Roy Bean's Gold (14 page)

“When I returned to California, I was certainly
sin blanca
, or, as you Yanks would say, busted. Things were in a complete shambles. My father had died while I was gone, and the American government, in an effort to raise funds to help pay for their oppressive war, had levied a great amount of taxes upon our
rancho
. There was little hope of any gainful employment here and so I rode north to the recent gold strikes in an effort to earn money enough to pay off my parents' debts and save the family place from complete disaster. Though I'd been an officer, the only job available to a greaser, another of the
Americanos
' charming epithets, was that of mule driver at the diggings.

“Everything went along quite decently for a time, then one of the officials, in charge of our particular mine, desired my job for a lately arrived relation. There was nothing he could find to fault in my work and so he accused me of stealing from the miners themselves, and I had to flee away to the mountains for my very life.

“Hiding out and roaming around in the wilds like some unwanted animal, I fell in with all sorts of landless men. vagabonds, thieves, murderers, and rebels like myself, who'd refused to knuckle under to the conqueror. I gathered the best of these fugitives and molded them into a small, well-mounted company of guerrilla cavalry, with our horses coming from the best
Americano
ranches. Then we began to extract a portion of our vengeance, as well as gold, from the invaders.

“And now I observe your furrowed brow as you begin to wonder just how this person, this Joaquín Murieta, came to be, and how he split, eventually, in two.

“It so happened that about six months after I'd founded my little band, and we had begun to make many of the Yankees regret ever having come out to California, Carlos Hechavarría himself rode into my camp. He had heard of us and, being determined to levy his own brand of vengeance upon the
Americanos
, sought me out and disclosed himself as an alive. but strangely changed. man, indeed.

“When we were mere youths at home, dodging school and labor on our respective
ranchos
, riding the hills and valleys, like our fathers before us, and finally courting the neighboring
señoritas
, Carlos was the very merriest of companions. Always ready for an all-night frolic or a gossip and a bout at the bottle. that was Carlos. Even when caught up in the stern events of a war, fought to retain our country's honor and independence, Carlos Hechavarría had been the dashing, careless
caballero
. in fact a very devil of a fellow.

“So you can well imagine that I greeted his return from the dead with joy. And when I found him wrapped in never-ending gloom, I endeavored to jog him from his intractable moods by reminding him of our secret names, names that we had used years before. This foolish fancy had seen us, each in those light-hearted times, writing notes and cryptic messages back and forth. Every minor confidence we felt like exchanging, be it an appraisal of a new schoolfellow or just some petty devilment, was hidden in the bole of an old, twisted oak on the border of our two
ranchos
.

“In signing my messages I used the name of Joaquín, from the given name of a black-sheep ancestor who'd voyaged to Mexico with the great Cortés, and promptly deserted to live among the Aztecs. certainly a man with a mind of his own.

“Carlos called himself Murieta, taking the name of a hero from the old Spanish folk tales, Murieta of the Twisted Sword, one of the valiant followers of El Cid, who fought long and bravely against the invading Moor. almost a case, on Carlos's part, of prevision of coming events.

“It so happened that my reminding Carlos of our youthful games took an unusual turn. He at once proposed that as the only two experienced officers in the band, we divide the available forces and raid the Yankees in earnest, seizing all the gold and specie we could until there was enough wealth on hand to purchase a sizable amount of arms from our foreign sources. Then, with additional recruits, we would wage unmerciful guerrilla war upon all
Americanos
.

“His plan, good in part, called for the two bodies of riders to be commanded each by a captain bearing the same name. In this case he proposed that the combined Joaquín Murieta be used as one alias for the both of us. Thus we would bring ­confusion to our warfare. It became so successful that several ruffian road agents took up the name for themselves, and caused the so-called authorities many a puzzled day and night as they rode hither and yon, chasing Joaquín here and Joaquín there.

“All this jogged along in fine style for the next several months, until I fell in with that accursed
renegado
American sergeant. Kirker!

