by W R. Garwood
While we danced, she sang the words along with the rest of the folks, in a gay little voice, all sweet and lively:
Aforrado de mi vida!
¿Come estas, como te va?
Como has pasado la noche,
No has tenido novedad?
Y vente con ’migo
Y yo te dare
Zapatos de raso
Color de café.
When the little orchestra finally ran down, the guests broke into applause and chatter while I looked around for my partner.
Lucia suddenly popped up and poked me in the ribs with her fan. “If you’re looking for Señorita Dulcima, she’s over there by the far fountain.”
I followed her directions and saw the tintype girl standing near the orange trees in the tawny glow of a string of Chinese lanterns. She and the gambler Powers seemed to be mighty busy talking.
“Señor Bean?” I recognized Rosita’s unforgettable voice and turned to find her standing just behind me, one hand on her hip and the other holding a closed fan that she tapped against her perfect chin. “I’m happy you could attend our little affair and that you were gallant enough to attend to my young ward.” She smiled that slow smile that never failed to send a jolt of fire right through me. Turning, she nodded to Lucia, who immediately bobbed her head and walked away. “From Dulcima’s appearance when she danced by, it is easy to see that she finds her fellow Americano a person of fascination,” she went on.
“But I’m not the only interesting Yank here, it seems.” I made a slight motion toward Powers and Dulcima, where they stood chatting in the wavering lantern glow.
A look passed across Rosita’s face, so swift as to be almost invisible. “Yes, but I have no way of supposing how such a person got in here. I gave old Carlos definite instructions that you or your brother were to be the only Anglos allowed . . . or invited.”
“He arrived about the same time I did, and your sentry seemed to have thought it was Josh with me.”
“He is as familiar with the alcalde as the rest of us.” Bringing up her painted fan, she fluttered it like a watchful cat switching its tail as she stared at Powers, then she turned back to me. “I’ve heard that you obtained a tintype of Dulcima out in Arizona some place and were a bit. how shall I put it?. somewhat taken with her.”
I admitted that I’d come across the photograph in a pretty strange manner and, as she seemed to want to talk, went into the details of just how I found that tintype. I hoped it would put her off somewhat.
“How unusual.” She smiled up at me in the lantern light. “You might allow me to inspect that picture sometime, as it may be a relic of some relative who perished in that wagon train tragedy. The poor girl has had a most sorrowful beginning, hasn’t she?”
All the time Rosita was speaking, her brilliant gaze was scanning my clothing, my face, and particularly my eyes.
“Sí, my niece has the effect of often fascinating the sterner sex . . . as I’ve said.” She nodded in the direction of Powers and Dulcima.
I mumbled something about the beauty of the night and the fine crowd at her affair, but the mistress of Las Fuentes seemed determined to keep me on the griddle for the time being.
“You must now be aware that Dulcima has some talent in the manner of singing.” Rosita’s eyes remained fixed on the strolling pair. “Unfortunately she also possesses quite a streak of waywardness. and that has sometimes led to her association with such undesirables as flashy, shallow theater folk and some of the gambling fraternity. I’ve had to insist that she leave all such people alone. and I believe she has done so as far as I can tell.”
When I said something about Dulcima not bumping into that sort when she was away at her finishing school, I was wishing that Rosita would trail off onto another subject.
“Sí, it would be much better for all concerned if she were actually back at school,” Rosita went on, touching her lovely chin with her closed fan. “But in the meanwhile, during her vacation, she needs other diversions to turn her away from possible mischief during the time she is at home, particularly as the Castañeda girls have invited her to town.” She paused again as she watched the gambler and her young ward where they strolled under the orange trees.
“You want me to keep that gent out of the picture as much as possible?” I wondered if Rosita had any idea of my reputation back down in Mexico—and hoped she didn’t. Besides, I seemed to have a different feeling toward the little lady, who’d been so charming and lively during our dance—sort of protective, you might say.
