Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) (14 page)

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!”

T
HEY 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 talk 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.”

Francisco shrugged.

“Seems to me that gold is somewhere around. Now if you was to see anything, some little thing nobody else saw, you could tell me.

“Wooston is impatient. So is Machado. They will want to move on, but you an’ me…we might sort of fall back. Then we could look around a mite…say we got lost?”

Francisco lit the cigar. His black eyes were steady. He knew when he was about to be used, but Russell was a dangerous man, and in difficulty could be useful.

“Silva,” he suggested, “does not tell all. Silva is afraid of the Old One…many are. The Old One left the others here and went into the hills with the Señora. “We have seen their tracks.”

“You could follow them?”

Francisco shrugged. “Who knows? It is not easy to follow the Old One.” He looked at his cigar, then said, “Nor is it safe, Señor.”

Russell dismissed that with a gesture. “You an’ me, we’ll fall back, get lost. All right?”

“All right.” Francisco drew deep on his cigar. He did not like this King-Pin, but if there was gold…enough of it…well, a knife in the ribs before King-Pin could shoot him, which he was sure Russell would try to do when the gold was found.

Zeke Wooston walked back to the fire which Russell had rekindled. “Ain’t no time for that,” he said impatiently. “We got to ride out.”

“There is no trail,” Silva said. “There is only rock, and around this camp there are many tracks, tracks coming, going…but none of them go anywhere.”

“I think he does not want to follow the trail,” Andres Machado said. “He is a coward.”

Silva did not reply. He had learned the folly of talking back to men like Machado. It was not a thing to do if one wished to live long, and he, Silva, had lived long and expected to live longer.

“The Old One,” he said after a moment, trying to choose his words, “follows trails we cannot. All trails are not of this world, Señor.”

Wooston grunted. “I reckon we can foller any trail he can foller. He an’ that Señora woman.”

Silva glanced at him quickly. “Ah?”

“Yes, I see ’em. I ain’t no tracker like some of these here Injuns, but I can read signs. The two of them taken off…now where do you suppose?”

“Follow them, Señor,” Silva suggested, delicately. “Your eyes are younger than mine, sharper, perhaps. Follow them. I cannot.”

“You mean you won’t?”

“I shall follow the others.”

“You mean they went separately?”

“They are not here, Señor. They are gone.” He waited for a minute and then said quietly, “I think they have gone back. I think they found what they wanted and they have gone back.”

Andres Machado frowned. Why waste time in these godforsaken mountains if they were not here? If they had gone back—

“You are sure of that?”

Silva shrugged. “Who can be sure? It is what I believe.”

“That settles it for me.” Machado was definite. He was bored with mountains, bored with camping, irritated by the poor food, and the heat, dust, and confusion. He was also bored by Wooston. The man was coarse and vulgar.

“We ain’t found where they get that gold,” Wooston protested. “It has got to be close by.”

Machado shrugged a shoulder. “Perhaps. I am not interested in the ‘gold’ if gold there is. I am sufficiently well-off, Señor Wooston. I came only to find Mulkerin and Mariana de la Cruz. I shall go back, and I shall take my men with me.”

“Now see here!” Wooston protested. “We started this together, an’—”

“And now it is ended. If Mulkerin has returned to Malibu, I shall return also. I see no sense in running around over these awful hills looking for gold that may not even be here.

“Gold in California? Bah! There is none. My family has been associated with this province from the beginning, and we know nothing of any gold. You pursue a will-o’-the-wisp, my friend.”

Wooston was angry, but he had no wish to have trouble with Machado, whom he might need very badly. But he did not wish to pursue a chase into this wild country with only his own group. There were too few of them.

Wooston accepted a cup of coffee, mulling over the situation. He had no liking for this kind of country himself. It gave him the willies…you could never tell who or what was back in that brush or behind the rocks. And what about that snake that wasn’t there? What about those strange howls from up in the rocks?

“All right,” he said, “we’ll go back.”

Francisco glanced at King-Pin Russell, who grinned and winked.

Chapter 13