Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) (23 page)

Sean stood for a moment on the terrace and said quietly, “Good-bye, then,” and walked away.

He had no illusions. Whoever those men had been, the chances were they would be waiting outside the hollow.

If they were chance travelers they would be gone, but he had no such notion. That they were here, at this time, was too much of a coincidence.

He went into the brush near the trail, paused to listen, heard nothing, and went on, as soundlessly as possible. To follow the trail itself seemed at this moment to be less than wise.

When he had gone almost to where he had left his horse, he paused. This would be the first of the crucial spots. If they had found his horse they would be waiting for him to return to it, and if they had not they would be waiting outside the hollow.

He listened, but heard no sound. Not even that of birds or insects. For some reason they avoided this place. He started on, then paused. He was now on the edge of a small clearing. Three paths pointing toward a place among the trees, a flat stone lay across two other stones, and the three paths met at this stone table.

The altar! This was the place of which Russell had spoken.

He walked toward it, checking the ground as he went. He could see the boot tracks left by Russell, some of them smudged by the tracks of sandals…not moccasins, but sandals.

The altar stone was smooth as if polished or worn from much use…what use? He looked carefully around. The place was in no way distinguished except by the stone table and by the converging trails.

Turning, he walked away. He was now within no more than fifteen or twenty yards of his horse. He found an opening in the brush, and touching not so much as a leaf, he sidled through, eased himself past a clump of manzanita.

Sean Mulkerin could see the horse was dozing, quiet, unalarmed. Yet he waited, letting his eyes and his senses feel out the situation. He scanned the trees nearby.

A bird was scratching at something in the dust, a squirrel was high on a branch opposite, busy on some activity of his own. All was quiet.

Rifle in hand, he worked through the brush to his horse, gathered the reins but did not mount. Instead, he turned toward the opening of the hollow carrying his rifle in one hand, leading his horse.

“Quiet now, boy,” he whispered.

In his mind he tried to picture the trail up which he had come. It would point him right at their camp, and a good man with a rifle would have him dead to rights. He considered what lay to right and left. Correctly, right was his way to go, but opposite the opening of the cul-de-sac there had been a dry water course on his left while the small stream took a sharp bend to the right before joining Reyes Creek.

He walked on, hesitated, listening. Hearing nothing he went on again. Then he crossed over the trail and the trickle of water and went into the trees and boulders west of the trail. It was rough going, but he found a thread of deer trail and followed it.

He glanced up at the walls. He was at the end, the towering shoulders of the mountain reared up at the very opening, one close above him, the other a couple of hundred yards off. His eyes searched the place where their camp had been and he saw nothing.

He looked carefully around, still nothing. He moved on, tiptoeing among the rocks, careful to disturb no stone or pebble. Suddenly the dry water course was there, on his left, and at the same moment, he saw them.

They were fifty yards away, and spread out, watching the opening.

As his eyes found them, Velasco’s head turned. The man was quick as a cat. As his eyes touched Sean’s, Velasco reacted. He spun and fired!

The bullet smashed into the rock at Sean’s feet and Sean’s gun lifted.

He fired, the Colt jumped in his hands and shifting his aim by a hair he fired again. The second bullet caught Velasco and the man stumbled, then went to the ground.

Not dead…perhaps not even wounded badly, judging by the way he went down.

The other man had disappeared like a shadow, and Sean moved, working his way back through the brush, leading his horse. He found a place in the dry water course where some slabs of rock offered shelter for his horse, and he tied it to some brush there, loosely, in case he got hit. If he was killed he did not want the horse left there to die.

Crouching, he worked his way back through the brush and up through the trees, trying for a better position.

Suddenly there was a sharp
whsst
in the air and a loop dropped over his shoulders. His eyes followed the rope as the roper jerked. It was Velasco, but the Colt rifle was still in Sean’s hands and he fired from waist level. The Mexican jerked on the riata but a second too late, for the heavy slug caught him in the chest.

His great dark eyes wide, Velasco took a staggering step forward, then half-turned and fell, sprawling upon the rocks.

Sean Mulkerin shook off the rope and crouched down beside a rock.

The other man would have heard the shots. By now he would be wondering what had happened.

Sean drew back slowly, keeping the body of Velasco in view, and he waited.

The shadow of a rock indicated the passing of time, and he noted its position.

A bird was twittering in a tree, a squirrel scurried nearby, but there was no other sound. The dry water course in which he found himself was probably just runoff from the rocks, and not what he had suspected. It was probably dead-ended not far back. It was not the water course he had originally noted. That one was further along the mountain.

He must be careful. Such a mistake could be fatal.

He shifted hands on his rifle, drying his palms on his shirt front. It was getting very hot.

He waited, liking his position less and less, yet fearing to move. So often in such a deadly game the first to move was the first to die. He turned his head, scanning the wall of the mountain. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He lifted a hand to mop his brow and a bullet spat rock fragments that stung his face.

Sean dropped on his side and rolled, coming up on his knees. Another bullet struck just before him but he leaped up and ran right out of the mouth of the wash and ducked left into the trees. A gun blasted almost in his ears, and he saw a man crouched, thumbing a load into his rifle.

They saw each other at the same instant and the man dropped his rifle and powder horn and grabbed for the pistol at his belt.

