The Californios

by Louis L'Amour

  Andres laughed, but there was no humor in it. “All right, there shall be only the fiesta.” His white teeth flashed. “After that I shall kill you.”

  Sean Mulkerin smiled deprecatingly. “Of course, you will try.” He paused. “It is a pity when there are so many girls who like you to die for one who doesn’t.”

  Andres had started to turn, now he wheeled his horse. “It is not I who will die!”

  Sean smiled in great good humor. “They always feel that way until they taste the blade. Buenos tardes, Señor!” He turned away.

  From the coast road came the creaking and groaning of carretas arriving with more guests, many of them decorated with ribbons of various colors, nearly all filled with girls or young men as well as the older people. Alongside each carreta there were usually several outriders wearing velvet suits with wide-bottomed, slashed pants, or beautifully tanned suits of white buckskin. Sombreros were the order of the day for the men.

  Many of the women were elaborately gowned, but some, if their trip had been a long one, brought clothes into which to change. The dancing had begun so many of the newcomers leaped from the carreta or the saddle into the middle of the dance.

  Sean moved from group to group, smiling, shaking hands, welcoming his guests. Andres, he noted, seemed to have dropped his anger at the gate and now mixed freely. Yet several of those who had come with him, notably Fernandez, hung upon the fringe of the crowd, glowering.

  Honeycutt had moved from near the corral to a position not far from Fernandez. He was a good hand with a guitar, but even during the moments when he played and sang, his eyes were never far from Fernandez.

  The others who had come from far-flung haciendas seemed unaware of the trouble. They were laughing, gay, friendly. Sean, who had helped the Lugos round up cattle and wild horses, who knew all those from the surrounding ranches, enjoyed meeting his friends.

  Andres, he decided, would probably live up to his agreement to create no trouble as long as the fiesta lasted, but he had made no promises beyond that. Wooston had made no promises at all, and Wooston was not present.

  So where was he?

  From dance to dance they moved, and Mariana was in the thick of it all.

  Suddenly Andres was beside her, and in a moment they were dancing together. And they danced well. Watching them, Sean felt a flash of irritability. Why did he have to come here? Did she love him after all?

  They were dancing la Bamba, and very well, too, a glass of water upon her head as she moved, spilling not one drop.

  Andres, he could see, was good. Better than anybody he had seen, and there were fine dancers among the Lugos, Yorbas, and Estudillos. The young Mexican was quick, lithe, and unbelievably expert.

  Sean turned sharply away and went inside. His mother laughed at him. “Jealous? You must not be. It is only the dance.”

  “But with him!”

  “Why not with him? He is a very good dancer. Anyway, if it is Andres she loved, then why not find out now? But I think it is only the dance, and she is angry with him, she wants to show him a little, I think, what he is missing.”

  Suddenly Montero was in the room. “Señor? Señora? There is a man…he is by the corral. He would speak with you!”

  Chapter 18

  * * *

  SEAN MULKERIN TURNED sharply to follow, then hesitated. He glanced at Montero. “He is alone?”

  Montero’s face was stiff, his eyes wide. “He has one man with him, Señor. One only.”

  A sound of hoofs from the trail turned him again. Dust arose, and through the dust a half-dozen men. Zeke Wooston, Captain Nick Bell, and several soldiers.

  Johnny Mims was beside him, from out of nowhere. “You got friends, Sean boy. Stand your ground.”

  “I do not want shooting here,” Sean said quietly. “We will have none.”

  “May not be that easy,” Mims said quietly. “I think they’ve come for your scalp.”

  Nick Bell was no respector of persons. He pushed his horse right across the crowded dance area, followed by his riders. They were a nondescript lot. Wooston looked pleased, too pleased.

  “Ah? Sean Mulkerin, is it?” Bell smiled. He was a hard man, utterly vicious, and completely sure of himself as an officer of the province. “You are arrested. We have come to take you to jail.”

  “And for what?”

  “The murder of King-Pin Russell,” Wooston replied. “You will be taken to jail.”

  “You have found him?”

  Bell shrugged. “It does not matter, Señor Mulkerin. You were his enemy. He disappeared in the mountains where you were. We have men that will swear—”

  “I have no doubt of it,” Sean replied, “but do you have someone who will swear he is my enemy?”

  “It was known! He was riding in pursuit of you!”

  “In pursuit? Why was he pursuing me? And why should he be my enemy? If he rode into the mountains it was his own idea.”

  “He was following you, and he has not come back. You killed him.” Nick Bell leaned both hands on the pommel and smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant smile. “So you are to be taken to prison,” he smiled again, “where you will be questioned.”

  Bell was obviously enjoying himself. He had never liked. Sean Mulkerin nor his mother, for they had shown nothing but contempt for him. Now it was his turn.

