For his next item, the hawker held up a painting of a lascivious ebony nude lying on a sofa surrounded by three Egyptian eunuchs. The roundness of her thighs and breasts reminded him of Delilah.
"The best for last, gentlemen! Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, in her most intimate lair. A welcome companion for the diggings, where a man can go for months without the sight of a woman. This beautiful vision of exotic lust and romance was owned by a Russian count murdered just last week in Calabasas Springs. Before him, she was the proud possession of an English lord. Before that, she was hung in the Queen of Spain's boudoir! We start at a hundred dollars. Over there! Under the wagon. The man in the leather vest. One-fifty...? Two...! Do I hear three?"
The hawker pointed at Zebulon. "You, Sir! In the fancy linen pants! You're obviously a gentleman who knows how to appreciate a great work of art!"
Zebulon kept going, heading towards Sutter's headquarters, the Casa Grande, a crumbling two-story adobe structure with its upstairs windows shot out. Approaching the twenty-foot oaken front door, he stumbled over a Mexican slumped against a wall.
`~Quien es?" The Mexican glanced up from underneath his sombrero, revealing a toothless face marked by an empty eye socket. "You ever get the feelin' that the faster you ride, the longer it takes to get there?"
The Mexican slapped his thigh, doubling over with laughter at Zebulon's startled expression. "You ain't sure if I'm that old Mex from the pueblo, or just another down and out greaser."
"You're Plaxico," Zebulon said.
"And you're Zebulon. The one that's so stuck inside his own nosebag that he can't figure out if he's comin' or goin'. That happens more than you think."
"Hatchet said that?"
"That and other things, like not knowin' the difference between a straight flush and a ditch full of frogs. Quien es? Know what I mean? Who's out there? And if you is out there, where are you headed? Maybe it's time to quit all those questions."
"Where's Hatchet now?" Zebulon asked.
"Most likely lookin' for you. Now that he's done his best to deal with your Pa, you're next in line."
"You're here for the gold?" Zebulon asked.
Plaxico laughed and stood up.
"I ain't here, and I ain't there. Ain't that how the song goes."
He slapped Zebulon on the back, then walked straight across the compound as if he knew where he was going.
Zebulon sat down against the wall. Around him, men and women were spreading out bedrolls, discussing a mudslide near Grizzly Flats, a mother lode on the Yuba, and a hanging at Morgans Flat. A small boy led a crippled horse into a livery stable. A door opened and slammed shut. Then silence, followed by a song drifting across the compound from the Casa Grande:
It was Delilah.
E PUSHED OPEN THE HUGE OAK DOOR OF THE CASA GRANDE and walked down a dimly lit entrada to a banquet hall. A stern white-haired woman in a high-necked black dress sat at a dining table in the middle of the cavernous room, her head between her hands. Next to Fran Sutter sat her son, August, a plump young man in a Tyrolean hat, drinking whiskey and smoking a curved ivory pipe. Behind them, a large-bellied man with a thick brush mustache and knee-length buckskins strode back and forth, slapping a riding crop against his massive thigh.
Delilah sat behind a clavichord on the far side of the hall. As Zebulon paused inside the door, her eyes found him, then shifted to August Sutter as he slammed his pipe on the table.
"You are not the only one that wants to buy my father's land, Herr Kehoe. I will tell you once again: My mother will never sell without my father's consent."
Azariah Kehoe took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "You must understand that I am here to help, not to make matters worse. It was my distinct impression that Captain Sutter wished to sell what was left of his land to settle outstanding debts."
Fran Sutter looked at him, speaking with a halting German accent. "You must understand, Herr Kehole. I am newly arrived in this country. I am tired. I have sick stomach. I am not seeing my husband in seventeen years. Imagine how I am suffering when he has business somewhere else and is nowhere to wait for me in San Francisco. I have left a son and a daughter to wait for him, and then I journey with one more son, August, to find my husband, and we go over a terrible, wild country, and now I am seeing his fort of ruins. Imagine all that!"