Sean Mulkerin seized the moment. His Cold rifle came up waist high and he squeezed off his shot. Not twenty yards separated them and the chance of missing was slight, yet he took just that instant to make sure as the other man’s gun was clearing the holster.

The Colt rifle leaped in his hands, and Beltran’s mouth dropped open in a wide O of surprise and shock. He took a step forward, his fingers spreading wide as he dropped his pistol. He fell, and as he fell, Sean fired again.

The body jerked with the impact, and then lay still. Sean waited a minute, watching the body, and when there was no movement he went forward and kicked the gun away.

He went through the dead man’s pockets. Several gold pieces and a small bit of torn paper, evidently carried for some time, on it the one word
Wooston
.

Sean Mulkerin returned to his horse, and mounting up he rode back along the trail. It was a long ride home, but his horse was tough and in good shape and if he pushed it…

Moonlight lay wide upon the Pacific when the trail he had taken led him down to the beach. Despite the presence of Mims and his friends, Sean was worried. Wooston was shrewd, a man whose cunning had no limits, and he was relentless in his pursit of a goal.

All was quiet. The surf rolled lightly upon the sand, and off shore he could see a light from the
Lady Luck,
reassuring in its peaceful look.

His horse’s hoofs made almost no sound upon the wet sand, and the tracks he left would be gone by daybreak. Despite the calm of the night, he was uneasy, and even the lights of the
Lady Luck
did not calm him.

He turned off the beach and started up the road to the ranch. He was tired. He had ridden hard these last two days, and far into the night. The thought of his own bed awaiting him was all that kept him going, and the chance to see his mother and Mariana.

He held his Colt rifle in his hands as he rode into the ranchyard. It was long after midnight and all was dark and quiet. That was as it should be, and talking could wait until daylight. He would just—

He had started to swing down and he was moving when the bullets struck him. His leg was lifted to swing back over the saddle when the windows of his house seemed to rip apart with flame. He felt a heavy blow in the side, another on the skull. He felt himself falling, heard the thunder of the guns die away, and he was lying sprawled on the hard clay where he had played as a child.

He had been hit hard, but he was conscious. A wild wave of fear swept through him. Was this how it felt to die? Was he going to die? Were they going to win after all?

He heard heavy steps crossing the yard, steps that stopped, then a heavy boot kicked him in the ribs, and then the same boot turned him over.

“Is he dead?” It sounded like the voice of Fernandez.

“Are you crazy? With seven of us shootin’ at him? Look at him! Blood all over and his skull ripped open!”

“Let’s get him out of the way before she comes.” That was Tomas.

“Hell, let him lay! When she sees him she’ll throw herself off her horse and run right to him. Just what we want. It’ll be night to daylight then and she’ll be right in our sights.”

“She’s got friends,” Tomas warned.

“So’ve I. Better friends. Nick Bell said he’d say that Beltran an’ Velasco did it.”

“What about them?”

“Hell, Mulkerin’s here, ain’t he? If they was alive, he wouldn’t be, you can bet on that. I don’t know what happened, but he’s done them in. Let’s get out of sight. She might be early.”

They walked back to the house.

For the first time he felt pain…and sickness, a terrible, terrible sickness. He was bleeding. His skull was burst, they said. And maybe it was.

He had to warn them. For some reason his mother, and perhaps Mariana, had left the ranch. For some reason Mims was not here, and if Montero was here he was dead or a prisoner.

Prisoner? Not likely. Not Wooston. If Montero was here, he was dead.

What of Polanco and Del Campo?

He lay perfectly still, fighting off the weakness that enveloped him. He dug his fingers into the clay. He must live! He must! He could not die! Not until he had warned them.

By some trick Wooston had got them all to leave and had occupied the ranch and now he was waiting. After the killings he would simply leave the bodies, appear where he could be seen, and nothing could be proved.

Captain Nick Bell would make sure that nothing could be proved. There might be mutterings, but Bell was the law. An appeal could only be made to Micheltorena and he would not interfere.

Sean Mulkerin had been hit hard. He was hurt, and he must have appeared dying or dead or they would have shot him again. He dug his fingers into the earth and fought bitterly, desperately against the tides of pain.

He must somehow be alive when his mother came home. His gun was in its holster. When he had been hit he had been dismounting and his rifle must have flown from his hands. The gelding had run off.

Wooston and his men had gone back into the house. He struggled against the weakness. With his fingers he inched himself along. The effort left him gasping and empty. He fought against a wave of nausea. Slowly, carefully he willed his right leg to move out from the line of his body, and slowly, it moved.

That leg was not broken then. Bleeding, yes. He could feel wetness inside his pant leg. Slowly, he tried to move his left leg, nothing happened. He tried again…nothing.

Six feet away on his right was the beginning of a wash cut by runoff water. If he could get into that—

But they would see he was gone and come at once. He lay still, fighting the sickness and trying to think. His head was throbbing with pain, his left leg was numb.

On his right, along the edge of the wash, were some rocks, a dozen of them as large as his head, placed there in a row to mark the edge of the wash and where his mother had at one time planned a flower garden.

Reaching out slowly with his left hand he rolled one of those stones nearer. From the house they would be unlikely to see anything but the dark bulk of his body. He rolled the stone even with his head. Slowly, he edged his body to his right, then rolled that stone back and another in line with his head.