California Gold (6 page)

“That’s the damnedest wickedest thing I ever heard.”

Carla laughed admiringly. “What do you say to that, Swampy?”

“Don’t you call me that,” Hellman retorted. “Your father’s entitled to respect.”

“I’m afraid your opinions are immaterial,” Fairbanks said to Mack as if he were a stupid pupil. “The law is the law.”

“And that damn Assemblyman Wright’s trying to change it, but he ain’t won yet,” Hellman burst out. Mack figured he was really yelling at his daughter. “Wright, he’s nothing but a thieving radical, him and his water districts with everybody owning a piece—it’s communistic. He’s trying to rob a man of his God-given right to the fruits of his labor and property.” Some unseen insect landed on the neck of Hellman’s gray, and the horse turned to nip at it and nearly bit the man’s left boot. Cursing in German, he slapped the horse’s neck, then jerked up the S&W and aimed it at the center of Mack’s forehead.

“I guess we wasted enough damn time on you, mister. You understand about the water now. So get moving.”

“The hell,” Mack said. “I never heard of anything like this—one person refusing a drink of water to another person.”

“Don’t make any difference,” Hellman said. “It’s a matter of private property. Besides”—he sniffed, as if smelling pigs— “I don’t much like your face.”

“I do, rather,” Carla said, smiling at Mack, and Fairbank’s gray eyes, the color of a metal cashbox, became little slits.

Once again Hellman wrenched his horse around, now to face his daughter. “Sure, you’re some judge. Can’t find a man who interests you longer than three weeks. I’m surprised you went the six months with Count Boleslaw before you divorced him.”

“Don’t shout at me. I married that sot for one reason. You wanted a title in the family, and some respectability with Walter’s friends in the City.”

“Never mind, never mind,” Hellman said. “Don’t air our troubles in front of this nobody.”

“Somebody who wants a drink and is going to get it,” Mack said.

In the middle of the stream, Hellman twisted in his saddle and aimed the S&W at Mack again. “Don’t bluff with me, mister. Jesse James used a gun like this and nobody bluffed him. When you own water, you can drink all you want. Not until.”

“You’re ridiculous, both of you,” Carla said, nudging her horse forward with her boot heels. Her hips were broad, Mack noticed; she had the kind of billowy figure very much in fashion. Despite the heat and tension and the pointed pistol, he felt a distinct physical attraction to the girl. He licked his parched mouth as she walked her black horse between him and her father.

“Go ahead and drink all you want,” she said. “He won’t shoot me.”

As Mack started to thank her, Hellman leaned out and snatched at her bridle. The spirited glossy black shied away. “C’mere, damn you,” Hellman yelled, swatting with the S&W. The gunsight nicked the horse’s head and it reared unexpectedly. Carla slid off and fell in the water on her billowy rear, letting out a cry.

Whether she was really hurt didn’t matter. Mack jumped forward just as Fairbanks dismounted, but Mack reached her first in the dark brown water, splashing Carla’s face and partially soaking her shirt; the fabric lay wet and tight on her breasts. Mack leaned down while the lawyer, touching his spotless white trousers, hesitated at the water’s edge.

Heedless of the muddy water, Mack swept his arms around Carla. “Hold on.” She was delighted to do it. He felt the huge hot pressure of a breast against his shirt. With a stifled grunt—she was not light—he carried her toward the bank. Carla’s deep-blue eyes were close to his, watching him intently. He did see a choice opportunity and took advantage of it: He stomped and splashed a lot, and Fairbanks didn’t retreat fast enough. Mack set the girl on the loamy bank while Fairbanks stared down mutely at his soiled clothes. Impulsively, Mack leaned down and scooped up water with both hands. He drank so hastily, most of it ran down his chin. The little he swallowed was warm, and full of grit, and wonderful.

Out in the stream, Hellman smirked and grunted, “Well, you don’t mind getting a little dirty, I give you that, Johnny.” Mack saw Fairbanks redden at the jibe. “And you got nerve,” Hellman continued as he caught the bridle of Carla’s skittish mount, “but property’s property. So I’m through talking about this.” Once more he leveled the .45, choosing a larger target, Mack’s chest. “You start walking. Right now.”

Mack was going to swear at him, but when he saw the humorless determination in Hellman’s eyes he stopped himself. He hated these men, hated the feeling of being dirt to be trod on at their pleasure. This humiliation was something he’d remember.

