Stopping for a drink near Dollar Lake, he was getting into the saddle again when his horse’s head jerked up, ears pricked. Although Iglesias watched his back trail for the next few miles, he saw nothing.
Tomorrow he would be in the pass. Tonight he would rest well. He checked his rifle. Tomorrow, one shot for him, one for the horse.
Of course, there might be more than one man with her, and that would complicate matters. Yet…he had done it before.
* * * *
BEFORE HIS EYES opened he heard the fire crackle and was immediately alert. His fire should be down to mere coals, and a fire does not crackle unless with fresh fuel.…He opened his eyes.
A man was squatting on his haunches beside the fire, roasting a strip of meat over the flames.
He was not a tall man, but was enormously thick and strong. Iglesias could see the powerful muscles in his shoulders and arms, and the thick thighs that bulged the material of his pants.
Slowly, warily, Iglesias turned over and sat up. The man smiled at him. “You sleep soundly,” the man said. An accent, but not Spanish, not German…
“In your business it does not be good to sleep too soundly.”
Iglesias was wary, but his pistol was under his jacket on the ground near him. His knife was there also. “And what is my business?” Iglesias asked.
“You are a thief,” the stranger said. “Occasionally a murderer. And you attack women,” he added.
“I could kill you for that,” Iglesias said.
“You mean you would like to kill me for that.” The man looked into Iglesias’s eyes and smiled. “But you could not kill me, you could not kill me at all.”
The man took the piece of meat in his fingers, and Iglesias knew it was hot, but the man did not wince. If it burned, he showed no sign of pain.
Casually Iglesias let his hand drop to the jacket, and the stranger smiled again, tearing off a small bit of the meat with his teeth. “Do not look for the pistol. It is gone.
“So is the knife. I took it away while you slept.” The man smiled again. “My rifle is on my horse, but I shall not need it, either.”
“What is all this talk? Who are you?”
“If you had gone back where you came from, you might have lived,” the stranger said, “but you decided to try to find the young lady again. That was when I knew you must die.”
“What are you talking about? Are you loco?”
“You do not learn. She escaped from you, and you followed. You left one of your friends—”
“I have no friends!”
“Naturally not. One of your companions, then. You left him dead and unburied. Then you almost came up to her, when your other companion was killed.”
“Who are you?”
“Who? It does not matter, really, but I am Yacub Khan. A friend of the young lady and her father. A friend, also, I believe, of the young man—Johannes Verne.” He smiled again. “But no friend of yours.”
Iglesias was thinking. This man did not seem to be armed, yet he was obviously very strong. To fight him was out of the question. Yet, a stick, a stone…What would the man do if he simply got up and walked to his horse?
He got up, and the man continued to eat. Iglesias stared at him, uncertain what to expect. “You talk too much!” he said. “I shall leave.”
“Look around you. Take a good, careful look. I want you to see this place. Really see it. Lovely, is it not? The sunshine on the water? The leaves rustling, the—”
Iglesias stooped suddenly and picked up a thick stick. The man simply looked at him, finished what he was eating, and stood up.
“Look around you,” he said again. “Even one so evil as you can appreciate beauty. I want you to look, because it is the last thing you will ever see.”
“You’re crazy!” Iglesias began to back toward his horse.
He sensed rather than saw movement. He lifted his stick and felt the stranger’s hand grasp his shirtfront. Iglesias struck down with the stick, but his hand was at an awkward angle and he could not use it with force. Yacub Khan was right against his body. A hand moved up; he felt the shock of the blow, and something within him burst.
Yacub Khan held his grip, looking into the panic-stricken eyes. “If you had gone the other way, you might have lived,” he said, and dropped him.
Walking across to Iglesias’s horse, he stripped off its gear and turned it loose. Then he went to his own horse and mounted.
A valley opened to the westward, a widening valley with a creek in the bottom. Turning his horse, he followed it. No doubt it would emerge in the pass or just beyond it. Anyway, the direction was right.
Iglesias lay on the grass, trying to catch his breath. It would not come, but blood did. It came up from his mouth and ran down the side of his face and neck and to the pine needles.
Chapter 60
IT WAS QUIET in the large room. Don Isidro sat in his cowhide chair, staring out across the patio. Elena, working with her needle, glanced at him. He rarely talked to her, but now he did not talk to anyone.
“I shall return to Spain,” he said suddenly.
“Why not?”
“And you?”
“I shall stay. I have friends here. I like it.”
A woman appeared in the doorway and stood waiting. Elena looked up. “Yes?”
“There is word. The Señorita Laurel is with Señor Verne. They are coming home.”
“That is good news indeed.” Elena never asked how they knew, for the word came by devious means, one person to another, and often with such swiftness it was hard to believe.
The woman still stood there, and Elena asked, “There is more?”
“Sí, señora. The Big One is dead.”
She disappeared from the door, and for a long time there was silence in the room. At last Don Isidro spoke. “Did she mean Alfredo?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder how they know? How could they know? I thought…I believed him dead long ago.”
