Brit felt his breath quicken. Silver? A rush of blood to his head left him slightly dizzy. He turned toward Dolores.
Eyes ablaze, red lips parted, her hands curled. Triumph twisted her face when she looked at Brit. “Yes, you must go.”
He nodded imperceptibly, but the others did not notice. Don Carlos sank back into his chair. “I cannot. My brother Ramon. . .he is not well.”
“Then let me go,” Carlos pleaded. Excitement glittered in his eyes.
“You?” Don Carlos stared disbelievingly at his son.
“I am a man, Papa.” Carlos struck his chest with one arm in the dramatic way Brit had learned to associate with him. “Sixteen, I now am.”
Doubt warred with avarice in the older man’s face. Suddenly he turned to Brit. “You, señor. Would you be going to look for this treasure?”
“I’d like to.” The quiet answer hung in the still air. “It is perhaps the only chance I will ever have to obtain my heart’s desire.” He refrained from looking at Dolores but could see her rigid posture out of the corner of his eye.
“Would you be willing to take this one?” He waved at Carlos disdainfully.
For once the boy kept silent, but his eyes eloquently pleaded.
Brit hesitated. Surely the way would be hard, filled with dangers. He’d read of the fighting and killing in the 1848 Sutter’s Mill gold rush, the greed and madness that ended in violence. Yet if it were not for Carlos’s warm support, his championing his rescuer and friend, would Dolores have bent from her exalted position enough to notice him?
“I will take him, Señor Montoya.” Brit cut short Carlos’s shout of joy. “On the understanding that I am to be in control. I’ll not be having a lad hurt or. . .or tainted in a mining camp for lack of obedience.”
“Do you vow to do this?” Don Carlos demanded.
“By all the saints.” Carlos placed his right hand over the general region of his heart.
Brit winced. Swearing by the saints had no part in his faith. Yet he recognized the sincerity of the boy, no, young man’s oath. He leveled a look at Carlos. “The moment you break that vow is the moment I will pack you off to home,” he warned.
“Si, señor.” Carlos let out another whoop. He lifted Dolores from her chair and whirled her about in a wild dance. “I will bring you back riches enough to buy jewels,” he babbled. “You can wear them on your fingers and toes and. . . .”
Brit lost the rest. Even in the times of utter hardship, the O’Donnells had never made money their god as did this unpredictable, warm-hearted family! The hacienda offered more than anyone should want: good food, pleasant surroundings. Flowers wore jewel tones and had gorgeous fragrances. What need for rubies and sapphires or emeralds and diamonds when the whole courtyard supplied blossoms and leaves in the same colors? A little chill shot through him and he turned back toward Dolores. Why must she place such importance on wealth? Her fingers stayed curled into grasping small fists and her eyes betrayed the lust for gold and silver and all that Carlos promised her.
He clamped down hard on the disloyal thought. She had been raised to believe many haciendas and pleasant living were no more than her due. Once he returned with enough to make her comfortable, surely her girlish desires would turn more toward her husband and the home he would provide and away from greed.
❧
Within a few days, Brit and his young companion had gathered together what they would need and prepared to go north and east across the mountains toward the silver strike called the Comstock Lode. Henry Comstock, a prospector, got credit for discovering it although it actually had been found by miners.
Brit managed a quick moment alone with Dolores, but it proved to be unsatisfactory. She seemed more interested in the money he would bring back to her than in him or plans for the future. Her enigmatic Quien sabe response to Brit’s shy questions about what would happen when he returned left him hollow and troubled.
“What if we don’t find the ore?” he bluntly asked.
Fear, disgust, and a visible drawing back accompanied her too quick answer. “Oh, but you will.” She pressed his hands in her soft ones, stood on tiptoe, and grazed his cheek with her lips. The stolen caress blotted out doubt, and he rode away with its memory warm as the California sun on his face.
There had been an argument about which horse Carlos should ride. “It must be Sol,” he insisted. “The white stallion is a fit mount for a Montoya.”
