Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) Read online

  He had shrugged. “How can I say? The people of America were not all savages, you know. At Monte Alban in Mexico I saw observatories for studying the stars far better than anything we have. How do we know what they knew?”

  She remembered a padre at San Gabriel Mission had told her of the belief the Hopis had, of coming to this earth from a “hole in the ground” and that place had been called a “sipapu,” or something of that sort.

  She had asked Jaime what the old medicine man had meant when he found his sipapu where it was not expected to be.

  “All I could get from him were that there were certain places, some of them constant, some shifting in position, where one might pass through the curtain to the other side. In seeking the one he knew, he found one of which he had known nothing.”

  It would grow dark quickly in this place, for the cliffs would allow only sunlight from overhead. She looked around, then walked back to the cave. Glancing through the door she saw the old man stretched upon the floor.

  She would wait a little longer. Seated by the door, she thought of possible solutions, one by one. Even those she discarded, she examined once again.

  Alvarado was their friend and had been her husband’s friend, but he was far away to the north. Pio, although he was a kindly man, had troubles of his own.

  Their debts were not large, scarcely twenty-five hundred dollars in all, but that was a large sum in California in these times. Not long ago a ranch as large as their own had sold for even less, and they had no friend who could come up with so much.

  Only there was a difference. They now had almost half the sum. Could they somehow come up with the rest? They might sell the Lady Luck, but it would bring very little now, and the governor was growing harsher about inspecting cargoes.

  They still had several hundred hides, but unless an unexpected trading vessel showed up, there was no market for them. They had not traded furs since Sean’s voyage. They had cattle and horses but so did everybody else and there was simply no market for them.

  Again and again she went over the ground, taking each item in turn.

  It was very hot, and the late afternoon sun struck directly upon her. Heat waves shimmered, even more than on the desert. She got up, feeling a little nausea, and for a moment thought she saw an Indian standing at the edge of the terrace. She started to speak, moved forward, and then the illusion faded and there was only the heat waves above a bare place on the rocky ledge beyond the terrace.

  It was time to go. Juan might be tired, but she must awaken him. Turning, she went to the cave. Her head ached, and she was worried and frightened, yet her sense of fear seemed to have no focal point, only an all-pervading feeling of strangeness and uncertainty.

  The old man lay upon the floor. Apparently he had not moved.

  “Juan? We must go. There will be trouble.”

  The old man did not move, nor did he speak. Suddenly shocked, she stepped into the cave and bent over him.

  “Juan? Juan!”

  There was no answer. She touched him, shook him slightly. He did not move. His eyes were open, staring upward at the cave roof.

  He was dead.

  She touched his eyes gently, closing them. His skin was cool to the touch. He must have died shortly after lying down.

  She took up the jacket she had worn when they first came up the creek and placed it over him.

  “Sleep, Juan,” she said gently. “You have earned it.”

  She took her rifle and canteen and left the cave, turning toward the faint path along the creek. She walked swiftly to where their horses were resting.

  Nothing was to be gained here. She had what gold there was, and she felt sure Juan’s body would be safe in the cave. She had seen no animal tracks about, nor had she seen even a lizard or a bird. Later, they could come back and bury the old man, but for now there was nothing she could do.

  Untying the horses, she mounted quickly, and, leading Juan’s horse, started down the trail, riding swiftly.

  Now she had but one driving thought. Get back to the others, stand with them, and when they could, slip away and return to the Malibu. The answer, she felt sure, was there and not here.

  She had ridden for almost an hour before she heard a sound other than those of her own movements. When she heard it, the sound came from far off. It was a rifle shot.

  Pointing her rifle at the sky, she fired.

  Maybe they would hear that and know she was coming, or maybe the others would hear it and wonder who it might be. Murder is not lightly done and even Machado, with his reckless disregard for law, would hesitate. So would Wooston, essentially a cautious man. Probably they had no idea that she was not with Sean, or that the party had been divided.

