A dozen women had appeared, some from the homes of vaqueros, some from the pueblo, and they bustled about busy with a thousand things, cooking, decorating, cleaning, preparing for the fiesta. After killing the meat and seeing that it arrived safely, Sean kept out of the way.
At one side he spoke to Polanco. “It is a time to be careful,” he said, “we want no trouble, but if it comes—?”
“We will be ready, Señor. It is understood.”
Tennison came up from the Lady Luck. “Down to Pedro,” he said, “there’s talk around. King-Pin’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“He never came back from the mountains. Wooston is hinting he was killed, murdered.”
“He probably just got lost. He would not be the first.”
“No, he wouldn’t. But that ain’t what Wooston has in mind. Wooston hasn’t said yet, so far’s I could make out, but he sort of implies maybe it was you who did him in.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Just figured you should know.” Tennison watched the women passing to and fro, then said, “Cap’n, what does happen back in yonder?”
Sean shrugged. “Look…it is mountain and semidesert. There’s water if a man knows where to look, and if he doesn’t he can kill himself looking. If a man gets lost the best thing he can do is head west. Sooner or later he will come to the sea, if he lasts long enough.”
“What about all this talk of ha’nts and such-like?”
“Who knows?” Sean thought of the mountain valleys and canyons, so still, so alone, and yet—
“Every country has its secrets, and every people their superstitions. Who is to say what is and what is not true? One of the stories current among the Indians is that they came out of a cave or a hole in the ground into this world. That may be pure symbolism. It may imply they were simply born of the earth, but it might mean just what it says.
“The more you wander around back there the more you’re willing to believe anything the Indians believe. Walk up any one of those canyons alone and see how you feel. You won’t go a hundred yards before you wonder if something is not watching.
“You don’t get it in the open desert as much, but wherever there are canyons, rocks, peaks and such, you get that feeling. Now maybe it is just a feeling…but maybe something is watching.
“Once when the Old One talked to me he told me they knew about me, and they knew about the Señora, and they were friendly to us, but he did not tell me who ‘they’ were.”
“Knew a sailorman one time, he was a great talker, but he’d been ’most everywhere. He allowed how there was other worlds right next to this one…something about time and space…I couldn’t make out just what he meant. He said he was a disciple of Pythagoras, whatever that meant, but he argued that a man could pass right from one world into the next, and maybe come back, too. Only the time was different…or could be different.”
“I’ve heard such talk. You get out in those hills alone and soon you are ready to believe almost anything.”
He paused, listening to the pat-pat-i-pat-pat of women’s hands slapping tortillas. “Out east people talk of all manner of mysterious things. That’s India, China, and places like that, but they don’t know this country. The old people here…I’m not sure if they were what we called Indians or not…they had their own mysteries.
“You look at one of these Indians. Maybe he’s just a man who hunts wild game, plants a few crops, herds sheep or loafs around the village…but maybe he’s relative to something that’s old…older than any of our history, older than there’s any figure for.
“They say one time this land north of here was covered with ice…a glacier. But what was there before the ice came? What would be left of an adobe house if a thousand feet of ice lay over it? Grinding down, pushing, pulverizing. But there are some things that cannot be lost as long as one man or woman exists, and that’s the memories of older times.
“If the children don’t listen, of course, and if they don’t want to hear, then something is lost, but somewhere it lingers on. Somewhere there’s been a record left…if a man could find it…or if he was really sure he wanted to.”
“Of course he’d want to. If he had any brains he’d want to.”
Sean smiled wryly. “Maybe…and maybe not. As long as a man gets up in the morning, pulls on his pants, stomps into his boots, and goes about his business the world is a simple, comfortable, understandable place. You get to delving…delving deep…well, there’s no telling what you’ll bring up.
“One time off Cape Comorin at the southern tip of India we were becalmed for a few hours. We’d been coasting down from Ceylon, figuring to round the cape and go up the coast to catch the trades across to Africa. Becalmed there, we tried dragging a net for fish. We got fish, all right, but we got some other stuff, too. We got some pieces of broken pottery…such pictures you never saw…and the hand and arm of a statue. It was carved from stone, beautiful thing, only the hand had six fingers.”
“That’s funny,” Ten commented, “there’s a cave drawing back yonder above Malibu with a hand with six fingers.”
Sean got up. “We’d better go lend a hand,” he said quietly. And then he added, “I’ve seen such tracings of hands…several had six fingers.”
“What’s it mean?”
Sean shrugged. “Must’ve been a people one time who ran to six fingers…and they got around. One way or another.”
