Jubilee Trail (51 page)

“Why yes,” agreed the Brute, “you are very beautiful.” He said it impersonally, as though commenting on a landscape. She laughed at him again.

A few evenings later, the Brute told her he wanted to go back to Russia. Some day soon, he said, he was going back on one of the Russian fur-ships.

“You mean you want to go back there to live?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said the Brute. “Maybe I will not like it. But I want to see it again.”

“It will be sort of strange, won’t it?”

“It will be very strange. I left when I was eight years old. Now I am twenty-seven. That is a long time.”

Florinda was drinking chocolate he had brought her from the kitchen. “Do you remember much about Russia?” she asked.

“Oh yes. I suppose there is much that I do not remember. But I remember the big snows, and our house in the country, and our house in St. Petersburg. And I remember my mother.” In the flickering light his face was grave and happy, and his violet eyes had a soft faraway look.

Florinda smiled as she sat down her cup. “The way you say it, your mother must have been very nice.”

“She was.” The Brute smiled too.

“What was she like?”

“She was tall, and she had dark blue eyes and bright hair. I can remember her, when I was a very little boy, coming into my room to say good night. She and my father went to many parties, they were very gay, and there was a lot of snow outside all glowing in the light from the window. She would lean over my bed, and she wore white furs, and jewels in her hair, and she had a nice warm fragrance. When she kissed me good night I could feel the soft white fur on my cheeks.”

“Oh Brute, it does sound lovely!” There was a note of wistfulness in Florinda’s voice. “Tell me some more about her. When did she die?”

“When I was five years old.”

“Was she always frail?”

“Frail? She was never sick in her life. She rode every horse that nobody else could ride, and she drove her own sleigh through the storms. She would come in with her cheeks all rosy and the snow-flakes on her clothes, and she would pick me up and hold me, she was very strong, and she would laugh and I would laugh too, because her clothes were so cold and when she hugged me her cheeks were so warm. What made you think she was frail?”

“You said she died young, that’s all.”

“She was killed riding a wild horse. None of the men could ride him, but she was sure she could. She had done it so often before. She sprang on his back, and they heard her laughing as he dashed off with her, and my father laughed too. He was sure she could ride the horse, she always could. But this time she could not. They heard her scream, and that was all. They found her where he had thrown her.”

“Oh Brute, how terrible!”

“It was not terrible for her, Florinda. It was terrible for my father and for me, and for all of them who loved her. But not for her. It was what she wanted to do. We have got to die, that is not bad. It is good to die doing what you want to do and not afraid. It would be bad to die afraid.”

Florinda gave him a puzzled smile. “You didn’t think up all that when you were five years old. Who told you?”

“My father.”

“But you said it was dreadful for him. How could he feel that way?”

“He was good like her,” said the Brute, “and full of courage. He took me on his knees and told me how strong and brave she had been, and he said I must be strong and brave like her. I loved my father very much, and he loved me. That is why he brought me to America with him.”

“And then he died too, and left you away out here,” Florinda said with sympathy. “Were you very lonesome, Brute?”

“At first I was. Such a little boy. But the trappers were kind to me. I liked Fort Ross. I like it here too, but I want to go back to Russia and see it. In Russia is so much that I like to remember.”

There was a silence. The Brute said,

“Would you like to see something beautiful that belonged to my mother?”

“I’d love to. What is it?”

He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, and drew out a long gold chain that he wore around his neck. “It is an ikon.”

“A what?” asked Florinda.

“An ikon. A holy picture from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

“Is that the church they have in Russia?”

“Yes. Look,” he said, slipping the chain over his head. Attached to it was a little case of blue velvet with gold clasps. Opening the case, the Brute showed her a picture painted on ivory and framed with pearls, and told her it represented the Biblical story of Abraham entertaining the Three Strangers. Florinda had never heard the story, and this was the first time she had ever seen the flat stylized sort of art used in the Eastern Church. She thought they might have got a better painter to do the job. But she was quite capable of appreciating the gold and pearls, and exclaimed admiringly when she saw them.

“Gee, Brute, it must be valuable!”

