidy and packed in wooden crates marked “Fabric”. The mules protested, but Ingram moved out with a great haste. I did not know exactly where the army was, but Faustino would light a Chinese firecracker when they were at the ridge.
I made fists with my hands.
*******
Faustino ran his gelding ragged into the waiting Army bivouac. The first thing that happened after he dismounted and walked into the command tent was a hit to the jaw.
“You goddamn traitor!” The man was not much bigger than Faustino, but heavy, middle aged, and wore a star that said: “Sheriff”.
“That’s enough, Sheriff Adams,” El Diablo’s voice intruded. Faustino looked into the young face of Fergus McRee, or as Faustino would call him to his dying day: El Diablo.
“Nothing is ever enough for this piece of shit, Major,” Adams answered. So this was Sloan’s old friend who was married into Conception’s family, the Higuerras, cousins on Faustino’s aunt’s side.
“He has always worked for me.” Major Fergus McRee appeared as alive as ever, pink-cheeked and looking as if he were going to break into giggles at any moment.
“Vasquez is his partner!” Adams yelled. “He’s an accessory to robbery!”
“Which makes him the perfect guide for our next task!” Major McRee chimed. Then helping Faustino up, he said: “Did Sloan get the rest to point B?”
Faustino nodded. “We must hurry. Ingram left with most of the supplies just as I did. Why is he here?”
“He’s patriotic and his wife requested that he defend Don Sebastian’s honor.” Don Sebastian, Faustino knew, owned the Corralitos land. He had let the gringos come because they had offered him rent, and a promise when they won the war not to challenge the land grant. We, too, have been fools in this war. “SADDLE UP!” McRee’s voice had a power three times his small frame. Sheriff Adams scowled at Faustino.
“You can find Vasquez at the Inn on the river, near Hollister. He’s in love with the innkeeper’s wife and stays there for a long time. When he is not there, he travels south to a Greek man’s land and loves that wife.” Faustino pointed to the Sheriff and then to himself. “We are familia, you and I. My aunt was a Higuerra.”
“You are so full of shit,” Sheriff Adams said in Castellano, then spat on the ground at Faustino. Faustino nodded with a smile. A good man, I like him.
The army began to gallop past them in a loud roar and tremble. Sheriff Adams joined them. Faustino was given a fresh horse which he mounted and with a nudge, urged the horse to the front of the line.
After an hour of trail climb, the fifty soldiers quietly dismounted. The men spread out around the edges of the camp and squatted. It was late in the afternoon. Faustino had set off the Chinese firecracker as instructed. It started a small fire that he quickly put out. No more rain would come this winter.
Major McRee made a hand signal to crouch down. Faustino pointed to the main tent where Poole had last been seen. They waited until Tom Poole emerged from his tent.
“UNITED STATES ARMY! STAND DOWN!” Fergus McRee yelled. Instead, everyone decided to fire their guns. Faustino hit one of the rebel soldiers on the head with a fry pan as the Army stormed in to take the camp. Major McRee personally grabbed Poole, who did not resist, and placed him on the ground. Sheriff Adams was in a shootout between a last few rebels hunkered down behind the water barrels and the food crates. The supply tent was nearest them as they tried to aim for it. Faustino scurried around the back side of the tent, went inside and found the cooking oil. Making a wick from a section of old rope twine, he lit it, and quickly left.
The fire was almost immediate. The men sequestered behind the crates jumped away, just in time to be captured or shot. Sheriff Adams exchanged shots with two more rebels, one hiding in the bushes behind him. Faustino suddenly saw that it was the soldier who teased him earlier about coming to his tent. The soldier rose up and fired right at the Sheriff.
“Look out, JAD!” Faustino called, remembering Sloan’s nickname for him. Jad turned but fell to the bullet. Faustino, horrified, ran out to him only to be greeted by this same man, laughing, holding a pistol to Faustino. Suddenly a gun went off, making Faustino jump, thinking the bullet hit him, until the laughing man fell forward, dead.
Jad was standing up, unscathed. He put his pistol down. “Goddamn asshole shot my pocket clock. It was a gift from my wife.”
Faustino looked at Jad with both shock and relief. Jad wrapped a big arm around Faustino’s neck and hugged him.
7
Santa Cruz Township to Rodriguez Gulch
Poole was placed in a secure fugitive transport wagon. Andrew made sure he was shackled to it as well. The Army would see to it that Poole was escorted to Monterey, our seat of Federal Justice. Andrew would make the ride, leaving me on my own for the first time in months.
“Oh hell, you’ve got B.S.J.,” Andrew said as he prepared his saddlebags for the ride. The livery stable was quiet. “Oh, here’s the latest on Towne.”
Andrew handed me a telegram from Miles, not Dorcas. The telegram was in code. I handed it back to him.
“John secured money from the sale of a whorehouse his sister had interest in. Those monies are in a bank with ties to an Asian shipping firm,” Andrew translated. “We really don’t know much more than that.”