Chapter 17
* * *
ON THE DAY of the fiesta the first of the guests arrived shortly after dawn. A group of six riding horseback from up the coast, they had camped on the shore the previous night and brought a fine catch of fish to contribute to the food supply.
There were three women, one of them young and very bright-eyed and excited at the thought of the fandango. There was one man, an almost grown boy, and a small girl.
From then on they came in a steady stream, a stream that never ceased until all the ranchos within miles were represented.
The Señora was everywhere, superintending the preparation of food, the decorations, the shades, everything.
Polanco came to Sean shortly before noon. “Señor? There are men in the hills who do not come down. I have seen them.”
“What are they doing?”
“They watch, Señor. There is one who goes and comes back. He goes further back, toward the ridge. I think he meets with someone there.”
“Thanks. Keep an eye on them, Polanco, and be ready.”
The white teeth flashed. “I am always ready, Señor. It is that one wishes to live, no?”
Sean was standing in the shade when three men started across the yard toward him. They were lean men, and tall, with Mexican spurs and battered, flat-brimmed hats. One wore a buckskin vest, fringed in Indian fashion.
“Howdy, Sean,” the speaker was a man with a narrow, raw-boned face and gray eyes that smiled easily. “Ain’t seen you for a spell.”
“Johnny Mims! I’ll be damned! You back at El Monte?”
“Uh-huh. We run into some horse thieves out yonder. Had some shootin’, but we come on in anyway.”
He gestured to the men with him. “Reckon you remember Bill Honeycutt? Well, this here’s Larkin Campbell. He joined up with us down on the Rio Grande last trip.” He glanced around. “Hear you been havin’ trouble.”
“Money trouble, mostly,” Sean replied, “but Zeke Wooston is behind it. He wants this place.”
“You have trouble and you don’t let us share it, you’re less of a friend than I think,” Mims said quietly. “We’ve got no use for Wooston. In fact, those hoss thieves may have had a mite of help from around the pueblo. Maybe somebody promised to buy any stock they come up with.”
“Do you know that?”
“Well, I got no evidence that will stand in a court of law, but then we ain’t just figurin’ on takin’ it to no court. Out yonder in the desert it’s a fur piece to the law so we just have to make do.”
“Enjoy yourselv
es, boys,” Sean suggested. “There’s plenty to eat and drink, and the crowd’s a-gathering.”
“We come along a pretty good gait,” Honeycutt said, “but we passed nearly fifty outfits between here an’ Rancho La Brea.”
Suddenly Larkin Campbell spoke. “This here Ortega outfit? Will they be comin’ to this shindig?”
“They probably will. Nobody misses a fiesta unless he’s sick or out of the country. Do you know them?”
“Only by name. I hear they make the finest riatas in the country, and I need me a new rope.”
“They do that,” Sean agreed. “I like the four-strand for rough work, although they weave an eight-strand that’s beautiful to see. But they’ll be around, you can be sure of that.”
Sean crossed to his mother who was arranging some flowers on a table under the tule-covered shade. “The boys from El Monte are here.”
She looked up, flashing him a quick smile. “Keep them quiet, Sean. You know how they are.”
He chuckled. “They just like a good time. All those Texans like to kick up their heels just to hear their spurs jingle.” Then he added, “They’ve no love for Wooston.”
“Good! We can use friends.”
All morning they came. Lugos, Avilas, Sepulvedas, and families who had been traveling for several days, stopping at intervening ranchos, coming along slowly on horseback or in the cumbersome carretas drawn by oxen.
They were gaily dressed, their horses as beautifully caparisoned as themselves. By the time noon had come, two dozen carretas stood on the outskirts, and dozens of saddled horses at the hitching rails. Others had been turned into the pole corrals. Here and there someone was singing with a guitar, but the preparations continued, with much bustling to and fro by the women, many excited cries, and much laughter.
Sean went inside to comb his hair before the small mirror in his mother’s room, the only one in the house. Yet he had come there in part for a moment alone.
Zeke Wooston would not doubt their possession of gold, of that he was sure. Wooston would not doubt it because it was his belief in that gold that made him want the ranch. The smuggling, of course, was another reason he wanted the ranch.
From the coast at Paradise Cove or any one of the several coves along the coast there was easy access to the interior by way of the canyons. From there goods could be brought into Los Angeles, and the demand was great. Moreover, most of the people in California did not look upon smuggling as a crime, for the laws against trade with foreigners were strict and goods hard to obtain from Mexico, and very expensive.
Wooston would believe in the gold, but the fact that he would now expect them to pay the money owed would in no way stop him from seeking to acquire the ranch. Now that gold had once more been found would only whet his appetite, and Wooston was not one to hesitate over something he wanted.