“Sí, I want you, as you say, to keep an eye on Dulcima while she is in town.” Rosita suddenly took my hand and a real jolt of electric fire shot through me. “Now come over to the verandah, if you will. I have a friend who would like to greet you.”
She led me around the little orchestra at the end of the house and up the steps where old Colonel Hechavarría sat in a chair near the open door. The ancient Mexican houseman stood by the blind officer, a glass and bottle in his hand. When he saw us approaching, he hustled to pour out some wine for the colonel.
“Esteban, would you go in and bring out that present for Señor Bean,” Rosita told the old fellow, who made himself scarce.
“Sit you down, señor. Sit you down.” The blind man waved a thin hand and I plunked down into a nearby chair as soon as Rosita had seated herself in her hammock.
I made some polite talk about seeing him again, asked after his health, and all the while was aware of the brilliant green eyes of Rosita on me. She said nothing at all, but seemed to be waiting for something.
“Señor, as you see me, I am come up in the world a bit, all thanks to your generosity.” And the old gent spread out his arms, displaying a new jacket, and patted his middle, where a fancy gold sash held up his red-slashed trousers. “Sí, it is good to again seem like a gentleman, if only to dress like one.”
“Clothes make the man, I’ve heard.” I fingered my own gold-filigreed jacket but stopped when I saw Rosita’s amused glance sweep over my outfit.
“But I must tell you, señor,” the old man went on, “that a certain hombre has been asking questions of my man Pacheco when he has been in San Diego for supplies.”
“Questions?” I asked as Rosita leaned forward in her hammock, fan waving slowly in the orange lantern light.
“Sí. I sent Pacheco into town, as I said, and he stopped by one of the cantinas. the Crossed Muskets, I believe. There the proprietor, Señor Powers, had word that my man had brought some gold to San Diego, and he got our poor Pacheco somewhat tipsy as he endeavored to discover where that particular coin had come from.”
“What did he find out?” So this Powers was some slicker than brother Josh, nosing out that gold I dropped around the countryside. But perhaps the gambler was just fishing for whatever he could find. Certainly he couldn’t connect a few golden eagles with Jeff Kirker’s hidden hoard.
“He told Señor Powers that it was coin from a good friend, but that we had possessed it for some years,” old Hechavarría answered, long fingers tapping on the side of his empty glass.
“Hush!” Rosita held up her hand. “Don Xavier, say no more for now. I think I know why this gringo has been asking such questions. but I’ll explain later.”
The little orchestra had struck up another tune and the patio was again filled with the shadows and silhouettes of the dancers. I saw both Castañeda girls sweep by in the arms of some young Californios, and then the gambler and the tintype girl swirled past in the laughing crowd.
“Señor Roy!” Rosita called over the sound of the music, and I turned to see her standing by the doorway, a sombrero in her hand and a strange young man at her side.
“Señor, I believe this is your property.” The stranger spoke English with a pleasant accent.
I took back my long lost sombrero. “Gracias.”
“It is nothing. I came upon it last week during that storm. and Rosita tells me it belonged to you.” He bowed and turned back into the interior of the house
without another word. Whoever he was, he had the run of Rancho de la Fuentes.
I stood looking from Don Xavier to Rosita. Both seemed about to say something when the stranger returned to the porch. “Your pardon, Señor Bean, but I’ve just arrived from a most tedious journey and my manners are not of the best.” He put a hand to his heavily inlaid red jacket and made a graceful bow. “Permit me. I am Francisco Almada, as my dear sister could have told you.”
My eyes must have opened wide, for he laughed and, throwing up a hand, clapped me on the shoulder. And when he did so, his jacket parted and I glimpsed two six-shooters thrust into his green sash.
I told him that I was mighty happy to make his acquaintance, and thanked him again for the return of my lost lid, but I didn’t mention how taken aback I was to meet Rosita’s so-called brother.
We bowed to each other again and this time Francisco vanished into the house and stayed gone.
“Sit back down.” And Rosita patted the hammock and held out a hand. My head was humming like a nest of bees—and then, all at once, I had that old Bean hunch.
