California Gold (7 page)

“Tell me about yourself,” she said.

“Let’s see. My great-grandfather was a traveling tinker in England. My grandfather owned a public house in London but he sold it to come to America—Ohio, where my pa was born. James Ohio Chance was his name. He came out here in the Gold Rush, and met and married a Hibernian lady—not a popular thing for a Protestant to do.”

“I went to a Catholic girls’ school near Monterey,” Carla interrupted. “Saint Ursula’s. The nuns taught a number of Protestant girls from good families. I was bored, and I made such a fuss, Swampy took me to Europe when I was eleven. I visited Europe three times before I was sixteen.”

“With your father and mother?”

“With a paid companion. Swampy stayed in California. I never knew my mother. She ran off when I was a baby.”

“Did you meet that Polish count in Europe?”

“Boleslaw? Yes. He chased me to this country and Papa persuaded me to marry him. It was a ghastly mistake, but Boleslaw was an attractive man, and I couldn’t see beneath—” She shivered suddenly. “The fog’s chilly. Come keep me warm.”

He slid over and hesitantly slipped his arm around her. She murmured and snuggled down, resting her hand on his left knee. The light pressure turned his member so hard it hurt, and he shifted away just a little.

“I’ve never met a young man quite like you, Mack Chance. You’re bold, yet you’re very shy.”

“No, no—well, I guess. With you. I don’t know much about rich girls.”

“It’s time you learned, and here’s your first lesson.” She touched him again, and brought her mouth close. He felt the swell of her breast against his shirt as her tongue explored. Then she paused. “Here’s the second one. When I can’t get something—that’s when I want it most. I go after it until I have it.” She caressed his hair. “Fair warning?” Another kiss. “Walter Fairbanks would probably commit murder to get where you are now.”

“I’m not Walter Fairbanks.”

“Thank heaven.” She ran her tongue over his cheek. “You can help me forget.”

He stroked her face in turn. “Forget what?”

“The past couple of years. Boleslaw, the count, was a handsome man, but he was vicious. I don’t mind someone getting drunk, but I discovered that he had worse addictions. Opium. And he didn’t care for a husband’s duties in the boudoir. But he liked to hire these dreadful depraved people from the streets and watch while—well, I was lucky to get out.” Another shiver then. “I didn’t think marriage was supposed to leave scars, but mine did.”

He was too shocked to speak. Her smile seemed less assured, sad again. “I’ll be going to San Francisco soon too. Only a short visit. Some shopping, a couple of social affairs—then I’m going away for a while. I need to be by myself, to get rid of some of the bad memories.” She kissed him. “I think you could definitely help.” She giggled. “Can you picture Swampy’s face if he knew I was making love to someone without a penny?”

That was ice water dashed in his face. He untangled himself and jumped up.

“What’s wrong?” she said, getting up too.

“Miss Hellman, don’t use me to get back at your father.”

She slapped him. He grabbed her arm. To his amazement, she laughed, then flung her other arm around his neck and plunged her tongue in his mouth. His loins shook from the grinding contact of her body.

“I’m not, I’m not, my dear,” she said, her hand dropping to squeeze him. He nearly exploded. “Mack, I want to make love. Please, you’ve gotten me excited. Let’s undress. Here, I’ll begin…” She unfastened the long scarf, spilling her hair, billowy and golden, onto her shoulders. The moon was visible now, blazing behind the shredding veil of tule fog.

He reached for the buttons of her shirt and undid them. Standing close, facing him, she shrugged off the shirt and then the chemise beneath. Her breasts were big and heavy, with dark-brown tips. He bent and kissed them. She threw her head back and exclaimed softly, then hugged him and began kissing his throat, his chest—

She stopped.

“What is it, what did I do?” He could barely keep from pulling at her, couldn’t keep his hands still.

“We ought to make this as pleasant as we can. Wait just a minute.” She walked slowly, seductively, to her picketed horse, and then brought back a second, larger canteen. “Here. Bathe.”

“What?”

“Please bathe first. I’m sorry to tell you, but you smell like a barnyard. It isn’t very romantic.”

He felt stupid, insulted, furious, and went limp, his skin prickling in the chill. He snatched the canteen while she raised her chemise against her breasts with a coquettish false modesty.