"My dear Lady," Kehoe said. "I am deeply sympathetic to your difficulties and sufferings. Having spent half my life on the frontier, I know very well what you're going through. For your own sake, please allow me to help."
"And everywhere this gold madness!" Frau Sutter continued, not having heard a word he said. "In Switzerland, I hear of my husband and California and his orchards and vegetables and cows. For many years, I am hearing my husband is a king in this land. That he is being loved by everyone, even native savages, and that everything is arranged for me and my children to come here and be loved with him. We are not business people, Herr Kehole. We are family people who want a life with cows and food and happiness. That is the promise I am hearing in Switzerland, and that is why I am coming here."
"What you say is certainly true about your husband, Frau Sutter," Kehoe said. "Or it was, anyway. A fine man, Captain John Sutter. Courageous. Inventive. Energetic. Even though, alas, foolish in business as well as his choice of, shall we say, leisure pursuits. But we won't indulge in spurious gossip. Above all, we must remain calm."
As Zebulon approached the table, Delilah stood up from the clavichord and walked over to him. Her eyes never left his as she sang to him in Spanish:
Zebulon stood in front of the table, repeating the verse in Navajo:
"I am sad," Frau Sutter said, wiping away tears. "I am crying. What is this meaning?"
"An expression of gratitude," Delilah explained, "gratitude for redemption, for being saved by grace."
"Who is this Grace?" Frau Sutter asked. "Am I knowing her?"
"You know her," Delilah explained. "But if you ask for her, she will never come. And if you don't ask, she won't come either."
"Yes," Frau Sutter exclaimed. "Yes. Yes. I am understanding. You are Grace, and the man you have been saying to me all about is Redemption! The man who goes away and comes back and goes away"
"This is the man." Delilah continued to look into Zebulon's eyes. "Or what passes for him anyway. He goes by another name than Redemption."
Frustrated by these bizarre interruptions, Azariah's riding crop began to slap against his thigh like a runaway metronome.
"Frau Sutter, I beg you - no, listen to me, I implore you: can we please return to the business at hand?"
"Frau Sutter is not calm, Mister Kehoe," Delilah stated firmly "She is not happy, and she is not patient, and until she sees her husband, she will not decide if she will return to Zurich. She has done her best to explain her situation to you, and she will not make any business arrangements or deals about Captain Sutter's land with you or with anyone else."
"Excuse me, Madam," Kehoe said, breaking his riding crop in two. "I have no idea who you are or by whom you're employed, but I find it inappropriate and rude that you speak for Captain Sutter, or, for that matter, for his wife or son or anyone else."
Frau Sutter pulled herself up from the table to her full height, which was not more than five feet. "Countess Baranofsky is not a servant, Herr Keyhole. She comes from Russia to Mexico and then to this fort to ask my husband for help. Her husband, Count Baranofsky, we have talked to in Zurich, Switzerland, to be friends with us and have business in California, a land which I was told is green like God's Eden, which, I am learning, is not true. Now her husband Count Baranofsky is killed by outlaws. I am not saying who is doing what, Herr Keyhole. This is not my fort. It is my husband's fort. I am not here to sell land or chickens or cows."
August Sutter looked around the room with glazed eyes. He struck a match to his pipe, only to stub it out with his thumb, then light it again.
"Can we please finalize this situation? If we're lucky, Mother, some cowboy or prosp
ector or savage red brute will cut off Papa's head, along with that of his Hawaiian mistress. Then we will be able to arrive at a practical solution and not have to depend on people such as Herr Kehole. We will sell everything at a good and fair price and get the hell out of here."
Frau Sutter held her hands over her ears. "August, you are saying against God. You must never speak these terrible words."