“The woman loved him.” And then she added, raising her eyes to him, “They know everything, Isidro. They always know. There are no secrets in the great houses. We delude ourselves in believing otherwise.”
He stared blindly out across the patio. All so useless! So foolish! Back there in the desert, when the boy said so bravely, “Good-bye, Grandpa!” I should have gathered him in my arms and taken him home. The thought faded and he leaned his head back against the chair. After a few moments Elena arose, crossed the room, and covered him with a blanket.
She must send word to Miss Nesselrode, for she would be worried.
* * * *
AT THE READING room Miss Nesselrode looked at the boxes of books newly arrived by ship. There were three, two from New York and one from London. Now was the time she needed Johannes. He had always enjoyed opening the boxes and putting the books on the shelves.
So much was happening. Ben Wilson and some others were putting in a power plant to light the city with gas. It would stand, she believed, opposite the Pico House. New streets were being laid out and some of the roads leading into the town were being improved, and they needed it.
The door opened and she looked up. It was Alexis Murchison. He hesitated just inside the door. He was, she thought absently, a remarkably handsome man.
“May I come in?” He spoke hesitantly.
“It seems you are already in. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to tell you that I have decided to remain. I mean, I am going to stay in California.”
She put down her pen. “And what will you do here?”
“I shall work for a firm of commission and forwarding merchants. In fact,” he added, “I shall be managing the business.”
“You should do well. You speak Russian, and no doubt French as well. You will be dealing with a variety of shipmasters as well as local businessmen. Do you speak Spanish?”
“A little.”
“You will find it an asset. Much of your business will always be done in Spanis
h.” She took up her pen. “Well, this is news, indeed. Congratulations. I believe you have made a wise decision.”
“Miss Nesselrode? I was wondering if I might call upon you?”
Her eyes were cool and appraising. “You are calling, Mr. Murchison. Please come again.”
He hesitated, then turned and went out, closing the door behind him.
She stared at the door, frowning a little, then took up her pen again. After a moment, unable to coordinate her thoughts, she put down the pen. She got up and walked to the back to look in the mirror.
“You do need a new dress,” she told herself irritably. “It has been months since you’ve done any shopping.” She paused, thinking of it. She would recruit Elena to go with her. Elena would be pleased. She got out too rarely.
Yet it was not Alexis Murchison of whom she was thinking, although he had been, oddly enough, responsible for her train of thought. There were others, and one who would be returning from the sea. And there would be, she was sure, Meghan’s wedding to Johannes. She had made her mind up, whether they had or not.
* * * *
THE FLORES CANTINA, near Spanish Town on the trail from San Bernardino, was a place frequented by travelers. After the flood which had destroyed many houses and part of the town, this place had been built and had done a modest business. Who Flores had been, no one remembered. He had the idea and had started the work, and then disappeared into limbo, which in this case was probably Sonora.
It was a place shadowed by trees, with a hitching rail. There was an inner room where drinks were served, and meals also if the chef was in the mood. Outside there was a small patio with a few tables.
To one of these tables, seeking shade because the sun was high, came Don Federico. In his pocket was a letter from Don Isidro, recalling him from the hunt, but disowning him also. The letter was in his pocket; a burning anger was in his brain.
Seated in the shade, he ordered a bottle of tequila and a glass. There he was joined by Chato, so he ordered another glass. A few hours ago he would not have considered sitting with Chato; now his anger had made him less particular. And they shared a hatred.
At a nearby table sat two Anglos, both of them vaguely familiar. Fletcher had grown older and a bit heavier. He was known as a businessman who gambled. The business to which he devoted his time was buying horses, cattle, and other things, and he asked no questions as to their origin or previous owners.
Glancing at the two who had just entered, he asked his companion, “Know them?”
“Uh-huh. The one with the flat nose, that’s Chato. Thief, murderer. He’ll do whatever it takes, and they say he’s a mean fighter.”
“And the other?”
“Don Federico. You should know him.”
“I do, but it has been some time, and I wished to be sure. By their looks I’d say things had gone wrong for them, very wrong.”
Fletcher refilled his glass. Don Federico, it was said, had money, and no sooner did Fletcher come by such information than he began to try to discover ways in which he could get some of it. Preferably, all of it.
“Last I heard,” Fletcher commented, “he was hiring men to guard water holes against Johannes Verne and offering big money to anybody who killed him.”
“If I’d known there was money in it, I’d have killed him myself. I never did like him.” He glanced over at Fletcher. “We went to school together. He used the name of Vickery then. He’d just come around the Horn from the East.”
“He never came around the Horn,” Fletcher said. “He and his pa were in the same wagon with me. Them an’ that Nesselrode woman.”
“She’s one of the wealthiest women anywhere, or that’s what I hear.”
“She’s done all right,” Fletcher admitted grudgingly. “She’s a smart woman, and tough.” He told his companion about her killing the Indian on the way west.
“So he never come around the Horn after all! I figured him for a liar. I wonder if ol’ Fraser ever knew?”
“He knew. He was in the wagon with us.”
“What about that?” Rad Huber was angry. “That double-dealin’ pen-pusher knew all the time!”