He yanked the cork and inverted the canteen with a snap of his wrist. The water ran out noisily, splattering the ground. She watched it, and him, with disbelief. “What in hell—”

“Listen, I may be a clod without much schooling, but I’m not some servant to be ordered around. Put your clothes on and go home.”

He kicked the canteen, and it flew past her leg, generating a startled little cry. Moments later, she was heading east at a gallop, repeatedly quirting her luckless black horse. Mack’s last glimpse was of the bright banner of her hair streaming out behind her.

Sleepless, he sat with his back against the rough trunk of a eucalyptus. The full moon shed brilliant light over the grove. He wound the gold ribbon of scarf around his left hand, then unwound it and wound it the other way.

He’d thrown away a chance to make love to a spectacular girl. Well, he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, and she’d displayed a certain kindness toward him, but there was another side. She was spoiled, accustomed to having her way, like the old German who’d sired her. The willful streak had suddenly asserted itself, and instead of an eager, generous girl, she was suddenly a queen about to grant her favors for the night. He’d have liked to make love to her. But not on her terms.

With a long sigh, he began to fold the scarf, shortening it until it fit between the pages of T. Fowler Haines, which he put away along with the memory of her hair, eyes, hands, and naked skin. Strange young girl. He didn’t doubt that she’d be trouble, a lot of trouble, for any man who involved himself with her. But why think of that? He’d never see her again.

M
ACK’S RECENT TROUBLES MADE
it hard for him to appreciate that he was nearing San Francisco. When he arrived in the little town of Wheatville, on the main line to Oakland and San Francisco, his mood didn’t improve. There were scruffy blanket men everywhere, wheat-field workers with all of their worldly goods in blanket rolls tied on their backs.

When a crashing rainstorm sent him hunting for shelter in an alley behind the main street, he literally stumbled on a ragged man lying unconscious in the mud between two puddles. It was an old Indian, Mack realized, when he rolled him over and saw the narrow dark face, high forehead, and black hair without a strand of gray despite the man’s obvious age. A bloody abrasion marked the Indian’s forehead, but he was breathing.

Mack dragged him against the rear wall of a hardware store and, in the slashing rain, managed to wake him up. Hobbling, gripping Mack’s arm with an emaciated hand, the old Indian led him back through a warren of packing-case hovels to the one that was his. Solemnly, he gestured Mack in.

The place smelled of offal and rotting meat, but Mack was glad to be out of the rain. The Indian lit a small fire and shared some purple berries and a tasty root that took a long time to chew. Mack helped him wash the bleeding abrasion with water from his canteen.

“Three of the blanket men fell on me to rob me,” the Indian said, his black eyes watery. “They found I had nothing and beat me anyway. They would do the same if I were Chinese.”

“Why don’t you leave? Or is this your home?”

“I am Chumash, from the south. I have no home any longer. I work the fields, up and down. Wherever the white men will allow it,” he added for clarification. After studying Mack a moment, the Indian said, “You like California?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve not been here long, but I’m going to get rich here.”

“Hah,” said the old man. The joyless laugh showed his brown teeth and ruined gums. “There is a dark side to your dream. My people know. One ancestor, in the mission of San Luis Rey de Francia, was no better than a slave. The friars rented him to the
rancheros
for a profit, and if he protested or disobeyed, they flogged him with knotted ropes ‘for the good of his soul.’ My father, as a young man, free in the pueblo of Los Angeles after Mexico took back the mission lands, was not much better off. He worked as a ranch hand. He was paid every Friday, with brandy. By Saturday he was drunk, which was the point. He spent Sunday in jail and on Monday morning he was herded out with others of his kind, and his services were auctioned to the ranchers for one more week. By Friday he had worked off his fine and was a few cents ahead. Once more he was paid with brandy…” The Indian shrugged. “In California there are only two kinds. Those who take, and those they take from.”

“You mean that when I have money, I’ll be one of the takers?”

The Indian replied with a grave nod. “You are a good man to help an old Indian beaten and cast aside. But even for you the answer is yes. It is the only way. It is California.”

First Hellman and that lawyer tried to darken his dream, now this tragic old man, huddled in this shack with his bitter memories. Silently, with fervor and a little desperation, Mack swore he’d prove them wrong.