"It is not for me to know about God's will or what goes on in Sacramento or San Francisco," Azariah Kehoe said. "But I can assure you, Frau Sutter, that unless you come to terms right now, this very minute, I will leave, and you will be faced with ruin. Please understand: this country is on a fast roll. Soon there will be a train from coast to coast carrying thousands of immigrants into every corner of the state. Unless you make suitable arrangements to distribute your holdings while they still have value, you will be left behind."
Fran Sutter made a desperate effort to concentrate. "You are making me become madness, Mister Kehole. You are looking at my husband's land and you are making plans. My husband owns many hectares. He will arrive with friends and then he will eat and talk with you. Now I only want to sit in a fruit tree with Countess Baranofsky, and speak where we have been and what we have lost, what we will not become or see. I have a dream to come here, a dream of finishing things up. What happens to that dream? Maybe it is the dream of another? Maybe it is not a dream. Maybe I am dreaming there was a dream."
She turned to Delilah. "That happens. You and I are knowing that."
"Yes, we are." Delilah reached over to hold Frau Sutter's hand. "We know all about that."
Azariah Kehoe had heard enough. Bending down, he briefly passed his lips over Frau Sutter's limp hand. "If you will excuse me, Frau Sutter, I have overstayed my visit. Unfortunately, I've important business matters in San Francisco that need attending to. Let us hope for both our sakes that we will never have to discuss business matters again. Please extend my deepest salutations to Captain Sutter. I believe he has my business card."
Delilah looked at Zebulon, then at Kehoe. "Do you know the old saying? `If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans."'
"Indeed," Kehoe muttered, and strode out of the room.
Frau Sutter sighed. "I am always thinking Herr Keyhole will not go away. Now when my husband comes here, he will know if he will stay with me and my children and grow fruits and vegetables and cows. He is no good for business. And now you, Countess, with your nice young man! So strong! So quiet. Do not have him running off to make business!"
She kissed Delilah's hand. "Now, Countess, I am asking you to go away from this fort before it is too late. My husband is failing me. He is always failing me and my children, and he will fail you, Countess, if you have business with him. There is nothing here for you, nothing here for anyone. Are you understanding what I am saying? Go to China or Portugal or India. Go to Switzerland. But always be going from this bad country. What am I saying to you?"
"You're tellin' her vamanos!" Zebulon said.
"Si," she nodded, one hand reaching for a glass of wine, the other hand waving them towards the door. "Vamanos far away."
EBULON FOLLOWED DELILAH ACROSS THE DARK COMPOUND, maneuvering around drunks and Argonauts passed out between wagons and mining machinery, then over a crumbling wall and around a corral towards a tent pitched at the far end of a field.
Inside the tent, they listened to thunder rolling down from the Sierras, followed by gusts of rain slamming against the fragile shelter like tiny fists.
"I knew you would find me," she said.
"Did you want me to?" he asked.
"Off and on," she said.
As suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped.
She guided his hand to her breast, then to her stomach. Her belly was larger and rounder than he remembered. And there was something else, something that he wasn't sure about that filled him with fear.
Suddenly all that mattered was his horse. For all he knew the horse was dead or had been stolen. Not that anyone would bother to steal a sway-backed strawberry roan on her last legs.
He stood up. "I got to check on my horse."
She reached out to hold onto his leg.
He knelt before her, placing his head on her belly as she stroked his head. Then he was inside her and they were silent in the center of everything that moved.
Until she pushed him away.
Through the open tent flap they saw the Warden and a halfa-dozen men riding towards them. Behind them and in front of the fort, Frau Sutter stood with an older man wearing a bright red uniform and cockade hat, who Zebulon figured must be Sutter. As they stumbled out of the tent, pulling on their clothes, more men and women appeared on top of wagons and along the fort's bastions.
He took the Warden's small golden bowl from his vest pocket and placed it in her hands.
"You can sell it back at the fort, or San Francisco. You'll have enough for wherever you need to go."
"I need to go with you."
"I'll find you," he said.
He ran across the field, circling towards the fort.
As the Warden rode up, she grabbed a stirrup, her other hand pointing east.