  Johnny Mims strolled a little closer. “You don’t need to go nowhere you don’t want to, Mulkerin,” he said quietly. “We got as many men as he has, and better ones.”

  Bell’s smile vanished. There was no fear in Bell and they all knew it. Thug he might be, but he had nerve. “You would go against the law? I can bring more men and more. I can throw you all into prison.”

  Don Abel Stearns was standing nearby, so were two of the Lugos. His eye caught the movement as they drew closer. They were people of influence and judgment, and he did not like their presence here but there was nothing he could do.

  “Señor?” It was Montero again. “I think you must see this man. The one by the corral.” He looked around him. “I think you must all see him.”

  “Bring him here, then.”

  “It can wait,” Bell said abruptly. “Do your business later.”

  “It cannot wait,” Montero said.

  Nick Bell’s lips tightened with anger. “You talk to me, you cholo? I’ll show—”

  “Stand where you are!” Eileen Mulkerin’s rifle was on his chest, and the crowd gave way to give her a clear field of fire from her position on the porch. “Jesus Montero works for me. You lay a hand on him and I’ll kill you.”

  Bell stopped, staring at her. “Put that gun down!” he snapped.

  “Couple of ’em over here, too,” Bill Honeycutt said mildly. “Be quite a contest to see who gets lead into you first, and how much. I figure I can, but Lark here, he always did figure he could shoot faster than me, so maybe it would be him. As for the Señora there, I don’t know whether you ever seen her shoot or not. I seen her drop a runnin’ antelope seventy yards off with a quick shot. You’re closer an’ a bigger target.”

  Bell sat very still. He knew all about those Texans from El Monte. There were quite a few of them, a wild, roistering, hell-for-leather lot who respected courage and little else. They were hard workers, but troublemakers. And he had no doubt at all about their shooting.

  Several years before a small colony of them had moved in and settled there, and since then they had run cattle, a few had become farmers, and a few were in business. They were good people to leave alone.

  He was wary now. “All right,” he said crisply, “see to your business.”

  “Bring the man here,” Sean repeated, and Montero turned and walked away.

  For a few minutes they stood in uneasy silence. The music and the dancing had stopped. A few of the visitors had seated themselves and were drinking at the tables under the awning.

  Montero came back around the corner of the house and he was walking beside an Indian who led a burro. Upon the burro’s back there wa
s a man…an old, old man.

  They stared. Zeke Wooston suddenly dismounted and walked to the burro. He caught the old man by the arm, staring into his face. Then he dropped the arm as if burned and stepped sharply back.

  “Russell!” he said, almost choking on the name. “By God, it’s King-Pin!”

  They crowded around, helping the old man from the saddle. His clothing was ragged and old, and the man who wore them was only a shadow of the powerful King-Pin.

  He leaned against the burro, jaws agape, drooling a little, his eyes vacant and empty. “Zeke,” he muttered, “Zeke, I—”

  His voice trailed off and he stopped.

  They drew back from him, backing slowly away. Wooston’s pallor was that of a man who has seen a ghost.

  “That’s not Russell!” Bell said sharply. “Russell was a young man. He couldn’t have been more than thirty! This man…why he must be seventy or eighty years old!”

  “That’s him,” somebody said. “Look at the notches on the gun! Not more’n three weeks ago he was showin’ me them notches an’ that pistol. Ain’t many of them around, anyway.”

  Carlotta, the housekeeper, came from the house with a glass of wine. She handed it to the old man and he took it in fingers that trembled.

  “King-Pin,” Honeycutt said, “what happened to you?”

  “Lost…lost,” Russell muttered. “I was lost. Trail disap…peared. There was an altar…I climbed on it to see…fell. Fell for a long time. Injuns got me…they taken me.”

  “Where did they take you?”

  He raised his head and looked slowly around, his eyes staring and empty. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Those Injuns,” somebody said, “they didn’t take your gun?”

  “Paid it no mind,” Russell said.

  Bell’s horse stepped forward. “Are you Russell?” he asked.

  “Walter Pendleton Russell. They call me King-Pin. I come from Lancashire to Carolina. I handled a freight team on the Santa Fe Trail. I come west. I—” his voice trailed off and he drank the wine, then dropped the glass, staring as it lay in the dust.

  “What about those Injuns?” Somebody asked from the crowd. “Was they Mohaves’ Paiutes?”

  “Injuns…never seen the like…carried me off, dropped me…just lef’ me.”

  Tomas Alexander edged closer. “The Old One? Did you see him?”

  “Dead…dead on the sand.” The old man was silent for a few moments and then he said, “Cave…he was lyin’ there. I was huntin’ gold…turned around…he was gone.”

  “Got up an’ walked out,” Wooston said.

  “Dead,” Russell muttered. “That was years…years back. I recall—”

  “King,” Wooston interrupted. “It was only a few days ago! Just up in the mountains!”