He could use influence with Micheltorena, but there was little the governor could do…unless the Señora, Brother Michael, and he were dead.
There would be no heirs, the ranch would be seized by the governor, and then they might gain possession.
Yet Sean doubted if that was the means they would use. They would not want to trust even the governor, who might easily give the land to someone else or keep it in his own possession. Certainly, they would try to find some other way.
He hitched his belt into a better set on his hips and scowled at the mirror.
How?
And where was King-Pin Russell?
His thoughts returned to the matter of payment. They could now borrow the money, he believed, for everyone believed they had access to gold. Yet even if they could not borrow it they would have gained time, and time was what was needed.
Yet he, who alone could handle the Lady Luck, dared not leave on a trading voyage. They could, he believed, get together something of a cargo, partly from their own ranch, partly from others. There would be a profit if he went somewhere besides Mexico.
Sitka? The Russians to the north needed wheat, and they had furs to trade. Furs were in demand in China and on the East Coast.
He checked the Paterson Colt. It was fully loaded and ready. He ran his fingers down his knife scabbard and glanced out through the open door.
More people were arriving. Polanco had said some men were lurking in the hills. Who, and why? Men of Wooston’s, without a doubt, but they might be men come to take Mariana away, and against them he would have little defense. After all, she had been betrothed to Andres. Her uncle had arranged it. For most of these people that would be sufficient, and he would be in the wrong. At the same time the romance of her flight to his ship would be intriguing.
He walked outside and watched the people circulating. Musicians were tuning their instruments, trying a few bars of this song or that, and soon the dancing would start.
He watched the crowd. It was a shifting, colorful scene, and one he loved. He was more of a spectator than a participant at these things, but he loved them nonetheless, yet there was an uneasiness upon him.
It was the feeling he had sometimes before a bad storm at sea, when you could feel the weather making up. Yet this was no storm of that kind, this was something else entirely.
Trouble was coming, and he did not know how or where. Wooston…Andres…it could be either.
Or it could be King-Pin.
Montero strolled over to him. “It is a good night for the dance,” he said quietly, “but I do not think it a good one for us.”
“You feel it, too?”
Montero said nothing for a moment, then: “I do. It is in the wind…or it is because we know it must come. I do not know what it is, but there will be trouble.”
“I am glad Mims is here.”
Montero chuckled softly. “He is a wild one, but a good man. I do not think he will be an old man. Not that one. But neither will a lot of others.”
“The Old One is gone.”
“Yes…he will be missed, I think. He was a good man.”
“What did you know about him, Jesus?”
Montero shrugged. “No more than you, I think. He spoke once of a door one could pass through, that there were times to go and times to come, and that there were other worlds beyond.”
He paused a moment. “The gold may have come through such a door. It may have been an offering.”
Sean Mulkerin’s forefathers had talked of leprechauns and banshees, and knew of the old Celtic gods. Ireland is an old land where ghosts linger, and shadows of ancient memories are in the rocks and the fens. He had no superstitions as such, yet he did not doubt there were things of which he knew nothing, and perhaps veils beyond which he could not see.
“I do not know,” he said, “for whom such an offering would be made.”
“Who knows, Señor? Often the offerings to gods are made even when the names of the gods are forgotten. Habit is forever with us, I think, and the old beliefs may wither but they do not die.”
They walked outside together and stood under the porch. Sean’s eyes went to the hills, brush-covered and silent in the sun. What eyes watched from there? They seemed so innocent, yet he had found lonely places out there, ghostly in their silence.
The dancing had begun. El Tecolero, the master of the dance, had begun it with a la jota, a simple but lovely dance. He watched, but his thoughts were not with them. There would be trouble, he knew it. He turned to speak to Montero, but the Californio was gone.
Polanco was across the yard near the pole corral where the horses were. Johnny Mims was dancing, but Larkin Campbell and Bill Honeycutt were standing at one side, smoking and watching.
Suddenly there was a rush of horses’ hoofs up the trail and several men, six or seven at least, rode up. Andres, on a splendid black horse, was in the lead. He rode magnificently. Tomas Alexander was there, and Fernandez. The others were a hard-bitten lot.
Sean saw Honeycutt move a bit to one side to have a better view.
Sean walked across the small dancing area, moving through the dancers. When he emerged from the
crowd he was facing Andres.
“It is a fandango,” he said quietly, “we dance here, and we sing. If you come for the dancing and singing you are welcome, and so are your friends.”
“And if I do not?” Andres’ eyes were cool but taunting.
“Then you are not welcome, and as a caballero you would go away until the fiesta is finished.”
“You teach me?”
“I remind you.”
The Californios Page 14