“Which way to San Francisco?”

Fairbanks swooped his hat back in the direction the three had come from. “That way. I’d suggest that you go somewhere else. I don’t know why you came to California, but the Gold Rush was over forty years ago, and we don’t need penniless trash or inferior specimens like you in the City.”

“Oh, you’ve got some kind of high-toned pedigree, have you?” Mack said.

That amused the lawyer; perhaps he knew he was back in control. “I don’t have to explain myself to riffraff. But I don’t mind telling you I was born in California. That makes me a native son—something you’ll never be.”

“Listen, I know what you are. I’d say it, but there’s a lady—”

“Damn insolent—” Fairbanks began, but it was Hellman who took the play, kicking his gray to the bank with a lot of splashing. Mack turned in response to the noise, but wasn’t prepared for the searing pain as Hellman whipped the end of his rein against Mack’s cheek. He jumped away, hearing Carla cry, “Swampy!” in protest, but Hellman managed to hit him a second time.

Blood ran down Mack’s right cheek. He wanted to go for Hellman’s throat, but Hellman’s face had changed from merely hard to ugly. The German brandished the S&W. “That’s the road to Frisco,” he said. “I find you on my ranch tonight, you’re a dead man.”

“Swampy, you’re a bastard sometimes,” Carla said. “You too, Walter.”

Fairbanks responded only by glaring at Mack, but Hellman shouted, “Shut up, goddamn it!”

What was it Wyatt Paul had said about a closed door? Mack licked his lips, already dry again, then turned and started walking. He passed the buxom girl, who was standing there muddy and sweaty and beautiful; he didn’t miss the look she gave him, hot with admiration.

The attorney didn’t miss it either.

T
HAT EVENING MACK RESTED
in a grove of immense eucalyptus trees. From Hellman’s stream he had followed a rutted dirt pike that led toward the coastal mountains, crossing flat land broken by many little waterways with stands of cattail growing along them. At dusk the fog had come down, and though he wasn’t sure he was off Hellman’s land, he decided to risk stopping for the night. He was almost out of his mind with hunger, a condition he tried to forget by studying the fog. It was soft, white, unbelievably chilly—the thickest he’d ever seen.

Suddenly he heard a horse coming from the east. He dodged behind the trunk of a eucalyptus with the clasp knife in his hand and watched the broad dirt pike, or what he could see of it. His mouth was dusty dry again, now from fear. Was the rider someone sent to make good on Hellman’s threat?

The fog swirled, agitated by the horse and rider, who emerged from it like specters. For a moment Mack saw nothing except a dark mass. The rider wore some kind of flapping cape. When he saw long hair, he knew it was no assassin.

“Miss Hellman,” he called, stepping from cover.

She reined the black horse sharply and trotted back. The cape hung down over her back, shoulders, and breasts; it was a Mexican serape. “Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I knew Swampy’s ranch hands would be too lazy to search very hard when the tule fog came down. But I’m not—if I want something. May I dismount?”

There was a certain archness in that question. He knew she was very much more worldly than he was, accustomed to playing games with men—she’d been married to a count, hadn’t she? Still, her presence excited him. She flung off the serape and tethered her horse. She wore a clean white shirt and pants and the gold scarf.

“This is the main road west. I thought you still might be on it, and on the ranch.”

“Is this a ranch? It looks like a farm.”

She laughed. “You have a great deal to learn about California. Farms are ranches out here. See here, I don’t know your name.”

“James Macklin Chance.”

“Jim—”

“No, I go by Mack,” he said as she extended her hand. It was a soft feminine hand, yet he felt strength in it. She held his hand longer than necessary.

“Mack, then. May I sit for a little?”

“Why, absolutely. Over here.” He led her to where he’d put his bandanna on the ground. “I’m sorry I don’t have a blanket.”

“No need for one.” She spread the serape and sat down easily, gracefully. Mack was sharply aware of their isolation in the still, white fog. She patted the ground and he knelt beside her, leaving a proper space between.

“Your father told me to get off his land but I don’t know where it ends.” He gestured west. “China?”

She laughed again. “Almost. Would you have gotten off if you knew the boundaries?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. I really do admire you. Papa’s a powerful man. And as you saw, he can be dangerous. Frankly, I can’t think of another person, young or old, who ever stood up to Swampy quite the way you did. You have remarkable courage.”