  She rode at a rapid trot, the best pace for the ground she covered, and she kept her rifle ready.

  Suddenly, long before she expected to come up with them, she heard another shot.

  Rounding a bend in the trail, she pulled up short. They were just before her, almost opposite the head of the Piedra Blanca, with Mariana leading the packhorses and Montero and Sean coming along slower.

  Montero saw her and rode up swiftly. “We have a little time, Señora, but we must go back.”

  “Do you remember the old trail? Back of Reyes Peak?”

  “Sí, Señora. It has been years, but—”

  “Lead us then. Somewhere we should be able to cut over to the Cherry Creek trail to Old Man Canyon. We will go home now. Lose them if you can.”

  Sean rode swiftly up, glancing suddenly at the empty saddle of the lead horse.

  “Juan?”

  “He is dead. He died back there after he showed me the gold.”

  “I am sorry. He was a fine old man, a fine man. I could have learned much from him.”

  “He told me he had taught you what was most important. He said it would not seem like much, but it was, and you would see.”

  “Let’s go. We’ve killed nobody yet and I’d prefer not to.”

  “Sean? There isn’t enough. There is scarcely half enough.”

  He shot her a quick glance, then nodded. “I was afraid. I suspected.”

  “We must think of something, Sean. We must think quickly, you and me.”

  “Did you see where the gold came from? Any old workings?”

  “No. It was a strange, empty place. The gold was in a pot on a shelf, most of the other pots were empty. The Old One wanted to rest and he lay down in the cave. He must have died almost at once but I did not know it for several hours.”

  They rode on, turning sharply south for about a mile, then west again with Reyes Peak bulking large on their left and ahead.

  “Sean, there’s something strange about that place. I was almost sick up there, dizzy. Once I thought I saw an Indian of some kind, but he just faded out.”

  “‘Of some kind’? What kind?”

  “He was…different, I guess. I just caught a glimpse, but it was my imagination, anyway.”

  Sean glanced back. Could he see dust in the air? Or was that, too, imagination?

  Nothing his mother had said surprised him…why? He turned the thought in his mind, puzzled by it.

  He prided himself on being a straightforward, hardheaded man of the sea…of the sea? Did that make a difference? For the men who sail upon the deep water see too much of the unbelievable and mysterious, they travel to faraway lands where customs, religions, and thoughts are all keyed to a different tempo, and somewhere along the line become less resistant to the amazing, the unusual, and the seemingly unreasonable.

  Or was it simply the Irish in him? That Celtic background of Druids and leprechauns? Of chieftains, saints, and pagan gods?

  The top of Reyes Peak was lit by the fire of sunset, and a soft wind from the sea moved through the pines. Suddenly they emerged from the trees riding along the ridge of Pine Mountain toward the west.

  Eileen Mulkerin stood in her stirrups, her hair blowing in the wind, and looked back the way they had come. “I hope they can ride!�
� she commented grimly. “Before they see their homes again they’ll have been around!”

  Montero slowed his pace. Along the skyline they went, Montero leading, followed by Mariana and the pack animals, then Eileen Mulkerin and Sean.

  She glanced at him. “That girl of yours is strong stuff,” she said, “not a word of complaint from her and she does what she can and stays out of the way.”

  He smiled. “She’s not mine, Señora, although—”

  “I know,” Eileen Mulkerin looked again at the slender girl ahead of them, “but she’s made of good yardage, that one. She will stay with you, all the way.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  The trail suddenly veered to the right over a rocky surface, but Jesus did not turn. He pushed right on, going between close-growing pines, turning abruptly down a steep slide, and picking his way along the side of a boulder-strewn canyon into a thick stand of timber.

  The trees were old, yet few were over thirty or forty feet tall, and there was evidence that a fire had swept through. Their way was steeply down through chaparral and yucca, the slopes dry and harsh.

  When the pace slowed, and the shadows lengthened, Sean rode up beside his mother.