As I sank back down beside Señorita Almada, I knew that I’d just met none other than Joaquín Murieta himself.
What Rosita said next just helped to nail down my suspicions. “Roy, why did your brother not come out this evening with you?”
I knew that she was somehow aware that Josh, Sánchez, and several of his deputies had stayed in San Diego to guard the jail. “We’ve got pretty straight word that Murieta and some of his gang are in the area, and that could mean that he may try to break those rascals out of the calabozo, including his right-hand man, Juan Pico,” my brother had told me that afternoon as I left town to ride to Rancho de la Fuentes. Josh hadn’t seemed too ruffled about me riding all that way out into the country, with the possibility of a gang of cut-throats on the loose. Well, if he wasn’t too worried, then neither was I, though I wasn’t about to ride back to town after midnight.
Rosita was still waiting for my reply and I felt her fan tap my knee. “Business in town, I guess,” was all I could reply, while the blood began to pound as I felt the soft curve of her thigh against mine.
“And you had no business but that of seeing my little ward.” She rapped me gently on the ear with that fan. “You needn’t hold on to that sombrero so tightly. I shall see you don’t lose it again.”
Somehow the words slipped out before I could clamp my jaw. “Joaquín does as his sweetheart tells him?”
Then I expected to feel that little dagger at my ribs again, but after a gasp she turned and her eyes blazed into mine.
“You heard, my brother!”
“Well, I’d been told that he . . . Murieta . . . was your. . . .”
“Lover?” I could feel her body stiffen. Then she laughed softly.
I knew I could be skating on about as thin ice as a man could and not plunge right in over his head. “No offense, señorita, but that was what a friend of mine told me.” I could have added a few other things, but had sense enough to keep my jaw shut.
“This friend wouldn’t be named Kirker?”
Now it was my turn to stiffen up. “It might have been.”
“That is what I have feared. You’ve been tossing around Jeff Kirker’s stolen gold.” She grasped my arm with fingers soft yet strong as steel. “Roy Bean, you could be in the deepest of trouble.”
“Does your brother know about the gold?” I looked hurriedly at the door, but it stayed empty—and old Don Xavier seemed to have dozed off in spite of the musical hullabaloo in garden and patio.
“It’s not just Joaquín. In fact, he’s. . . .” She paused and looked around. “I have much to tell you, but it must wait until later.”
The music had stopped again and we could hear the guests clapping and calling for Rosita.
“I promised I would sing a song for them, and it’s growing late, and many, except the Castañedas, have a long ride home. So I’d best play the more proper hostess.” She arose and I got up, also, holding my two sombreros. “Meet me at your golden tavern after the baile is over. at midnight.”
Chapter Fourteen
It grew late. The moon, covered with misty clouds, eased down over the pine woods and night birds were calling. A chill breeze had drifted in from the Pacific and the guests were starting to look for cloaks and traveling gear when Rosita came out of the ranch house and down the broad steps into the patio.
A murmur of pleasure swept through the garden when the company saw their hostess. She’d put up her flame-tinted hair in a bright-green scarf and her curvesome but slender figure was clothed in a short, ankle-length cloth-of-gold gown, edged in a beaded fringe. As she moved toward the little orchestra, she jingled with necklaces and bracelets like a young Gypsy princess. Her bright scarlet slippers clicked and clacked on the painted stones of the patio, while an anklet of coins tinkled and rang on one slim ankle.
With a signal to the musicians under the pepper tree, she spun around on her slippers, keeping time with a pair of castanets. While fiddle, guitar, drum, and flute swept on in a flurry of music, her dance became that of a tattered, golden leaf caught up in an ocean tempest, as glittering skirt and sea-green scarf flared out into a misty blur under the silvery glow of the dying moon and the flickering lantern light.
On and on she danced, twirling, spinning, and weaving breath-stopping patterns in motion until I knew I’d never seen anything so wildly beautiful. When she stopped, with one last whirl of arms and legs and twang of guitar, the whole garden broke out into delighted applause, while I stood staring, too charmed to make a move.