“I was thirsty—and I just didn’t know any better.” But he liked the praise, especially from her.

“Walter was very jealous of what you did. Walter would never oppose my father.”

“He’s your father’s lawyer, isn’t he?”

“One of them. Walter impresses Swampy because he’s very old-line California. Swampy’s chasing after respectability in San Francisco like an old bull at stud.”

The words brought a hot feeling to Mack’s face; young girls didn’t talk like that. At least not the daughters of the Welsh and Irish miners back east.

“Swampy isn’t a very good father but I’ll say this for him—he’s a devil of a fine businessman. Henry Miller, another German—his real name’s Kreiser—owns a million four hundred thousand acres. But Swampy owns a million two hundred thousand.”

Mack whistled. “How did your pa get his nickname?”

“By means of what certain people call the ‘swamp scheme.’ Too tedious to go into. Both my father and Miller got rich from the scheme, but Papa hates for people to remind him by using his nickname. I goad him with it.”

“I noticed. Once or twice he almost made me laugh. But when he aimed his gun, he wasn’t funny.”

“No. Papa has no sense of humor and no kindness when it comes to money and property. He’s cheated and ruined more business rivals than I can tell you about. And he treated you abominably. One of the reasons I came after you was to apologize for him. Make amends. So you’ll think less harshly of the Hellmans—”

“Well, I won’t soon forget your father.”
The son of a bitch.
He cleared his throat. “Is Walter your—uh—beau?”

“He’d like to be.” She drew her trouser-clad knees up and clasped her hands around them. “I don’t have a real beau at the moment. I was married to a Polish count—well, you heard. I’m still getting over that.” She leaned toward him. “I’d rather talk about you.”

Kneeling next to her, he was unprepared when she brought her pink mouth to his and caressed him with it, and then with the tip of her tongue. Her breath smelled of sweet clove and of something not quite hidden by it—gin.

“Is that agreeable, Mr. Chance?”

“Yes. Yes it is, Miss Hellman.”

She laughed heartily at his half-strangled answer. Then, softening, she touched his right cheek, careful to keep her fingers away from the dark blood crusted on the edges of the cut.

“Does it hurt terribly?”

“Some. It’ll heal.”

“Papa was brutal to do that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll never forget it,” he answered with a vague hint of threat.

That amused her all over again. “Good for you.” She patted his cheek twice more, a little gesture of condescending approval. It spoiled the headiness of the moment.

The tule fog appeared to be thinning, brightening. The previous night the moon had been full, and perhaps it was up there above the fog, lighting it with a pearly radiance. Carla seized his hand while she got to her feet and then walked off to the black horse. She returned with a large bundle wrapped in a checkered cloth, and a sloshing canteen.

“I brought food and water for the rest of your trip.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Oh, I’ll get my reward.” Her lightly mocking tone put him off again. Carla Hellman fascinated him, but she began to alarm him a little too. He felt vaguely like a frog spitted on a stick.

She sat down again. “This pike leads you into Wheatville, which is just past the boundary of the ranch. From Wheatville you can catch the railroad to San Francisco, if you can afford it.”

“I can’t.”

“But you’re going there.”

“Absolutely. I came from Pennsylvania to make my fortune in California.”

“Just like that.”

“I know it’ll take time, but I’ll do it.”

“I expect you will, Mr. Macklin Chance.” Her smile shone. “In fact I suspected you’d go right on to the City in spite of Walter’s warning. Walter is no fool, but he can be frightfully stupid about certain things. He believes a lot of tripe about the superiority of Anglo-Saxons and native Californians. I’d advise you to stay out of his way. Not that you’ll move in the same circles. But he has powerful friends, and many connections. His father and his uncle started the Fairbanks Trust. A very large bank.”

“I’ll stay out of his way if he stays out of mine.”

“My, you are a truculent fellow. I do like that. Walter’s so contained and tight. Every action and utterance carefully considered. Typical lawyer: no blood, no passion.” She leaned back against the eucalyptus and rested her head. The golden scarf shimmered in the fog, glowing now with a radiance almost pure white. He saw the line of her breasts silhouetted against the light and he grew stiff, quickly and uncontrollably.