by Jon Sharpe
He let Belinda sleep until it was time to wake her father to take his turn on guard duty. Fargo roused her from slumber first, telling her that she needed to return to the tack room while Grayson was still asleep.
She stretched and said in a sleepy murmur, ‘‘I had the strangest dream, Skye. I dreamed there was this odd light moving around the mission. . . .’’ Her voice trailed off as she sat up. ‘‘It wasn’t a dream, was it?’’
‘‘No, I saw it, too,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘And I don’t have any more idea what it was now than I did then.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I’m still glad I came up here, mystery lights and all. Glad I got a chance to tell you how I feel about you. I just wish . . .’’
‘‘Another time,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘Soon?’’
‘‘Soon,’’ he promised with a smile.
He took her hand and helped her to her feet. She brushed hay off the skirt of her traveling outfit. ‘‘That was more comfortable than I thought it would be. And I don’t seem to have been bothered by bugs . . . or rats.’’
Fargo took a last, quick look around from the loft window, then followed Belinda down the ladder. She gave him a hug and retreated to the tack room, easing the door shut behind her. Fargo went over to Grayson’s bedroll and knelt beside him.
‘‘Huh? What?’’ Grayson exclaimed as Fargo gave his shoulder a light shake. ‘‘Mr. Fargo! What is it?’’
Fargo could tell by the man’s confusion that he had been sleeping soundly. ‘‘Your turn to stand guard, Mr. Grayson,’’ he said. ‘‘You sure you’re up to it?’’
Grayson sat up and rubbed his eyes with his fists. ‘‘Yes, I’m fine,’’ he said in a half whisper so he wouldn’t disturb Sandy and Jimmy. He got to his feet and followed Fargo over to the ladder.
Fargo pressed the Sharps into his hand. ‘‘Ever use one of these before?’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, I have. They’ve got a kick like a Missouri mule, don’t they?’’
Fargo smiled. ‘‘Yes, but you don’t have to worry about precise aim. Hit a man anywhere with a shot from one of these and he’s going to be knocked off his feet.’’
Fargo gave Grayson some extra rounds for the carbine, then waited until the man had climbed to the loft before heading for his own bedroll. He fell asleep a short time later, not bothered by Sandy’s snoring, the small noises made by the horses as they shifted around in their stalls, or the memory of that mysterious light at the mission.
The rest of the night passed without any trouble. The next morning, while Sandy and Jimmy were tending to the horses, Fargo asked Belinda, ‘‘Sleep well?’’
‘‘Surprisingly well,’’ she said. With a smile, she added, ‘‘After a certain point, anyway.’’
They ate breakfast at the cantina, then got ready to hit the trail again. Fargo left saddling the Ovaro until last. When he went into the stable he found the hostler combing the big black-and-white stallion.
‘‘He must like you,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘He won’t let just anybody come around him. The big fella’s been known to take a bite out of a man’s hide if he doesn’t take a liking to him.’’
‘‘The horse knows that I have only admiration for him, senor,’’ the old-timer said as he stroked the Ovaro’s nose. ‘‘No one can see the truth in a person’s heart more clearly than a caballo.’’
Fargo liked the hostler and sensed that the old man was trustworthy, so he ventured a question. ‘‘I saw something a mite odd over at the mission last night. I was wondering if you might know what it was.’’
‘‘Was it a light, senor?’’
Fargo frowned, a little surprised by the hostler’s question. ‘‘As a matter of fact, it was.’’
The old man nodded. ‘‘Sí, of course. What you saw was Father Tomás, Senor Fargo.’’
‘‘You mean one of the padres from the mission? I wasn’t even sure if it was still being used as a church.’’ Fargo shook his head. ‘‘But what I saw couldn’t have been a priest. The light didn’t really look like a lantern. And it was up in the bell tower, then on the ground, then back up in the bell tower, all in a matter of a minute or so.’’
‘‘Sí, señor. Father Tomás.’’
Fargo was starting to get a mite impatient and frustrated. ‘‘I never saw a priest who could fly,’’ he said, ‘‘and that’s what it would take to make that light jump around like that. Anyway, like I told you, it didn’t look like a lantern.’’
