Death Rattle

by Terry C. Johnston

  None of that international trade mattered to those twenty-four thirsty interlopers invading a foreign land. Soon enough would come the work. Soon enough would come the trials and the gunfire, then enduring another desert crossing they had to survive. So for now, these Norteamericanos would drink their fill and rub up against every willing woman they might find in the watering holes and stinking cantinas dotting the Pueblo de los Angeles.

  That many horsemen, every one crudely dressed in buckskin, calico, and wool, were certain to attract notice. By their unkempt beards, trail-leathered skin, each rider bristling with weaponry, there could be no mistaking the two dozen for strangers come calling on this coastal village. Just as apparent too was that these twenty-four were not seamen who had just jumped off a Boston merchant ship anchored in the nearby harbor. No, these men and their distinctively jug-headed Indian ponies and mules had come a long, long way to reach this little village nestled between the hills and that green ocean.

  Streetside conversations stopped as the Mexicans turned to study the strangers. Shopkeepers and customers crowded in doorways or peered from windows as the horsemen moved slowly down the rutted lanes littered with refuse, dung, and the occasional body of a dead cat or dog. As the horsemen passed one knot of the curious after another, Bass caught snatches of words the villagers mumbled among themselves.

  Extranjeros. Long road.

  Come for the furs.

  No, perhaps … come for horses.

  “As likely a place as any,” Williams announced as he reined aside at the front of a long, low-roofed adobe hutch, its front walls marred by none of the small windows pocking other buildings, windows filled with panes of selenite or slates of mica.

  No window here. Nothing but the low-beamed, narrow doorway that stood open in the morning sun. Beneath the tiled roof protruded vigas, those pared and peeled logs that poked out beyond the walls, from which hung long ristras of peppers and cloves of garlic. Embedded in the side wall were but a half dozen hitching rings, and room for no more than a few of their horses at what was left of a broken-down hitching rail out front.

  “Tie ’em off two-by-two,” Peg-Leg ordered.

  That would at least keep their animals from wandering, hitching them nose-to-nose on the open ground at the side of the cantina. And with as many of them as there were, none of the trappers figured any Mexican would dare attempt slipping away with their loose stock.

  “Welcome, Yankees!”

  At the corner of the building in a patch of shadow stood a tall Mexican, his sunken cheeks deeply pitted with the ravages of some long-ago disease. He was grinning widely, half bowing graciously as he eagerly wiped his hands on the long tail of his coarse, linen shirt he had not cared to tuck inside the waist of his stained leather breeches. Sweeping a long hank of black hair out of his eyes, this older man swept an arm toward the door in a graceful arc.

  “Yankees, come!” he repeated.

  “Gracias,” Williams replied as he stepped past the Mexican, the first to enter the cantina’s shadowy, cool interior.

  As they threaded past the bartender, Elias Kersey whispered to Bass, “He think we’re sailin’ Yankees off one of them ships, eh?”

  Before Titus could say a thing, the Mexican suddenly leaped in front of Kersey, smiling warmly and nodding as he gestured toward the open door. “Yankees, si! Come, come—Yankees welcome!”

  They flooded in behind Bill Williams, most pausing to soak in, and grow accustomed to, the change from bright light to dimmest shadow. As his eyes adjusted, Titus quickly glanced over the interior, measuring the patrons huddled around their rough-hewn tables. It was plain there weren’t enough chairs or tables to seat all two dozen newcomers. But the cantina owner had already recognized this shortcoming and was clapping his hands together, sending two of his men to bring out several thick blankets they unfurled onto the hard, clay floor.

  “Sientense ustedes, por favor!” all three of the cantinamen repeated, indicating the blankets they spread at the foot of two walls of the long, low room.