  “Have you thought of what we will do?” he asked.

  “I have thought. We will give a fandango!”

  He stared at her. “You are joking?”

  “No, a fandango. It is the answer. We will invite them all! Our friends, our enemies…everyone!”

  She laughed at his amazement. “We do not have the money, right? But we have some money, and do they know how much? They do not! They will see some gold, and their imaginations will make it three times as much! We will laugh at them. We will taunt them with our splendor.

  “They will never believe this gold is all! So we shall show a little of it, let their imaginations believe there is much more, and privately we will tell a few that there can be more…and indeed there can…but it takes money. First, this trifling debt…it must be paid. And then!”

  He shook his head. “Only you would have the nerve, the audacity…!”

  “It will work,” she said quietly. “We shall win not by what there is, but by what they believe there is.”

  Chapter 12

  *

  MONTERO LAGGED BEHIND, brushing lightly over their trail, then sifting dust over it to erase any marks that might be left. He held the dust high and let the breeze carry it where it would.

  Sean took the lead, with the Señora behind him. Occasionally, they rode side by side. He was a strong man, this son of hers, she decided. A man fit to move large upon the land. He was quiet, but very sure, and his trail sense was excellent.

  They found their way over the Cherry Creek trail to the Upper North Fork of Matilija Creek. About a half mile further along, Sean turned into a cove among the rocks and rode back into a corner of the cliffs. There, obscured by live oaks and several huge old sycamores, was a level place. Blackened stones showed where others had camped, long ago.

  Stepping down from the saddle, he offered his hand to his mother, then to Mariana.

  “You knew this place?” Mariana suggested.

  “No, but I could see the setback in the cliff face, and knew there were such places.” He stripped the saddle from her horse.

  Sean let the horses roll, then picketed them on a patch of grass nearby. There was a little water in the creek and their picket ropes allowed them to drink.

  Montero rode in a few minutes later and began putting a fire together. “It is safe,” he said. “They will not find us tonight.”

  Eileen Mulkerin did not sit down. She stood, feet apart, looking into the small flame. She liked the smell of the crushed juniper, the smell of wood-smoke, and the soft rustling of the water in the creek.

  Many times in the past she had camped in just such places with Jaime, and she was thinking of him now, of his lean, strong body, the ease with which he moved, the grace of him.

  She rarely thought of him as dead. She liked to believe he was only away, that he would come back to her one day, and in the meanwhile she must do the best she could to preserve what belonged to them.

  If they could get back with the little gold they had, if they could ride into the pueblo of Los Angeles and buy things with some of this gold, people would start to talk, and she would be able to hold off Zeke Wooston and Fernandez.

  Gold was rarely seen and the sight of it would revive the old stories. If she said she would pay soon, the Californios would believe her, and Wooston would hesitate to push too hard.

  The fandango would be a bold stroke, a show of confidence that would add to the belief that she had enough or would soon have enough to pay.

  A bat dipped and swirled in the air above them, and not far off a mockingbird was singing his endless songs into the night stillness.

  She gathered wood, and Montero broiled beef over the fire. They sat together, talking very little, enjoying the night, the rest, and the food as well as the smell of wood-smoke and coffee.

  Sean took up his Colt rifle and moved away from the fire, but after a few minutes he was back. “Seems quiet enough,” he said.

  Jesus Montero glanced up at him, then at the Señora. “The Old One is dead,” he said softly. “It is not easy to believe.”

  “We must go back and bury him when there is time,” Sean suggested.

  “What about his body?” Eileen asked. “Will it be safe from wolves?”

  Montero did not look up from his food but he said distinctly, “No animal will go where he lies.”

  Sean looked at him. “You mean wherever he lies…or where he lies now?”

  “Did you see animals there? Or birds?”

  “No,” she said reluctantly, “I did not.”

  “His body will be safe,” Montero replied. “It is not a thing for worry.”