The hostler shook his head. ‘‘No, senor, it was not a lantern. Like I told you, the light was Father Tomás himself.’’
‘‘But how—’’
‘‘And of course he can fly,’’ the old man said. ‘‘He is, after all, a ghost.’’
7
For a moment, all Fargo could do was stare at the hostler. The old man didn’t seem to be trying to make a joke at his expense. The lined, weathered, nut brown face was as serious as it could be.
‘‘A ghost?’’ Fargo finally said.
‘‘Sí, señor. He seeks the lost treasure of San Buenaventura.’’
‘‘Lost treasure,’’ Fargo repeated. He was starting to suspect that the old man was just spinning a yarn. A local folk tale, at best.
‘‘Sí. Forty years ago, Father Tomás received word that a notorious pirate, an Argentinean devil named Bouchard, who raided along this coast and caused much sorrow and weeping, was going to sail to San Buenaventura and loot it of all its treasures. Father Tomás feared not only for the Church’s holy vessels and icons but also for the safety of his flock, at that time mostly Indians. So he had them gather up everything of any value in the mission and took them all into the hills, where the treasure was hidden in a cave.’’ The hostler’s bony shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. ‘‘Of course, the pirate Bouchard did not sack the mission. In fact, he did not even stop at San Buenaventurabut instead sailed on past as if the devil had wings, bent on mischief elsewhere, no doubt.’’
‘‘Let me guess,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘When Father Tomás went back to the cave to retrieve the treasure he had hidden, it was gone.’’
‘‘Not all of it, senor. Only one bag. But that bag contained the most priceless items from the church.’’
Fargo nodded. He was well aware of how the brown-robed padres who had colonized the Southwest for Spain had used gold and silver mined by their Indian parishioners to craft chalices, picture frames, candlesticks, and other items that were worth a fortune.
‘‘Father Tomás was brokenhearted that a member of his flock would stoop to stealing from the Church,’’ the old-timer went on. ‘‘It is said that he died not long afterward from that broken heart. Soon after that, his ghost appeared, and everyone knew why. The padre’s spirit is restless. It cannot know peace until it has found the treasure that was lost while he was trying to save it from the pirates.’’
Fargo glanced through the open doors of the stable and saw that one of the teams was hitched to the stagecoach and the other horses had been roped together by Jimmy, who was now on his own mount holding the lead rope. Sandy held the door of the coach open so that Grayson and Belinda, the only passengers, could climb inside. They would all be ready to go in another minute or two.
The hostler’s story hadn’t really answered Fargo’s question about the mysterious light at the mission, but it was a good yarn nonetheless, the Trailsman thought. He just didn’t believe it, because he didn’t believe in ghosts. He had seen some mighty strange things in his life, but sooner or later, they all had a reasonable explanation.
He took a coin from his pocket and pressed it in the old man’s hand. ‘‘I’m obliged, amigo,’’ he said. ‘‘For your hospitality and your friendship.’’
‘‘De nada, señor. You are welcome in the village of Ventura anytime.’’
Fargo swung up on the stallion and rode out of the stable, turning in the saddle to lift a hand in farewell to the old Mexican. Sandy slammed the coach door after Grayson and Belinda and climbed o
nto the driver’s seat as Fargo rode over beside the big Concord.
‘‘Ready to roll?’’ Fargo asked.
Sandy unwrapped the reins from the brake lever and nodded. ‘‘Ready as we’re ever gonna be,’’ he replied.
‘‘Let’s move out, then,’’ Fargo said with a wave of his hand. He heeled the Ovaro into a trot and led the way.
But as he rode past the old mission, he couldn’t help but glance at the bell tower and recall the mysterious light he had seen hovering in it. The old man’s story about lost treasure and the ghost of a long-dead padre couldn’t be true.
Could it?
The next stop along the coast on the Old Mission Trail was at Santa Barbara. The coach approached it around midday. This part of the journey had been easy. Although narrow and ungraded, the trail was simple to follow and ran along the flat coastal plain, with a range of low mountains rising to the east. Fargo loped along on the stallion about a hundred yards ahead of the coach. Down a drop-off to his left was the beach, with the surf crashing ashore as it had for untold centuries.