Lucia Castañeda, slipped up beside me on the steps, munching away on a honey cake, whispering: “Isn’t she wonderful? They say she was on the stage with Lola Montez and the toast of San Francisco before she returned to this rancho.”
“There wasn’t anyone else to run the place when her father died?” I wondered what she knew of Francisco Almada—or Joaquín Murieta.
“They say there is a brother, but a perfect scapegrace . . . a ne’er-do-well who rarely comes to the rancho. I’ve never seen him, nor have many.”
We were soon joined by Estrellita and with the Almada ward, Señorita Dulcima. The gambler was nowhere in sight, though I was sure he’d not gone. Both young ladies were chattering and full of plans for the night’s sleeping arrangements. Dulcima smiled at me when I asked how she liked her. “She is wonderful at whatever she does.” Then she fell silent and looked off into the distance toward the orange trees.
“See, they ask for another song,” Lucia said, pointing at the milling guests around Rosita. Suddenly the music clashed into a Spanish patriotic serenade, and her thrilling voice rang out:
La augusta Cristina,
De España embeleso,
El mas tierno beso
Imprime a Ysabel:
Y ‘Reina,’ le dice,
‘No is sobre esclavos;
Sobre iberos bravos,
Sobre un pueblo fiel.’
Triunfamos, amigos,
Triunfamos en fin,
Y libre respir
La Patria del Cid.
Standing balanced like a golden angel on the edge of the west fountain, Rosita, with arms flung to the night sky, sang the entire seven rousing verses, joined by the entire crowd for the fiery choruses.
On and on she sang to the explosive end:
And thou, messenger
Of peace and joy,
Hear the pure voice
Of our loyalty;
Hear the accents
Which we raise to heaven;
Hear what we cry,
Country! Liberty!
And the audience chimed in, roaring their answer to the military hymn:
Triunfamos, amigos,
Triunfamos en fin,
Y libre respir
La Patria del Cid!
[Let us triumph, my friends,
Let us triumph at length
And let the country of the Cid
Breathe f
reely again!]
When the song finished there came shouts of “¡1;Viva la España!” “¡Viva el Mexico!” “¡1;Viva la señorita Rosita!” and the uproar was tremendous.
At last some young caballero, two sheets to the breeze, shouted out: “¡Viva todo el mundo! [Long live everybody],” which bit of foolishness was followed by a gale of laughter.
When the applause and excited conversation eased off, the guests began to leave the rancho with many good byes, while the guitar and flute played and the rest of the little orchestra sang them on their way with a clever little drinking song:
Ah! que bonitos
Son los enanos,
Los chiquititos
Y mejcanos.
Sale la linda,
Sale la fea,
Sale el enano,
Con su zalea.
Rosita, who stood by the gate, bidding farewell to the folks, took old Don Hechavarría by the hand as he came up, guided by his servant. She lowered her voice but I was near enough to hear her mention Francisco by name. It was plain that the old gent was one of the few who knew that her brother was nearby, though he couldn’t see him.
The Castañeda girls hurried up to bid me buenas noches. “We’ll be back in town in a few days and Dulcima comes with us . . . so you must promise, Señor Roy, to be as attentive to our dear friend as you are to us.”
They playfully shoved Dulcima forward while she struck at them with her fan but smiled shyly at me.
I allowed that I’d come calling at the Casa Castañeda as usual and, feeling like a regular don myself, took the fingertips of each young lady and saluted them in the best fashion. When I seized Dulcima’s tapered fingers, she pulled them back for an instant before surrendering them to me. I brushed them with my mustache, and, as I did, two people watched my shenanigans, besides the Castañeda sisters and some of the departing guests.
Rosita’s green eyes were on me for a long moment, while Dick Powers, hand shoved in his sash, stood in the shadow of the wall staring at us.
With one last bow to the ladies, I followed the jovial, chattering crowd through the gate, hard on the heels of Powers, who’d managed to leave while I bade Rosita a good evening.