  The old man stared at him with weak, watery eyes. “Years…years back. I seen—” his voice trailed off.

  “Better let him sit down,” Sean suggested quietly. “The man is old, he is very tired. Lord knows what he’s been through.”

  Eileen Mulkerin lowered her rifle. “Carlotta, take him inside. Give him some wine. Maybe he will eat something.”

  The Californios had withdrawn and were gathered in groups, talking. The music started again, and the dancing, but there was no heart in it.

  “That was King-Pin Russell,” Sean said quietly, to Nick Bell. “He’s alive, as you can see. You still want to take me in.”

  Bell shrugged. “He’s alive…if that’s him.” He looked curiously at Sean Mulkerin. “You were up there. What happened, anyway?”

  “Who knows? Looks like he’s aged fifty years.”

  “That isn’t reasonable.”

  “No, Captain, it isn’t.”

  Bell stared at him. “Mulkerin, you don’t believe all that damned nonsense, do you? I mean, all that talk about what happens in the mountains?”

  Sean shrugged. “Captain, what happens to one man in the mountains need never happen to another. The Indians lived here long before we came. Do you think it wise to dismiss all they know as superstition? I do not.

  “We live in a world, Captain, that none of us know too well, and none of us know it all. I can only say this. My mother went up there with the Old One. The Old One went to sleep on the floor of a cave, and when she called to him to leave, he was dead.”

  “And Russell found him there?”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “He says the old man was carried off while his back was turned?”

  “You heard him, so did I. Captain, there are places up there where the heat waves seem close up, everything is kind of indistinct and unreal. You can’t judge distance properly, nor time either.”

  “What do you suppose happened to him?” Bell mused.

  Sean shrugged again. “He says he fell. Maybe shock can do that to a man. Maybe he was carried off, taken somewhere we don’t even know about for…he says it was for years.”

  “And we know it was only a few days.”

  “Do we? A few days to us, maybe years to him. I am not going to try to explain it. I only know the Old One warned my mother about wandering around. When she left, the trail was plain, but when Russell looked for it he could not find it.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Bell said irritably. He turned his horse and rode away, followed by his troopers.

  Zeke Wooston was at the door of the house, talking to the Señora. “But he’s one of my men!” he protested. “I’ll take what care of him he needs.”

  “Let him have him, Señora,” Sean suggested. “We have no right to hold him.”

  “But he’s an old man! He needs care!”

  “Let them care for him,” Sean replied. “I do not think he will be around for long.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Wooston protested.

  “Look at him,” Sean replied. “Have you really looked at him?”

  They turned. Russell sat at the table, his head hanging, his hands lax upon his knees. He seemed to have shrunken visibly. His face was seamed and old. Sean spoke, and after a moment the old man’s head lifted, but his eyes were unseeing and after a minute, they dropped.

  Wooston stared at the old man, then thought rapidly. Russell had found where the gold came from. He had actually seen the Old One, and if the old man had died there, it must have been the farthest they had gone. Surely, dying, he could have shown them no further along a trail.

  Russell, then, knew where the gold came from. Dying or not, he knew. And he could tell Wooston. The big man touched his lips with his tongue, then he smiled. “He was my friend. I will not leave him alone and helpless now. If you will lend us a carreta?”

  “Of course,” Sean said. “He will need care.”

  Wooston hurried out, and for a moment Sean, the Señora and Russell were alone.

  “Russell?”

  The old man looked up, if old man he could be called.

  “I was never your enemy. This…whatever happened…I am sorry.”

  “I fell,” Russell muttered, talking as if to himself. “It was the altar…I should not have touched it. I…I felt it…I felt I should not, but…but I had to see!”

  “It is all right, Mr. Russell,” Eileen said quietly. “We hold no grudge against you. You have suffered enough.”

  His body shook. “I was lost…lost! I could not find…there was no way! Shimmering, Shimmering, shimmering! I got through…into something, somewhere. I tried to find my way back. I was lost…lost.

  “Everywhere there were bushes, bushes that clawed and tore at me, I fell again, and I do not know for how long I lay, I got up and suddenly I was back. I was on the hills above the sea, and the air was fresh and cool. I was back. I do not know how but I was back.”

  “He has lost his wits,” Wooston had come back into the room. “His mind is wandering.”

  “Whatever happened to him,” Eileen Mulkerin said, “should not happen to any man.”

  Wooston helped Russell to his feet and they started outsi
de. Sean watched them go, then said to his mother, “I’ve got to go back, you know. I’ve got to be sure the Old One was buried.”

  “Russell said his body vanished.”

  “Perhaps…he might have been delirious even then. His mind does seem to wander. It is not coherent.”

  “You do not believe that, Sean.”

  “No, I don’t,” he replied honestly. “We’ll never know what happened to him. Some terrible shock, or maybe some injury did this to him…or some experience. I’ve heard of men’s hair turning white in a single night.”