They sat silent, waiting for their food. There was silence at the other table, too. Fletcher glanced at Don Federico and then said, “He got away from you, did he?”
Don Federico’s head snapped around, his eyes angry. “I do not know of what you speak,” he said. “Nor do I know you, or wish to.”
Fletcher was amused. “No reason why you should have known me before,” he said, “but there is now. I want him dead as much as you do. Almost as much,” he amended.
Actually, it was not true. Fletcher had never liked Johannes or his father; neither did he have any great animosity against them, but always alert for an idea that meant money, he had just the glimmerings of an idea.
“Come over an’ join us,” he invited. “I think we should talk. Might be to mutual advantage, if you get what I mean.”
Federico hesitated, then shrugged and moved across to the other table, Chato following.
“Heard it said you were his heir,” Fletcher suggested.
“I was. I am not so now.” He took out the letter from Don Isidro and passed it over to Fletcher.
Fletcher studied it, then turned to Huber. “Rad? See if you can borrow a sheet of paper in there, will you? I want to show these gents something.”
When he had the paper, he studied Don Isidro’s note for a moment, and then wrote in a quick, flowing hand, an exact imitation of Don Isidro’s writing:
I, Don Isidro, being of sound mind, do give and bequeath all my goods and chattels, as well as all lands and properties to my beloved heir, Don Federico.
Then he signed an exact duplicate of Don Isidro’s signature.
Federico stared, looked up at Fletcher, then stared again. The note and the signature were flawless. He, who had seen as much of Don Isidro’s handwriting as anyone, could detect no difference.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Half,” Fletcher replied.
“Half! You are insane!”
“Half is better than nothing. You get half, I get half. We are both rich men. Otherwise, you get nothing.”
“There are two heirs closer than I.”
“With this last will and testament, nobody is closer than you.”
“Nevertheless, there are Tía Elena and Johannes.”
“Two only? That is nothing.”
“He comes up the trail now,” Chato said. “He should be along within the hour. The good Johannes Verne and his bride-to-be, Meghan Laurel.”
“Who?” Rad interrupted. “What do you mean, his bride?”
“It was a rumor I heard. There are no secrets. Everybody talks.”
“They are coming up the trail now?” Fletcher asked. “Just two of them? Then there it is. The old woman, we can get anytime. Johannes is coming. It is a trail not much traveled at this hour. What are we waiting for?”
Don Federico stared at the paper in his hand. Here it was, all so easy, so simply done! He had thought all was lost. All he had wanted and worked for through the years…gone.
And now it was here. He thought quickly. Who knew Don Isidro’s signature? Not over three or four people. Elena, of course, but she would be gone.
“You see,” Fletcher said gently, “everybody knows Don Isidro has wanted his grandson dead, so why shouldn’t the grandson want him dead?
“There’ll be some shootin’, and when folks come to investigate, they’ll find the old boy dead, his sister dead, and Johannes Verne with a gun in his hand.”
Don Federico studied the paper in his hand, but he was seeing Madrid, Paris, Rome, even London. As for fifty percent, half was better than nothing, but suppose, after the will was written, and after…
After all, Johannes had gone to school with Rad Huber, and he had come across the plains with Fletcher, so why should they not join him in an attack on Don Isidro?
Fletcher needed him, but he him
self needed nobody. Once that will was drawn…And even with this one, written only as a demonstration…?
“All right,” he said, “they will be coming. We had best get out there.”
“Meghan, too?” Rad objected. “Now, see here, I—”
“Of course. She must be killed, Rad. We can’t have witnesses. Besides, she turned you down, didn’t she?”
Don Federico folded the paper and put it in his pocket along with the letter from Don Isidro. Then he followed them out to their horses.
The patio tables were empty, and a girl from inside came to gather the glasses and the remains of their meal. When she had gathered the dishes, she wiped the table quickly and stooped for a couple of fragments of food that had dropped to the floor.
The girl came quickly through the darkened inner room, where a woman sat alone at a table in a corner. “Did you notice that heavyset man? In the dark suit? Whenever he comes here, if I’m not around, you be sure you get your money, do you hear? I know him, and I don’t trust him.”
“Sí, Señora Weber. I shall be careful.”
“I came over the trail with him, María, and knew him for what he was.”
“Sí, señora.”
“You’re a good girl, María. When I sell this place and move to Los Angeles, I want you to come with me. I want to open up a place there. I think it’s a coming town.”
“Sí, señora. I would like to go.”
Mrs. Weber walked to the door and looked down the road. It was almost time for the stage.
Odd that those four had left together and gone back down the trail.
Well, it was none of her business. And that was what she thought until she heard the shooting.
Chapter 61
IT WAS A warm, lazy afternoon. Our destination for the night was only a bit further along, and we were both tired.
“There’s a place called Politana. I believe it’s on what they call the Bandini Donation, a strip of land Juan Bandini, Lugo, and probably others had donated to some New Mexicans, good fighting men, to create a buffer between their ranches and raiding Indians.” It had been rumored that some of those Indians might have been led by Peg-Leg Smith or old Bill Williams.
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