  “There will be Machado to deal with,” Sean commented. “He will make trouble.”

  “Leave him to me,” Eileen replied quietly. “It is all different now. We have a show of gold, and our position is stronger. You will see. It will make a difference, and Mariana shall help me plan the fandango.” She smiled. “We shall even invite Andres Machado. We shall invite them all!”

  *

  THEY ARE GONE,” Silva said. “Disappeared.”

  “That’s foolishness!” Wooston said impatiently. “They came this way, they moved about, they left. There must be tracks.”

  “I think,” Fernandez interrupted, “the gold is nearby. I think they stopped here, some went away for the gold and the others stayed.”

  “Let’s find the gold then,” Wooston said. “To hell with them.”

  “I do not care for gold,” Machado said. “I want them. I will kill them. All of them.”

  “You go ahead an’ kill ’em,” Russell said, “we’ll hunt for the gold.”

  Silva was silent. He glanced at the other vaqueros and the one called Francisco shrugged expressively.

  “You will not find the gold,” Silva said. “Only the Old One knows.”

  Wooston glanced at him irritably. Then he said, “We hired you for a tracker. Find ’em.”

  Wooston walked over to the remains of the fire. It was cold and dead. How could they have slipped away like that? He stared around the rocky cliffs, then slowly walked along the edge of the brush. He could see where the horses had been held, where the various people had slept, yet there seemed to be no tracks leading from the place.

  Zeke Wooston was a hard, bitter man, a greedy man and a cruel one. From boyhood, when he had been a hulking bully in a class of younger children, all of whom had been quicker and brighter than he, he had relied on strength rather than intelligence. But over the years he had developed a kind of cunning, and a grasp of character that was shrewd and penetrating.

  He knew very well whom he could frighten, knew those with whom he must be genial, and those to avoid. Ordinarily he would have avoided Sean Mulkerin. As for the widow Mulkerin, she was nothing but a woman for all their tal
k and he was not worried about her. She’d scare…they all did.

  He wanted money and he wanted power. King-Pin Russell, a vindictive, dangerous man, was a tool to that end. Russell was a man who if offered two ways would always choose the dishonest one. It was his nature. He was tough and egotistical, sure of his own shrewdness, and with nothing but contempt for honest men. They were suckers, he said, they were incompetent fools.

  Why most of them lived better, easier, and with freedom from his pressures had never occurred to him. He was sure most of them were secretly stealing or would have if they had the nerve.

  Basically Russell was a follower. First it was one man, then another. Now it was Wooston, whom he disliked but who always seemed to have money. He lived easier in Wooston’s shadow, and did what he was told until he could make a big strike himself and come away with enough money to tell them all to go to hell.

  From the moment he had first heard of the gold he had determined to have it for himself. Nobody in California had found any gold but there were rumors of it, and the Spanish had found gold in Mexico. Why shouldn’t there be some here?

  It was obvious the gold’s source was nearby. Why else had they stopped here?

  He watched Wooston prowling about, studying the rocks, the tracks, the country around. Zeke thought it was here, too, or close by. Machado did not care. All he wanted was a knife in Sean’s ribs and a whip for that girl.

  Fernandez wanted gold, but he wanted it quick and easy, the kind you could dig with a knife…from somebody’s ribs.

  Tomas? Tomas would bear watching. He was quieter, said less, watched more, and was steadier than any of the rest.

  Russell took the stub of a cigar from his pocket and lit it. His eyes strayed to Francisco. Aside from Silva he was the best tracker in the lot, and a wary, careful man as well. Francisco glanced his way and King-Pin offered him a cigar.

  Francisco was no fool. The American or Englishman or whatever he was wanted something. Well, so did he.

  He took the cigar. “Gracias,” he said, with a flash of white, even teeth. “Señor is generous.”

  “No, I ain’t,” Russell replied shortly. “But I’ve been noticing you’re an almighty fine tracker…maybe better than Silva.”