“Any news on my son?” The word would always be the same.
“Thriving and doing well. You are invited to visit for Christmas.” Here Andrew checked his rifle and then loaded it into its own saddle. “Oh – and congratulations on your marriage.”
“Don’t get shot again,” I said as Andrew mounted up.
“I’ll be gone two weeks.” Andrew had changed, that much I could see. He became a man in the basest sense of the word, but also in the highest way. I walked him out of the stable. A woman, riding side saddle dresse
d in frills and finery, came up on a beautiful Austrian mare, a gift from Emma as I could see from the bridle. The woman was Camille, the French maid. I tipped my hat and stepped back. Andrew pulled his reins in and both were off down the road at a leisurely pace towards the courthouse in Watsonville to oversee the prisoner transport.
Lam was waiting for me. I had one more visit to make before retreating into the hills to await orders and to make plans for the final push, Captain Rufus Ingram.
“What about Towne and my sister?” There were no laws that could protect her. This was between man and wife, Jonathan reminded me after I had shared Beth’s predicament with them. Beth gave birth to a son shortly after my last visit. Beth had the baby at Cynthia’s and was recovering at their farm out near the lagoon. That was all any of us could do for her right now.
John did not like the babe or the fact that Beth would not share his bed. At least for the time being, he was still in San Francisco seeing to his sister’s funeral arrangements.
“I wonder,” Fergus said to me later that evening at our final meeting before the holiday. “I wonder if our dear Supervisor may back away–”
“McKenna has decided to winter up at the new camp. I’m supposed to send a telegram to John stating that we were successful with our new move.”
We were interrupted by Shaw-Jones, who brought Jaime to us. I was startled to see him, but the boy looked bright-eyed and sure of himself.
“May I introduce Jaime of the Bow? I have taken upon myself to instruct our littlest eyes and ears in the art of archery as the Shaolin will be needed for other responsibilities.”
“Jaime!” I greeted him.
“He has some news from his Mandarin and Cantonese friends.” Shaw-Jones rocked on his heels with a satisfied look on that cat-like face of his. This was a good pairing after all.
Fergus introduced himself as only Fergus, a friend. He wore no uniform today.
“Ingram has settled into the Chinatown out by Watsonville. They say he watches the ocean and the river.”
All of us exchanged glances of concern.
Here Shaw-Jones thanked Jaime and told him to return to the Harris House. Jaime left, quickly, as we moved into the map room.
“I’m not surprised by this.” Fergus bent over the model of the Monterey Bay and pointed to a large slough. “If it were me, I’d hit the stage here–” Fergus pointed to a straight, open section of road at the very cusp of the mountain range. “–then transport to here. A ship would be ready on the tide, here.”
“I do not understand why we could not load the cargo on board ship.” Shaw-Jones pointed out the obvious route from Monterey to San Francisco.
“Storms are high in spring, but there is money to be gathered from Tres Pinos mine. From Tres Pinos to New Almaden, unless–” Here Fergus studied the map in silence. “Gentlemen, this is a problem not to be solved quickly. Rest well and we will resume in the New Year. No one will be moving anything of value now. Armies are encamped for winter.” Fergus looked a bit haunted. “Even war must pause.”
“I will return to the laboratory at the MacAree Ranch,” Shaw-Jones announced.
“I assume you will know if things change.”
“The Shaolin will be keeping watch between Watsonville, Monterey, and here. We will know if Ingram scratches his own butt too many times.” Fergus extended his hand. I shook it, warmly, glad he was not dead.
“Sloan, we may have to cut a deal with Towne in the end. Your sister might want to participate in that.” It was an odd but true statement. It was becoming clearer to me that Major Fergus McRee was also coming into his own. Someone in a high place trusted him. The era was changing. There was no holding back the future.
I thought about this as I rode slowly on the Soquel Road, back to Emma and the Estate. Shaw-Jones accompanied me, in silence.
It was very dark, and cold. The meager rain, such as it was in a dry year, kept the dust down, but little else. We passed the Arana farm and came onto the Arana Bridge. My mare started. Shaw-Jones dismounted.
A black form moved out from behind an old oak and walked into the road.
“Identify yourself!” Shaw-Jones boomed. The man seemed to grow larger, denser, causing both of us to squint off into the darkness. Shaw-Jones held his hand up to his face and saw his breath mist.
“Fascinating,” he whispered.
“It’s winter,” I commented.
The man solidified and staggered towards me, wearing a strange green jacket with brightly colored patches all over it. One of them was the American Flag. It was bright and reflected back at me. There was something about the flag; it just looked strange. I tried to get a better glimpse as the drunkard ambled into the road. Then he simply collapsed. Shaw Jones went over to him and touched the jacket. Suddenly he pulled his hand away as if he were burned.
I sighed but knew I had to do the right thing, so I dismounted, tied my mare to the bridge rail and went over to him.