The growing settlement of Santa Barbara was sprawled along the shore just above the sea, where several wharves jutted out into the water. The mission, with its distinctive twin bell towers, was a mile or so to the east, looking a little like a European castle as it perched atop a small hill with the mountains in the background. The red tile roofs of the buildings shone brightly in the noontime sun.
Fargo reined the Ovaro to a halt in front of the first stable he came to. A heavyset man with a bulldog jaw and bright red side-whiskers came out of the barn and said, ‘‘Good day to ye, son. Somethin’ I can do for you?’’
Fargo gestured toward the approaching stagecoach. ‘‘We’d like to stop here and change teams if that’s all right with you, mister. In fact, if you have any good fresh horses for sale, we might be able to work a deal.’’
A grin wreathed the man’s pleasantly ugly face. ‘‘I’m always open to a little horse tradin’,’’ he declared. ‘‘Seamus McPhee is my name.’’
Fargo introduced himself and reached down to shake hands. ‘‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. McPhee.’’
‘‘What’s a stagecoach doin’ here, anyway?’’
‘‘Establishing a new stage line from Los Angeles to San Francisco,’’ Fargo explained. ‘‘The owner and his daughter are in the coach.’’
McPhee put his hands on his broad hips. ‘‘Well, what do ye know about that? Ye don’t think the fellow might be interested in havin’ a stage station here in Santa Barbara, do ye?’’
‘‘I think Mr. Grayson would be very glad to talk to you about that,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Fact of the matter is, he’s looking for men to operate stations and provide fresh teams for his coaches.’’
‘‘Well, he’s come to the right place, by Godfrey!’’
The stopover at Santa Barbara went very well. Arthur Grayson and Seamus McPhee hit it off right away, and over lunch at a nearby tavern, they made arrangements for McPhee to operate the stage station here and provide horses for the line. He would be able to continue his livery stable business at the same time, so it was a good deal for the Irishman. He also sold a team of fresh horses to Grayson for the rest of the run up the coast.
The afternoon was spent covering the distance between Santa Barbara and Santa Inés. The trail was rough and curved slightly to the east, twisting in and out among the foothills as the mountains began to crowd in on the sea. Once it was through the hills, the stagecoach traveled along a fertile valley between two ranges of peaks. Fargo could no longer see or hear the Pacific Ocean, but he knew it was there, just beyond the heavily wooded mountains to the west.
They reached Santa Inés late in the afternoon. The neighboring village of Los Olivos was tiny compared to Santa Barbara, which, as one of the best ports along this stretch of coast, was developing into a good-sized settlement. Los Olivos, on the other hand, was nothing more than a tavern, a blacksmith shop, and a few huts.
‘‘This is where we’re going to have to spend the night?’’ Belinda asked from the window of the coach when the vehicle had rocked to a stop.
Fargo nodded. ‘‘It’s not much, but better than nothing, I reckon.’’
Belinda didn’t look like she was convinced of that.
Fargo dismounted and went into the tavern, which was a long, low building with a thatched roof. Outside, the sun had almost set, and inside, the tavern was already dim and smoky. This valley was farming rather than ranching country, and the men at the bar wore rough white shirts and trousers of homespun cotton. Battered straw hats were shoved to the backs of their heads.
The customers were all of Mexican descent, but the big man behind the bar was blond and blue-eyed, with a bald head and a jutting beard. A fat belly swelled the front of the dingy apron he wore. His arms and shoulders were laden with thick slabs of muscle. He scowled at Fargo and asked, ‘‘What do you want, mister?’’
His accent was Swedish, Fargo thought, recognizing it because he had been to Minnesota a time or two, and yet the words had an odd lilt to them. Fargo figured out why as the proprietor turned his head to some of the men at the bar and spoke to them in rapid, fluent Spanish. The man’s accent was a mixture of influences from both languages.
‘‘I’m traveling with some folks who need a place to stay for the night, as well as some food,’’ Fargo said, ignoring for the moment his instinctive dislike of the man.