  While some of the trappers settled in the last of the chairs at the few open tables, most collapsed onto the floor, filling the offered blankets, where they leaned back against the wall, eyeing the jugs and jars on the double shelf resting behind the long, open-faced bar. Every wall had been painted with jaspe, that whitewash the Mexicans concocted from a selenite compound they burned in their hornos, or beehive ovens, then mixed with water. The thick paste was then spread by hand on the walls and finished off by brushing the jaspe with a patch of sheepskin. To keep the brittle whitewash from rubbing off on customers, the Mexicans had draped mantas, or printed muslins, about halfway up the walls. The crude but unpretentious decor so reminded Titus of his visits to Gertrude Barcelos’s brothel in long-ago and faraway Taos.

  With the strained, too-quiet atmosphere that morning as the Americans settled, Bass was drawn to the owner’s nervous stutter as the older man leaned on the table where Smith and Williams sat with Thompson and their Indian guide.

  “What’s he telling you?” Bill demanded of his partner.

  Peg-Leg explained, “He says the Injun gotta go—says he don’t serve Injuns here.”

  Thompson immediately hissed, “This damned Mex don’t have no right to tell us he won’t serve our friend, Peg-Leg. You let this son of a bitch know we could tear his place to the ground with our hands—”

  “Such hooligan actions wouldn’t be a good idea, fellas.”

  Turning as one, all two dozen watched a large, roundish man with fleshy jowls bristling with thick, graying sideburns get to his feet back in the shadows, then stride in their direction as the cantina owner nodded to the man and pivoted and shuffled back to the bar.

  Thompson shot to his feet, growling, “Who the hell are you to be telling—”

  “Cap’n Janus C. Smathers,” the stranger announced as he came to a stop at Smith’s table. His thumbs were hung in the armpits of his ample vest sewn from a dark blue wool, at least twenty tiny brass buttons straining in their holes strung down the flap.

  “You’re ’Merican?” Peg-Leg asked in disbelief.

  With a nod, Smathers swept his arm toward two tables of men tucked back in a shadowy corner. “All of us. American, like you. Adventurers, to be sure.”

  Williams held out his hand and introduced himself. “Bill Williams, M.T.”

  Smathers cocked his head, asking, “What’s an M.T.?”

  “Master trapper,” Bill answered proudly.

  “You’re fur hunters, I take it,” Smathers replied. “Here to search the coastline for otter?”

  “Maybeso,” Williams answered.

  “Listen, fellas,” Smathers began. “The governor down at San Diego frowns on Americans coming into California to harvest California furs then haul them right back out of here to parts unknown.”

  “You an’ the governor don’t need to fret none. We won’t be going down near this here San Diego,” Thompson snipped.

  “Best advice I could give you is don’t say a thing about coming to California for furs,” Smathers advised, turning away from the antagonism of Thompson. “And be wary of causing any trouble that would bring attention to yourselves.” He glanced quickly at Frederico. “In that respect, it will be best if you take the Indian outside. These Californios don’t like any wild Indians from across the mountains taking liberties that the Indians around here don’t have out of hand.”

  “Oh, he ain’t a wild Injun from across the mountains,” Smith snorted. “Frederico here’s a mission Injun.”

  Smathers’s eyes grew big, and he flicked a look at the Mexicans nearby as they were placing clay cups on several small wooden platters atop the bar. “Good God—he’s a mission slave?”

  “Runaway—”

  “Don’t say another word about him!” Smathers warned with a snap. “If you want to keep him and you value his life, take him out of here and hide him where you can. An Indian spotted here in the village is something that will soon draw the wrong
kind of attention.”

  Smith asked, “They ain’t ’llowed to come to town? Can’t have a drink?”

  “Right on both counts,” Smathers explained. “They’re slaves. I’ve been coming to California for eleven years already, make a trip around the cape every year. In all that time, I’ve still to make peace with most of how these people live here. But me and my seafarers are visitors, so we haven’t any say.”

  “Thanks, Cap’n,” Williams said as he stood and stepped around the table to prop his hand on the Indian’s shoulder. “Tell ’im why he’s gotta leave, Peg-Leg. Tell ’im he has to stay outside to watch the horses. We’ll bring him some likker later on.”

  Once Smith finished his explanation, Frederico glanced up at Williams, then the ship’s captain, and eventually stood. He started for the door beside Williams without a word of protest.