In the morning he started off again, following the main line of the railway. Soon the scorching sun dried the countryside, and about midday, he saw through the heat haze a line of forty or fifty men working on the roadbed with picks, shovels, mauls, and tamps.

Mack drank from the canteen, which by now contained just one tepid swallow, then slung it over his shoulder and approached the section gang. Most of the men were bare to the waist and sweating so hard their bodies looked oiled. The work gang included about a dozen Chinese, smaller and more wiry than the whites. He noticed that the two groups didn’t speak to each other.

A collie ran up and down the roadbed, frisking and barking. A burly worker swung at it with his pick. “Get outa here, Ruff. O’Malley, control your damn dog or I’ll kill him.”

Another worker whistled and yelled and the collie lay down in the shade of a flatcar on a spur track. The dog panted for a few seconds, then jumped up and ran off again.

“
Ruffo
,
ven aquí
!” a man shouted. Mack looked in his direction. Dressed in a heavy black suit, the man was standing beside a mule-drawn wagon. The collie chased over to him and lapped at a pan of water he’d set out. Mack noticed now that the man had a clerical collar, which explained his unusual dress.

The wagon was full of barrels, and Mack guessed they contained water. He walked toward the man, ignoring hostile stares from the track gang. “
Buenos días
,
desconocido
,” the priest said.

“I don’t speak Spanish. Do I look like I should?”

The priest folded his hands. “On the contrary. My assumption is that you’re a newcomer.”

“What makes you say so?”

With a disarming smile, the man replied, “Your nose. Your cheeks. Pink, and peeling away. Also, your clothes—well, forgive me, but they have a certain, ah, well-traveled look.”

“You’re exactly right—about them, and me.”

The priest nodded agreeably. “I addressed you in Spanish out of habit. It is my native language, and spoken widely in California. If you plan to stay here long—”

“Permanently.”

“
Excelente.
May I humbly suggest that a study of
español
would be courteous, and to your advantage?”

Mack scrutinized the forthright priest. He was perhaps twenty-five, with a massive, square-looking head, a low forehead, and broad nose. His suit showed blacker patches where he’d sweated through. His wide dark eyes reminded Mack of the old Indian’s. Mack couldn’t decide whether the priest was Mexican, Indian, or
mestizo—
both.

“It’s a hot day for traveling,” the priest went on. “You’re welcome to a drink.”

“Thanks, I just ran out.” Mack gave a thump to the canteen hanging over his shoulder.

The priest tapped the barrel nearest the wagon’s dropped tailgate and handed him the dipper. The water was hot, and after a careful sip, Mack emptied the rest on his head. The priest laughed.

“Thanks very much,” Mack said. “I’m on my way to San Francisco.”

“From where?”

“Pennsylvania. My name’s Macklin Chance.”

“Welcome to California, Mr. Chance. I’m Father Marquez. Diego Marquez. Unlike most of these good men sweating for the Southern Pacific, I was born in this state.”

Mack started to hand back the dipper, then hesitated. “Wait, I thought this was the Central Pacific.”

“Originally. Two years ago the owners formed a holding company to control their various assets. The name of the holding company is Southern Pacific, but now they’re calling the railway by that name also. The Big Four, those four outlaws, chartered their holding company in Kentucky because the railway laws are lax there. Almost any outrage against the public or the workingman is permitted.”

“And you bring water out to these men?”

“Someone must. The company doesn’t consider it their responsibility.” He whacked the dipper against the barrel, disgusted. The priest seemed to do everything with sharp, vigorous moves.

“Seems like there isn’t a hell—a lot of water in California,” Mack observed.

“There is if you search in the right place. Come share what little shade we have.” After he scratched the mule’s ears, Marquez peeled off his heavy coat, leaving only his collar and black dickey tied at his waist. He wore no shirt, and enormous tufts of hair were visible under his thick arms. He looked like a bull, Mack thought.

Marquez hunkered down on the other side of the wagon, squinting across the simmering plain toward the hazy coast range. Up on the line, picks and tamps
chunk-chunked
, mauls rang on the heads of new spikes, men swore monotonously, and a stubby foreman wearing a side arm paraded, hectoring the workers.