For once, Brit lost patience with his peacock strutting. “The last thing you need in a mining camp is to have it known you are from a wealthy family,” he said sharply. “How long do you think Sol would escape the greedy hands of those who will pour into Carson County as we are doing?”
“But you’re riding Shamrock!” Carlos sulked.
“Shamrock is a good horse but not a fine or race horse,” Brit retorted. “Now choose an animal that won’t be conspicuous.” He eyed Carlos’s lavish clothes with distaste. “And leave all the black and silver stuff here.” He strode to his room and returned with an awkwardly tied bundle. “Wear these.” The wrappings fell back and disclosed rough pants, shirt, sheep-lined jacket, and scuffed dandy-sized boots.
“Señor!” Carlos jerked back, insulted. “I, Carlos Montoya, to wear those garments? Never!”
“Fine. Then I’ll head out alone.” Brit stooped to gather the scorned clothes, but a slim hand stopped him.
“Carlos will wear what you say.” Pale-faced and resolute, Dolores glared at her brother. “Have you so soon forgotten your vow to the saints?”
Protest died aborning. Carlos grabbed the bundle, ran out, and soon came back, transformed from proud caballero to a reasonable facsimile of a vaquero. A few hours later, at Brit’s insistence, he agreed to ride a black gelding named King, seated in the plainest saddle the hacienda afforded.
Oddly enough, once the two left Monterey, Carlos’s rebelliousness fell away. He reveled in sleeping out, thrived on the rough camp fare Brit provided, and proved to be far more than the spoiled scion of Castilian stock. In an amazingly short time, he also became adept at caring for King, fetching firewood, building fires, and repacking supplies. His riding and roping were, of course, superb.
“I never knew how good life could be,” he told Brit one night after a long ride. “Do you think we will find silver? Or gold?”
“If God permits.”
“Why do you always say such things?” he curiously asked, flat on his back with his head propped against a saddle.
“Because they are true.” Brit’s gaze rested on the dark head.
“When I was just a muchacho, I said my prayer to Señor God,” Carlos remarked in the sleepy stillness when even the birds had gone to roost. He sighed. “But God did not save our other haciendas.”
“If it hadn’t been for Him, perhaps you wouldn’t still own the hacienda at Monterey,” Brit quietly told him.
Carlos lay prone for a long time then whispered, “Perhaps.” A few minutes later his even breathing showed that he slept.
Brit did not. A host of memories and doubt settled over him like a storm cloud. Could he and Dolores ever find real happiness, coming from such different backgrounds? If not, why had it seemed clear that God had led him to Monterey? He closed his eyes and a hundred images of the girl he loved danced before him. Dolores, peeping over her great fan. Dolores, pure as the angels in her white gown and opening red rose. Dolores, whose lips had trembled at his kiss but whose hands clenched in greed. Which picture represented the true person? Before Brit could decide, they merged and blended until sleep swept them away with a single stroke. Yet his dreams tugged and pulled, until he felt like a swimmer who could no longer fight against raging waters but must go down.
**
The journey required stamina almost beyond Carlos’s strength. At times the mountains and canyons loomed, each an obstacle to overcome. Brit’s deep love and admiration for his friend grew. At times Carlos’s hands shook with fatigue, yet he never complained. At other times, fear s
hone in the dark eyes when the riders followed a narrow trial along the edge of a cliff where one false step by King or Shamrock would send them plunging hundreds of feet to their deaths on rocks below. Brit taught Carlos to watch out for soft earth ready to slide, loose rocks poised to launch an avalanche, trails eaten away by flood and rain.
One afternoon they reached what looked to be an impassable stretch of path across a steep shale hillside and Brit hesitated.
“Señor Brit, do we cross that?” Carlos pointed to the gray white expanse between them and the trees beyond.
Brit had grown used to the fact that no matter how often he told Carlos to simply call him Brit, it did not come natural to the young man. Now he eyed the hundred yards before them. “If we don’t cross here, it means backtracking for miles.” Yet he doubtfully viewed the shale. “I think we will be safe if we go easy.” He prodded Shamrock with his boot heels and urged him forward. The bay gelding snorted and gingerly stepped forward.