  “These Californios ain’t like us,” Smathers declared as the old trapper led the young Indian outside. “There’s one church here—they’re all Papists you know. And that one church rules those who run the government with an iron fist. It’s a closed society, gentlemen—and a culture where Americans are welcome only if they toe the line and don’t commit any act against their religion or their laws.”

  “A lot like Taos and Santy Fee,” Bass said as he stopped near the table.

  Smathers regarded Titus a moment, then said, “I don’t doubt that, mister. Never been either place myself, but I have no reason not to believe one part of Mexico would be any different from another part.”

  Bill was coming back inside as the two Mexicans brought over the first of the small trays holding those short, clay cups to distribute them among the tables and those men squatting on the floor. Behind the pair came the owner, pouring a liberal amount of a pale liquid into those cups eagerly held up by twenty-four thirsty trappers.

  “Should you require anything, need my assistance with the local authorities,” the captain explained, “my ship is anchored in the bay. The Windward, out of Portland. That’s nor’east up on the coast of Maine. You fellas just ask anyone down near the wharf for the Windward, and you’ll find someone to row you out to fetch me.”

  Holding out his hand, Williams said, “Thank you, Cap’n.”

  “You’ve chosen a good day to celebrate,” Smathers declared. “A Saint’s Day this be.”

  “Which of their damned saints are they celebrating?” Smith demanded, licking drops of whiskey off his lips.

  Smathers tugged down on the tails of his vest. “San Juan’s Day. The twenty-fourth of June.”

  “Any day’s as good as this’un for whiskey and womens!” Williams cheered.

  “Captain Janus C. Smathers,” the man repeated his name to the group. “Remember it if you need my help. While I’m anchored in the harbor of this foreign land, I remain at my countrymen’s service.”

  “What’s the C stand for,” Bass inquired.

  Smathers turned to Titus, saying, “Cautious. The C stands for cautious, fellas. Remember my advice: keep your heads down and don’t stir up any waves. A good day, and pleasant journey, to you, fellow pilgrims.”

  “Fill your chair, Scratch,” Smith offered as he scooted the simple chair back from the table.

  Titus glanced at it, then at Thompson’s hardened glare, and finally to Smith. “Thanks anyway, Peg-Leg. I’ll drink over by the wall with them boys.”

  In a flash, Frank Curnutt roughly shoved his way past Titus and plopped down in the chair the moment Scratch turned away from the table.

  That first wash of the harsh corn liquor over his tongue made Bass’s eyes water. It had been a long, long time since he had tasted such raw, head-thumping spirits. Likely not since those final days in Taos. None of those finer brandies the company traders secreted in their riverside fur posts, or the smoother grain alcohol the traders hauled out to rendezvous every summer could compare with the teeth-jarring power of this Mexican hooch.

  “Whooo!” he rasped, blinking his eyes. “Wonder if they strained this here likker through a ol’ Comanche’s breechclout.”

  “Don’t smell like it!” Reuben Purcell argued with a grin, holding his clay cup under his nose.

  “But it damn well tastes awful suspicious,” Elias Kersey said, wrinkling up his face.

  “I’ve had me plenty of worse,” Bass announced. “This here ain’t bad for what it is—Mexican whiskey.”

  By the time an hour had galloped past, the talk had grown loud and merry. Smathers and his men had abandoned the cantina just before the owner and his help brought out platters of tortillas and steamy bowls of beans. The hungry Americans greedily scooped up the beans using the soft tortillas as spoons or ladles, and devoured everything set before them.

  “Lookee here now,” Jake Corn said, jabbing an elbow into Titus’s ribs as Scratch was loading a little tobacco into his clay pipe.

  Bass turned as most of the trappers noticed the nine women stepping out of the bright sun, entering the open doorway. The cantina owner hurried over, speaking quickly to one of the women, who wore large brass wires suspended from her ears. He pointed out the table where Smith and Williams sat. Half of the women dressed in the loose-fitting, off-the-shoulder camisetas and the short, full skirts called enaguas followed their fleshy leader, who had generously smeared crimson alegria juice on her pasty, powdered cheeks. She had clearly seen her better days, yet walked over to the Americans with an unmistakable air of supreme confidence.