“This happened in a gambling saloon and theater in San Francisco, owned by the actress Lola Montez and managed, at the time, by a young
señorita
of your acquaintance. my sister, Rosita Almada.

“Many of the
Americano
troops from the camps around San Francisco and thereabouts frequented the place, with Kirker among them. The sergeant was a great gambler and had already run up an enormous debt by the time Rosita learned some highly interesting facts about him.

“It so happened that my sister, who always keeps her pretty ears open, overheard Kirker boasting of a fortune in gold bullion that his squad would be guarding in transport in less than a week's time, actually on July Twenty-First. It turned out to be federal money needed to pay half of the entire force of federal troops in northern California.

“She hurried out to me at my secret headquarters at Portolo Valley with this most intriguing news. I immediately dispatched a messenger to Carlos, where he camped near one of the main trails to the mines while waiting for a fat ore shipment.

“He arrived the next day, and, after a meeting at our main camp, I rode into San Francisco at dusk and, luckily, found Kirker still cooling his heels at Montez's Melodion Casino on Market Street.

“Kirker was already half in his cups when I arrived that evening and down on his luck, as usual, but I managed to make his acquaintance, under another name, and advance him five hundred
pesos
as a friendly loan. The sergeant was as unlucky as reported and, though he bucked the tiger with a right good will, managed to drop the entire amount of money by eleven o'clock.

“Rosita had little trouble in coaxing the rascal upstairs to one of Lola's private dining chambers, where I joined them, in the guise of Rosita's sweetheart, to that villain's chagrin, I'm sure. But, with a goodly amount of passable wine and a bit of harmless flirting by Rosita, we had him openly discussing the upcoming gold shipment by midnight. And it wasn't much longer before we had him agreeing to a plan that would allow myself and a few friends to interrupt his squad on the road and make off with the bullion.

“I remained in town for a day, meeting with Kirker to refine the plan, and then returned to my band . . . and Carlos.

“The Twenty-First of the month arrived to find me flat upon my back with a raging fever from an old wound that has plagued me every so often since the war. Thus it was decided Carlos would lead my assigned men out on the raid. this much I agreed to, and then went out of my head with that vile fever. I took such a bad turn that one of my right-hand men rode full tilt into San Francisco and brought Rosita back to care for me.

“When I came to myself three days later, there was many a long face around camp and Rosita was forced to tell me that Carlos had taken his own men and ambushed the U.S. soldiers, killing all but that blue-bellied picaroon of a Kirker, and then worked with him to cache the gold, as it proved much too heavy to carry away in a hurry.

“The following day after the raid, Carlos and his bunch rode back to the site of the hidden bullion only to return like a pack of whipped dogs. for Kirker had come out ahead of them with pack mules and fled the country with a king's ransom. It was as simple as that.”

After my visitor finished there came a lull, while I began to cipher the best way to answer a question that was just about bound to come up. And while I rubbed my chin, staring at the ceiling, at my toes, and even over the bandit chieftain's head at the half-closed shutter, the wind that had been whining around the tavern began to buffet and bang that shutter and I could hear raindrops pecking at the window frames.

“Rather like a certain day, not long ago, when I was luckily near enough to pluck you out of that wolves' den you were galloping into, is it not so?” Joaquín leaned forward again to light up a long
cigarro
from the sputtering flame of my dwindling candle, while he cocked his head at the rattle of the rain. “My poor mount out there will be getting a fine wetting from this storm, but he's used to hard knocks, the same as his master.”

I could catch the jingle of bit and the thud of hoofs as the great gray stallion moved about in the downpour and shook his head.

“Well, I certainly thank you most kindly for that act of neighborliness.” And I yawned, wishing this dangerous young gent would take the hint and leave the same way he'd come—through my window.