“Allow me to go first,” Carlos suggested, even while fear rested in his whitened face. “I do not weight so much. Should I fall, you can catch me with your rope.”
“Are you sure?” Brit didn’t like the idea, but it made sense.
“Si. King will leave footprints and Shamrock can follow.” Carlos didn’t wait for consent but swung King around past Brit and Shamrock. Sure-footed as a mountain goat, King picked his way across. From the other side, Carlos shouted. His white teeth gleamed, and he slid from the saddle then tied King to a nearby evergreen.
“What are you doing?” Brit hollered.
Carlos removed his lariat from King’s saddle. “If you slide, I, Carlos Montoya, will catch you.”
Brit chuckled but humored him by not stepping out onto the shale until Carlos had his lariat coiled and ready. He had learned how deeply pride was ingrained into the lad. Now he guided Shamrock into the trail King had blazed and headed across the bad spot.
All went well for the first fifty yards. Then something, probably a loosening of the hillside from Shamrock’s movement, caused a quiver of earth beneath the faithful horse’s feet. He shied, then tried to speed up and get away from the sliding shale. Brit realized the time for caution had passed. Unless they could cover the remaining distance pronto, he and Shamrock would end up at the bottom of the long hill, buried in the shale that already gathered momentum.
“Go, Shamrock!” Brit leaned forward, urging the horse ahead.
With a loud whinny, the bay tried to leap. He could not. His hooves sank into the moving ground. A heartbeat later, Brit felt the inevitable downward pull of the landslide they had created! An involuntary prayer of thanks that Carlos stood safe on the other side rose in his heart, then, “God, help me!”
Zing.
Had God made sure the single chance for Carlos’s throw? In any event, his lariat sang in the air, settled over shamrock’s head, and tightened. A quick glance showed Carlos expertly backing black King, rope tight around the saddle horn.
“Now, Shamrock!” Again Brit sank heels into his mount’s heaving sides.
With a great pulling together of muscles followed by a spring, the range-trained horse responded. The pressure of the rope and steady pull toward safe ground blended with Shamrock’s struggles. Inch by inch they moved, fighting the ever-increasing shifting shale, until Shamrock’s hooves reached stable earth. He scrambled onto firm ground seconds before the whole hillside slid to the valley floor with a mighty roar, leaving a naked, scared patch of slope.
Brit tumbled from the saddle. Sweat streaked Carlos’s face and the horses’ flanks. Brit felt cold perspiration crawl beneath his shirt. “Wisha, wisha,”3 he whispered.
“Señor Brit,” Carlos breathed. “We will not return this way, I think.”
Brit stared at his rescuer, whose eyes were wide pools of relief. Laughter bubbled inside him and spilled over. He threw himself on the needle-covered ground and roared until memory of the near tragedy asserted itself into his mind and stilled his mirth. He stood, started to hold out his hand to Carlos, then abandoned the formality and dropped a hard arm over the younger man’s shoulders.
“Gracias, Carlos.”
“Si.” Some of the other’s insouciance returned. His eyes sparkled. “You save me, I save you.”
“And thanks be to God we’re standing here talking about it,” Brit reminded, before turning away to hide the Irish mist in his eyes. “Let’s see if we can find a stream or lake or something. I can still taste dust.” He remounted Shamrock, waited until Carlos clambered aboard King, then led off on the faint trail. His lips twitched and he glanced back. “You were right about one thing. We won’t be for coming back this way!”
Once across the range of mountains, their way led down. They discovered a blue jewel lake with water so icy their teeth chattered when they drank. King and Shamrock drank deeply then splashed in, eager to rid themselves of the day’s soil. Brit followed suit. So did Carlos. But long before the horses snorted and came back out of the water, the two men shivered in front of a roaring fire. They also took the opportunity to don fresh clothing and wash and dry their traveling clothes.
Fed, warmed, nearly asleep, Brit surprised them both by impulsively asking, “Carlos, do you honestly think your sister would marry me?” His hopes and heart sank at the long thoughtful silence between them before Carlos replied.