  In hushed tones she and Smith chattered for a moment until Peg-Leg stood.

  He announced, “These here gal’s come to have some fun with us!”

  “Bang-tails?”

  Smith turned toward the questioner. “You damn bet they’re whores, you stupid nigger.”

  “If that don’t take the circle!” Purcell leaped to his feet, lunging for the closest as the women fanned out across the room. “I ain’t humped since we left off them Mojave gals.”

  Corn stood, nudging Bass with the toe of his moccasin. “Ain’t you coming to poke you one of these, Bass?”

  “Had me Mex gals before,” he answered. “Besides, I got me a woman of my own.”

  “But she ain’t here,” Purcell argued, dragging the woman onto his lap. “An’ it’s been a long time since you rid atween your woman’s legs, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t reckon I need to go,” Titus explained with a shrug. “You boys go on and have your fun with them whores. I’ll be sitting right here when you get your humping done. ‘Pears I’ll be the one leading you fellas on back to camp so you can sleep off your sore heads.”

  “Don’t want no honey on your stinger, eh?” Kersey spouted. “Then I’ll poke one of ’em center just for you, Titus Bass!”

  “Thankee kindly, Elias,” Scratch replied. “Can’t claim I didn’t have my own share of Mex whores back in my rowdy days.”

  Corn prodded, “Any man can still get rowdy, Scratch.”

  “Nowadays I got a lot more rings ’round my trunk,” he declared with a grin. “But you fellas go grab hold of those gals and don’t let ’em buck you off, boys!”

  “Don’t gotta ask me more’n once!” Adair roared as he started for one of the women who had moved over to join other Americans at the bar.

  It made for a good business proposition, Titus figured. The women could drink for free of the cantina’s liquor because they were assuring that the Americans were consuming all the more, spending most of their hard American money. At the far end of the long bar a greasy blanket hung across a low doorway. One by one, three of the women headed past that blanket with three of the trappers, arm-in-arm and laughing at some joke no one understood.

  Another three of the women perched on one lap after another, generously rubbing their hands, bellies, and rumps against prospective customers while two of the whores leaped onto the edge of the bar where they hiked up their skirts so they could wrap their legs around the ribs of a pair of trappers as they all drank and flirted despite their foreign languages, laughing crazily and getting all the d
runker as they waited their turn at the tiny cribs in the back of the cantina.

  Three-by-three the Americans lurched past the greasy blanket, back to finish what they had started out front, turning over their women to other trappers who drank and ate as they waited their few minutes in the cribs. By the time the last men were emerging from the rooms behind the bar, some of the first were boasting that they were ready for another go-round with the whores, which meant Smith was having to ante up more of his dwindling supply of gold coin.

  From where he sat leaning against a side wall, Bass could peer out the open doorway when a trio of horsemen reined up in front of the cantina. He hadn’t seen uniforms like theirs since Jack Hatcher’s bunch had chased into the winter mountains hoping to wrestle back some hostages from marauding Comanche.

  “You expectin’ company, Bill?” he called out to Williams.

  He started walking toward Titus and the door. “Who?”

  “Soldiers.”

  “How many?”

  “Only three,” Scratch answered.

  Stopping in his tracks, Williams harrumped and turned back for the bar, saying, “I ain’t worried till they send a whole shitteree of Mex soldiers for us.”

  Instead of coming right inside after tying their horses off to a single ring out front, the trio walked past the doorway for the corner of the cantina. A little slowed and deliberate in his movements due to the heady whiskey, Titus struggled to his feet against the manta draped on the wall and stepped outside, finding the three soldiers moving among some of the horses and mules. From what he could tell, they were inspecting the rear flanks for brands.

  He snorted with the humor in that. Indian ponies simply didn’t have a brand.

  “Help you with something, fellas?”

  All three turned at his call, two of them flicking their eyes to the third as they came over to stop before the trapper. When that man in the middle spoke, his Spanish spilled out far too fast for Bass to grasp more than a handful—hardly enough to go on.