The proprietor jerked a blunt thumb over his shoulder. ‘‘I got a couple o’ rooms out back you can rent,’’ he said. ‘‘Cost you dear, though. There ain’t another place to stay in the valley unless you want to camp by the old trail.’’
For a moment Fargo gave that thought some serious consideration. He didn’t like this hombre, and the place looked none too clean. But, as he had told Belinda already, he supposed it was better than nothing.
‘‘I’ll tell the others and let them decide,’’ he said with a nod.
‘‘Don’t blame me if some other pilgrims come along and rent them rooms while you’re makin’ up your mind.’’
Fargo ignored the surly comment. The trail was almost deserted, so he didn’t think there was much chance of someone renting the rooms out from under them.
He went outside and explained the situation to Grayson and Belinda, who had climbed out of the coach. Grayson looked at his daughter and asked, ‘‘What do you think?’’
Belinda turned to Fargo. ‘‘Is it safe here, Skye?’’
‘‘Safe enough. Probably not very comfortable, though.’’
She laughed. ‘‘We spent last night in a stable, remember?’’
‘‘You’ve got a point there,’’ Fargo agreed with a smile.
‘‘All right, then,’’ Grayson said. ‘‘Tell the man we’ll take the rooms. Belinda can have one of them and the rest of us will share the other one. Do we need to stand watch again, like we did last night?’’
‘‘Wouldn’t be a bad idea,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I haven’t seen any sign of Stoddard’s men all day, but I’d be willing to bet they’re not far off, just waiting for a chance to strike at us again.’’
Fargo went back inside, followed by Grayson and Belinda, while Sandy and Jimmy tended to the horses. Fargo said to the big blond man behind the bar, ‘‘We’ll rent those rooms.’’
The man grunted. ‘‘Figured you would.’’ He turned his head and bellowed, ‘‘Angie!’’
A girl came through a door that led to the rear of the tavern. She wore an old dress that had been patched in several places, as well as an apron that had once been white but now was as gray as the one the owner wore. She kept her head down so that her thick blond hair hung around her face, concealing her features.
‘‘You get them rooms cleaned up like I told you?’’ the proprietor asked in a harsh voice.
The girl’s reply was so soft Fargo had trouble hearing it. ‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Got the stew cookin’?’’ The man’s tone was still sharp and imp
atient.
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Good. We got folks stayin’ the night. You dish up some food for ’em—you hear me? And don’t waste any time doin’ it. Rattle them lazy bones o’ yours!’’
The girl turned to retreat into the back of the tavern. Fargo wasn’t sure how old she was—fifteen or sixteen, he guessed, maybe a little older—but she moved like she had the weight of decades on her. He had seen the way she flinched when the man roared at her. Fargo’s eyes narrowed as he thought about that.
He was starting to dislike the fella behind the bar more and more.
Grayson and Belinda took seats at a rough-hewn table. Fargo asked the owner, ‘‘You have any beer?’’
‘‘Cerveza? Sure. Four bits a glass.’’
‘‘Steep,’’ Fargo commented.
‘‘Where else are you gonna—’’
‘‘Get any around here, I know,’’ Fargo broke in. He dropped a coin on the bar, hoping that the beer would be better than the owner’s attitude.
It wasn’t.
He was still sipping the watery, bitter brew when Sandy and Jimmy came in and joined him at the bar. ‘‘We made a deal with the blacksmith,’’ Sandy told Fargo. ‘‘He’s got a corral, where we’re keepin’ the horses tonight. Stage is parked right beside it.’’
Fargo nodded. ‘‘That sounds like the best we can do. Which seems to be a pretty common state of affairs around here, by the way.’’
‘‘Is that beer you’re drinkin’?’’ Sandy asked as he pointed at the cup in Fargo’s hand.
‘‘Sort of. The closest thing to it you’re going to find in Los Olivos, anyway.’’
Sandy signaled for the big blond man to bring him a cup, and when he had tried the beer, he smacked his lips, made a face, and said, ‘‘You weren’t joshin’, were you, Fargo?’’
The girl emerged from the back, carrying a platter with several bowls of stew on it. The smell that came from the bowls was the first good thing Fargo had encountered in this place. The appetizing aroma was laden with spices and wild onions and roasted meat.