“I suppose so,” said the Brute. “It is valuable to me, because it belonged to my mother, and to her mother before her. I have not much that belonged to my mother and father, because when we came to America my father brought only what we would need for the journey. But he would not have left this.” Florinda turned the case in her hands, examining it with curiosity, and he added, “Do not tell anybody I carry my ikon.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t. It might be stolen.”

“That is not the reason. The reason is, if they knew in California that I still carried my ikon, I would have trouble. I had to be baptized again to get my rancho, you see.”

Florinda frowned. “I do not see.”

“You cannot own land in California unless you are a citizen of Mexico,” he explained, “and you cannot be a citizen of Mexico unless you have been baptized by their church, which is Roman Catholic. The Californios do not make us go to church, but they must baptize us before they give us land. That is one of the laws they made in Mexico City. I think it is a foolish law.”

“Do you mean,” she asked in astonishment, “that if they knew you had this picture, they would take it away from you?”

“Oh yes,” said the Brute. “And they might take away my rancho too.”

“I don’t know one church from another,” said Florinda, “but I must say, I never heard anything so absurd in my life. Making trouble just because you’ve got a Russian picture. Here, Brute, take it back and hide it.” She watched him as he put the chain back over his head and tucked the ikon inside his shirt. Impulsively she put her hand over his. “Brute,” she said.

He smiled at her. “Yes?”

“You innocent angel, let me tell you something.”

“Why yes. What?”

“Don’t go around showing people that ikon,” Florinda advised him. “Honestly, Brute, you mustn’t. It was very stupid of you to show it to me.”

“Was it? Why?”

“You dear overgrown baby,” she said gently, “don’t you know I could blackmail you?”

“What is blackmail?” asked the Brute.

“Oh you silly lamb,” said Florinda. “It’s like this. Suppose you were skinning your cattle at rodeo time. Suppose I rode in and said, ‘There’s a Yankee clipper in port with a lot of things for sale. Please give me a thousand hides to go shopping with.’ Naturally you’d tell me to go home. But then I could say, ‘All right, if you won’t give me a thousand hides I’ll go to Los Angeles and spread the word that you carry an ikon from the wrong church.’ You’d have to give me the hides to make me keep my mouth shut. I could do that to you, couldn’t I?”

The Brute gave her a glance of wise amusement. “You could, yes. But you won’t.”

“But you shouldn’t trust me like that,” Florinda urged. “It’s not smart to trust everybody you meet. Why are you laughing at me?”

“Because I know more about some things than you do.”

She flashed him a teasing glance. “What, for instance?”

“I know the people who can be trusted,” he answered seriously. “Two people only in California have seen my ikon. John, and now you.”

“Why Brute!” gasped Florinda. She stared up at him in astonishment.

“You would not either of you make trouble for me,” said the Brute, “not if I had pearls as big as eggs.”

Florinda looked down. “Thank you, Brute,” she said softly.

“You are so much like John,” said the Brute. “You have both a great rich goodness, but when somebody finds it out you are so ashamed you are almost angry.”

“A great rich—oh Brute, don’t talk like a half-wit.” Florinda stood up. “Look here, it’s time for you to go. I ought to be getting some sleep.”

“Why do you make me leave all of a sudden?” asked the Brute. “Are you angry already?”

“Oh, talk sense,” said Florinda.

He looked amused, but he objected no further. They said good night. The Brute had started out toward his own room when Florinda called him.

“Oh, by the way. Take these dishes, will you? I’m not allowed out.”

He picked up the dishes. As he put his hand on the latch she spoke to him again.

“Brute.”

“Yes?”

“You’re a dear.”

“Thank you,” the Brute said smiling.

She kissed her hand to him as he closed the door.

John came back from Los Angeles full of news. The mule-train had left for Santa Fe, but Texas had not been able to go with it. Staggering out of Silky’s Place one night, Texas had fallen into a mud-hole and twisted his knee. He was now flat on his back in Los Angeles. John had entrusted Garnet’s letter to Devilbug.

Both the girls were distressed about Texas. “If I’d been there it wouldn’t have happened,” Florinda said indignantly. “I keep an eye on him, and when he’s too drunk to walk I get one of the boys to help him home.”