“Perhaps, if we carry riches to her from our journey.”
“Would you marry a poor girl if you loved her very much?” Brit couldn’t help asking.
“Si.” This time the answer came back with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. “But for my sister it is different.”
“Why?”
Carlos shrugged. “She is a woman.”
All Brit’s protests ended against the wall of tradition embodied in the four words that sounded a death knell in his heart. So had Dolores been trained, so would she obey. Even if she loved Brit to distraction, she must marry one who would restore the family fortunes, Carlos said.
“Do you think that is right?” Sleepiness gone, Brit leaped to his feet and paced the ground in front of the fire.
“I never thought about it at all until you came,” Carlos admitted. “Besides. . .” He poked at the fire with a long stick. The end caught and blazed up, casting light on his earnest face. “Dolores could never be happy if she were poor.”
“I suppose you consider anyone poor who doesn’t have at least one large hacienda, fine horses, and many servants,” Brit said bitterly.
“Señor Brit, I believe you are the richest man I have ever known.” Carlos stood and faced him. “Since we left Monterey many days ago I have watched you lift your face to the night sky. I have seen the stars and moon shine in your eyes and how you watch the sun get up and go to bed, wearing its coat of many colors. I have seen you bow your head against the storm.” He swallowed convulsively, and his voice turned ragged.
“This day, when I made my loop and sent it to save you, I saw your face. If the rope missed, you would die. Señor, I saw no fear! Your lips moved. I knew you talked to your God. You are young, in love with Dolores, eager to live and find silver, so you may ask for her hand.” His voice faltered and broke.
Even so, Brit wasn’t prepared for Carlos’s final burst of oratory that allowed him to look into his companion’s heart. In liquid tones, so low Brit strained to hear the words, came wonder.
“With all this, I saw peace, Señor, a man who has courage and peace and. . .faith, what need has he of silver and gold?”
Stunned by the revelation of Carlos’s challenge, Brit turned from him and strode into the forest until he could find solitude to deal with his warring emotions—and accept the magnitude of being a witness to Carlos Montoya of the living God who gave peace the world could not understand.
3 an Irish expression of surprise
five
Angus McFarlane’s fears about losing the child he found in the desert proved groundless. During the ten happy years following the richest discovery he
could ever make, the grizzled man and young girl periodically returned to the spot marked with the cairn of stones where Angus had buried the man who carried Joyous. Only once did they find horse tracks, and they had been there for months, so told no desert tales.
True to his promise, the desert wanderer forsook his travels, settled down with his adopted daughter on a small place in southern California, and turned Jenny out to pasture. He hired a combination housekeeper-companion-teacher for Joy with the gold they’d found at Sutter’s Mill and watched the pretty child grow into a charming woman.
Joy never lost the reddish gold cast to her hair or the dozen or so freckles across her nose that shone gilt in the hot sunlight. Her laughing blue eyes could darken with thought or from seeing anyone unjustly treated. More than once she had driven tormentors away from persecuting a puppy or kitten, using nothing more than her flashing, magnificent eyes and scornful words that cowed bullies even while they admired her. Woe to those who treated others in any way other than the Golden Rule that Angus had taught her from the Auld Book.
All good things must end. So did Angus and Joy’s idyllic existence. Twinges he ignored until he could no longer do so drove Angus to a doctor. The verdict—a tricky heart that could go on beating steadily for a year or two at the most.
Never had he suffered such anguish. To leave Joyous? “God,” he prayed in his bed chamber that night, gaze fixed on the low-hanging stars visible through his wide-open window. “Grant that Thy servant may see her cared for before Thou calls me.”
All night his lips repeated the prayer and with dawn came peace—and a decision. Little remained of the gold they had found. It hadn’t particularly mattered until now. Their place furnished fruit and vegetables. A few cows and chickens gave butter, cheese, milk, meat, and eggs. Joy bartered them for sugar and flour at a small nearby store. At her insistence, the woman who cared for her until she grew tall and strong was now just a memory and Joy ran their little household and sweetly ordered Angus around with efficiency.
Veiled Joy Page 5