"The bastard raped me," she moaned. "He's run off to the mountains."
The Warden shoved her to the ground and galloped off with his men towards the high Sierras.
By the time Delilah reached the corral and had the gate open, Zebulon had cornered a horse. In one leap, he mounted and rode past her.
A shot rang out, a bullet creasing his scalp. Another bullet tore into the fleshy part of his arm.
He managed to hold on to the horse's mane until he was riding free and out of range.
EBULON RODE THROUGH THAT NIGHT AND INTO THE DAWN until his horse gave out. He walked another three miles before he fell asleep near a small stream. When he woke, the sun was directly overhead and he wasn't being followed.
He walked on, towards a range of humpbacked mountains. The only signs of life were isolated bunches of stray cattle and once, in the far distance, a line of riders. He waited until they disappeared, then walked through the night and the next day.
It was almost dark when he approached a large sign nailed to the trunk of a tree:
WELCUM TO GREASY SPRING GATWAY TO H
As he stumbled on, his legs buckled and he passed out.
e woke up in a ditch. His ribs were bruised and there was a knot on his head. A frog croaked and a few feet away a goat was chewing on garbage.
"Who's down there?" a voice called out.
Nobody but old Zebulon Shook, he thought. Humpin' his broken ass down a washed-out street of pain.
The goat made him think of his Pa. He wondered what the old bastard was up to. Most likely working another claim. "The higher the country the better": that's what he always said. Far away from the likes of flatlanders and sodbusters.
"If you ain't dead, say somethin', Mister," the voice called out.
Was that his voice, or someone else's? He remembered another time, in another ditch. He wasn't dead. He was sure of that. Not that it would be so bad to be dead. Anything to be shut of being... on the drift ever since - He heard a roll of drums, or maybe thunder, followed by rifle shots. Some kind of celebration, he guessed. The goat moved closer, staring down at him with melancholy eyes. If he had a pistol he'd shoot it, just to be one up.
A barefoot kid wearing torn overalls walked up to him holding a burlap sack in both hands.
"Are you that man that was holed up in the saloon?" the kid asked. "The one that was playing cards and then they shot him? That ain't you, is it?"
Something was squirming inside the kid's sack.
"A mess of rattlers," the kid explained. "I sneak up on 'em when they're goin' for frogs. But I got to be careful not to get bit.
The kid turned around, listening to more shots coming from the town.
"We got a big shoot-out going on. I seen three, not counting the one that killed my Uncle Ezra, who had it comin'. Did you know Uncle Ezra?"
The drumming sounded as if it was coming from inside his head.
"Are you a ghost, Mister?" the kid asked.
"Maybe," Zebulon answered. "What's your take?"
"I think you are. But I ain't afraid, if that's what you're askin'."
"That's good," Zebulon said. "Now you won't become a ghost yourself."
"Is this what happens when you get shot?" the kid asked. "You wake up and you're a ghost?"
"Only if you're afraid or don't know what you're doin'."
"Like you?"
The kid followed him as he crawled up the side of the ditch and walked towards the town of Greasy Springs, a muddy street of wooden buildings bunched around a saloon, jail, and blacksmith shop. Beyond the street there were green fields as flat as billiard tables, stretching to foothills and snow-peaked mountains.
At the far end of the street a dozen men crouched behind farm wagons and piles of stacked lumber. All of them were pointing rifles, shotguns, and pistols at the Last Chance Saloon, a large two-story building also serving as a hotel and barber shop.
Occasionally someone would fire a shot, then duck behind a wagon to reload - or take a pull from a bottle, or eat a chicken leg, or grab a slice from one of two roasted pigs.
Zebulon and the kid sank down behind a wagon next to a portly man with gray side-whiskers and a sheriff's badge pinned on red long johns.
"I need a doc," Zebulon said.
"The doc's inside," the Sheriff said. "You want him, be my guest."
The Drop Edge of Yonder Page 16