John told her Texas was being well treated. Señora Vargas, in whose home Texas stayed when he was in Los Angeles, was a motherly soul. John had been to see him, and Texas had given him a message for Garnet. He had asked when she was expecting her baby, and said he would be around to take care of her. He swore solemnly that he would be sober that week. She could count on him.

John also brought news of more public interest. There had been some disorder in the north, and rumors were thick. Sitting on the wall-bench in Garnet’s room, John told them about it. The trouble had been started, he said, by a swaggering American army officer named John Charles Frémont.

John explained. Three years ago the United States government had sent a party of explorers under Frémont to survey a route to the Oregon Territory, north of California. Frémont had proved himself a first-class leader. So now the government had sent him back to Oregon to get more information for people who wanted to settle there.

But instead of going directly to Oregon this time, Frémont came into northern California to rest his men and buy supplies. That much was all right. But Frémont’s men got themselves into trouble. There was an argument with a native ranchero about horse-stealing; and one of the men was accused of making improper advances to the daughter of another ranchero. The girl was a relative of Don José Castro, military commandant of California. Castro promptly ordered Frémont’s party out of California.

Frémont did not obey. Instead, he moved his camp to a mountain called Gavilan Peak. Here he threw up some log breastworks and raised the American flag over them.

John shrugged with ironic humor as he told his story. “In short,” he said, “Frémont seems to be one of the fellows who can do a great job as long as they’re giving the orders, but who can’t bear to mind anybody else. Castro had a perfect right to order him out if his men got disagreeable. Besides, this is Mexican territory, and Frémont has no business raising a flag here. So Castro threatened to shoot him off Gavilan Peak.”

“Did they fight?” asked Florinda.

“No, but it’s no fault of Frémont’s that they didn’t. Luckily for all of us, the United States consul, Mr. Larkin, is a mighty good man at his job. Larkin went to Castro and made official apologies. Then Larkin went to Frémont and persuaded him to pull down his flag and move north, toward Oregon.”

“Then it’s all over?” Garnet asked.

“Not quite,” said John. “It looks as if Larkin doesn’t quite trust Frémont to keep quiet. Larkin sent a message to the Pacific fleet of the United States, which is in port at Mazatlán on the west coast of Mexico. He asked that a ship be sent to California, to protect the Yankee traders in case Castro’s men and Frémont’s men should come to blows. So the sloop-of-war Portsmouth came up, and she’s now in San Francisco Bay.” John smiled wisely. “There she is, and rumors are flying around that she’s going to stay.”

“Say, wait a minute,” said Florinda. “Do you mean somebody is going to start a war?”

“There’s a good chance,” John returned, “Frémont or no Frémont, that there may be a war any minute.”

They started. “John, what do you mean?” exclaimed Garnet.

“The Republic of Texas,” said John. “Possibly the state of Texas by now. All the Yankees seem to expect that Texas will be admitted to the Union, and that Mexico will go to war because of it.”

“Oh good heavens,” said Garnet. “John, if there is a war, what will we do?”

“I don’t think we’ll have to do anything. The Yankees in California have always got along well with the natives. If a few blustering fools like Frémont don’t ruin our good reputation here, the Californios may be glad to wave goodby to Mexico.”

“Then we won’t get shot?” asked Florinda.

“Hardly.”

“You relieve my mind considerably. Well, I’ll let the heroes manage the war, if any. I’ve got to get back to my bar. When can we start, Johnny? Garnet’s all right now.”

John stood up. “Nikolai and I will ride with you to Los Angeles whenever you’re ready.” He chuckled. “I promised Silky I’d bring you back as soon as I could. He misses you.”

Florinda’ smiled shrewdly. “Not me, Johnny. But the profits I bring in. Now Garnet, you rest and I’ll pack your things. And I hope you never have to see Charles again as long as you live.”

“I hope so too,” said Garnet. She gave a long grateful sigh at the thought that now she would be rid of Charles forever.

C
HARLES HAD NOT KNOWN
Garnet was planning to go to Los Angeles. When she went into his study and told him, he was shocked and angry. He said he would not permit his brother’s widow to live over a saloon. Garnet told him curtly that she had not asked his permission and was not asking it now.