“Strange material,” Shaw-Jones murmured. “Look at these icons.” Then he leaned into the face of the unconscious man and yelled.
“ARE YOU IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE??” Shaw-Jones exclaimed. The man was unfazed. His hair was dirty, his beard long, and he reeked of drink. He rolled over and began to sing a very strange song.
“I CAIN’T GET NOOOO SAAATISFACTION!!!! I CAINT GET NONE…NO…NO..!” He shouted in a tune that sounded simple and monotone. Shaw Jones moved away and we bent over him, unsure how he would react to us.
“Look at his shoes – have you ever seen anything like this?” Shaw-Jones pointed out a strange reflection on the toes and heels of the shoes, which were made of white leather with odd pressed shapes in the rubber soles. Rubber was new and only found in scientific labs.
“Footwear with rubber soles. Of course! The air is electrified!” Shaw-Jones whispered in awe. They were dirty, that much I could tell. The air was extremely cold, but the man had little else on but trousers with many pockets on them, soiled, and of course he stank, but of dirty water, rather than pig or horse. Shaw Jones bent down and sniffed closer.
“He doesn’t smell like a farm, more like the Powder House, possibly, even oil.”
“Blacksmithy?” I offered, but somehow I knew this was wrong.
Suddenly the man opened his eyes. A great rotted-tooth smile greeted us and I was relieved I could leave him as he was, simply drunk.
“What is your name?” Shaw-Jones spoke loudly and slowly. “Do you know what year it is?”
“Duuude…Don’t let the pigs catch me man…dude…fucking…twenty thirteen…duuude, I know my rights…you can’t arrest…me…Fucking rehab…don’t send me back…” He began to giggle. “I am sooo….fucked. Up! This was heavy duty shit, man!”
Shaw-Jones frowned but took out his notebook and began to take notes in the darkness. “Pigs chasing him. Arrest, ree…hab? Hmm.”
I was able to see the American Flag on the poor sot’s shirt now. Below it were words in capital letters, embroidered on his jacket. I said them out loud: “These colors don’t run.”
Suddenly a noise that I would hear again one day banged over my head like an explosion. I shrank against it. The drunkard also screamed, yelling, “Outta the way! Get down! Get Down!! Charley’s got us pinned! Incoming Fire. Get down!” The drunkard screamed and wept.
I looked up at the throbbing, growling thing ABOVE MY HEAD. Shaw-Jones was on his knees staring upward at the thing above us as if he were in a spell. He did not move; he simply stared at the beast.
The lights that came from it were so bright, my eyes felt stung, like with fumes of smoke, but I could see a strange, flat white belly of a beast with a tail that whirred like a windmill and legs like a dragonfly. The white belly had writing, ENGLISH lettering on its surface. There was again the American Flag, but different, and I could not understand what made it so. The lights flashed, like the ones I had seen fly over my head back up near the lake on my way down to San Jose earlier this year. A harsh metal on metal grating sound, li
ke a train engine, seemed to come from it as well. I thought I would go deaf.
It flew away in the direction we were headed, then simply vanished when it was over the gulch, as if the night had swallowed it. All was suddenly still. I looked down at my feet, but the man was gone as if he’d never been there.
Shaw-Jones grabbed me by the arms and shook me. “Write down everything, right now!!!!” He fumbled with his jacket pockets as we were running back to our horses at the bridge. “We just shared the future. We were there! That was a flying machine! I’ve seen designs of them. I knew that one day, we would fly. I knew it!”
Shaw-Jones was a man on fire. My hands shook at the image, but I drew what I could make of it. Mostly I wrote down the letters on the belly of the ‘flying machine’ as Shaw-Jones referred to it. The letters I drew, Shaw-Jones studied, then read out loud.
“CALSTAR AIR AMBULANCE.” He started. “The sick are flown to immediate medical assistance in the future.”
“You seem so sure.” I was shaken, mostly by the way the drunkard was reacting to the beast. I’d seen that look before. It was the look of combat, of battle scars, of war. Whatever that creature, that machine was, it could have been used to kill, maim, and indeed it had to me, frighten.
My horse was unaffected and munching wild grass.
When I was done, I handed Shaw-Jones my drawing. We parted, he hastily wanting to go into that haunted gulch and set up his equipment. “I have to find out what the numbers ‘twenty’ and ‘thirteen’ mean.”
“You asked him what year it was. Maybe it was the twentieth year and the 13th day–”
Shaw-Jones’ face took on the look of someone who had found hidden treasure. “Oh my God. Of course. Everything is faster in the future, even speech. You are absolutely brilliant, Sloan.” Shaw-Jones grabbed my shoulders and suddenly kissed me on the cheek. I pulled away and wiped his slobber off with my sleeve several times. “You should come and see if we can open the door again – or perhaps find this man. Surely you want to know what circumstances will lead to your death and prevent it?”