“Oh, I was most happy to be of service.” Joaquín clasped one knee over the other and blew out a thin ribbon of smoke. “Your kindness to many of the poor folk of the area has not gone unnoticed by some of the more observant.
Sí
, even if Rosita had not sung your praises, it would have eventually come to my attention. I have friends very close to you.” He laughed quietly, tapping the ash of his
cigarro
into one of my boots. “But I must remark that such generosity was also bound to come to the notice of one other.”

Suddenly his eyes narrowed, for another sound was threading through the muted hush of the rainfall. A horse was coming down the road at a good clip.

Joaquín sprang from the bed with the swift grace of a panther, deliberately knocking over my candle stump as he passed. I could hear him slowly push open the shutter and caught a glimpse of his dim silhouette as he peered out into the rainy night. All at once he gave a sharp exclamation and turned back in the hazy darkness. “That is one of my company. Don't make any sort of sound. I'll return.” He was gone before I realized it.

I didn't cause any commotion but wasted little time getting my six-gun out from under the pillow.

Then I waited—and waited. He was absent for less than a couple of minutes, but they seemed more like two hours apiece.

All at once, though I scarcely heard a sound, he was back in the room and striking a lucifer to light up the bit of candle. “Take this and put up your pistol. Here is a Spanish musketoon loaded with double buckshot. That
idiota
of an
alcalde
and those accursed night riders have gone and hung all three of those poor devils at the
calabozo!
There will be pure hell to pay if Carlos Hechavarría comes this way.” He slapped the rain from his sombrero and wrapped himself in a serape he'd been carrying. “When you get out of here in the morning, get yourself to San Diego and warn that madman brother of yours to guard himself well, for he's a dead man if Carlos ever gets near him!”

Young Almada was back through the window and mounted upon his big gray before I could poke my head out into the rain and thank him.

“Next time we'll talk more of Kirker's gold.” Then he and his heavily cloaked companion were gone into the black night with a thunder of hoofs.

I
was up at dawn, having spent an uneasy night on the lumpy straw mattress with nothing in my arms but Joaquín's musketoon. There'd been no trouble during the hours after the bandit's departure, and either the tavernkeeper was a mighty sound sleeper or he certainly knew how to keep his jaw clamped, for he fetched around my horse from the stable without the slightest expression on his wide brown face. He also seemed to ignore my extra weapon, though I thought I saw a glint of recognition as he noticed it in my hand. I also caught him looking at the scores of hoof prints in the soft, rain-damp earth about the tavern door.

Paying my bill, I was on my way as the rising sun spangled shrubs and grass with thousands of ruby-red and glittering-golden water gems, covering the miles into San Diego as fast as I could without harming the beast. And as we galloped along, I kept an eye open for any strange riders, for, as on the day I'd wound up tax collecting, I felt the nearness of unseen horsemen. I had to believe that Rosita's brother, for his own reasons, had again given me free passage through another chunk of Murieta country.

By the time I finally pushed my lathered mount down into the plaza, the entire town seemed up and in the streets. All was a great hullabaloo over the lynching of the
calabozo
prisoners by unknown riders. Some called out that it was Sánchez himself who'd again fetched in the victims—this time from a nearby cypress grove on the coastal road, where they had been discovered around dawn by a peddler.

I had dismounted and was tying my horse to one of the hitching rails on the east end of the plaza when someone poked me in the ribs. “
Señor
Roy, here is one mighty big trouble.” It was Sheriff Salazar, his big sombrero rumpled and mighty dented and his duds covered with dust. In a few words he told me that he'd arrived about an hour earlier on his way back from below the border and headed north. He had come down with second thoughts on the way back from Mexico and decided to stop at San Diego and pick up his two young horse thieves. “But by the infernal second-hand bugle of San Gabriel I had myself a feeling that something like this might happen.”

He pointed out the three bodies, wrapped in serapes, lying over on the south side of the plaza under a pepper tree. “They died along with that villainous Murieta's man.
Sí
, young Roy . . . whoever strung up Pico took along those two boys and killed them to keep them from talking. There's murder here in this little town, by hell!”