Roy Bean's Gold (25 page)

As soon as the show ended, I made tracks for the San Francisco House. Leaving a key for a “lady visitor,” I went up to my room and waited, and read the paper, and waited. At last it was past midnight, and still I waited.

Finally, as I'd often done, when time crawled along, I put my mind to work on some problem. I got out Kirker's gold piece and studied it over and over. By holding it at an exact angle to my lamp flame, I found that I could make some sort of sense out of those scratches on the coin.

After looking long at the inscriptions, I took a stub of a pencil and the back of Josh's letter, and sketched what seemed to be a crude Roman numeral. Turning the gold eagle over, I traced down the other marks, a sort of lop-sided circle balanced between the points of the letter M. Under the letter M were three tiny half circles, cut off at the middle and sitting on a line with the round parts facing upward. The middle circle, or hump, was marked with a tiny cross.

The more I studied the coin's two sides, the more I was positive that the stretched-out letter M represented twin mountain peaks, with the tiny half circles standing for a trio of big rocks or possibly boulders. That Roman numeral IV must indicate a date, probably a month—the fourth month, April?

I stared at my drawings and cussed to think how long I'd been blind to the meaning of those hen tracks.

That lop-sided circle was meant for the sun. And in April that sun would be rising or setting between those twin peaks, with the treasure just waiting for me under that middle boulder, all marked neat and tidy with an X. Somewhere.

Suddenly I was swimmy-headed, and as sleepy as if I'd been up for three nights in a row. I decided, then and there, that I'd better take myself a catnap to be ready for Dulcima when she arrived.

I tossed the coin onto the dresser and stripped down to my long johns, put the paper under my pillow with my pistol, and turned down the lamp. Then forgetting the excitement of the answer to the coin's conundrum, I was dead asleep in twenty winks.

I
awoke to disappointment once I realized Dulcima had not kept our appointment. An hour later, heading out of the hotel, I was handed an envelope by the desk clerk. I assumed the note would be from Dulcima, but it was not.

Friend Roy,

Last night I found that Dulcima
obstinada
entering your hotel, and am sending her away, again. That the girl is greatly talented, in several ways, I would be the first to admit. However, she's much too young for such actions.

We leave this part of California for the present, as Francisco seems to have recovered in fine style.

Now, if you are still of a mind to warn the authorities of Carlos's plans, he is determined to carry out his raid on the night of December 2nd.

We are still devoted to our country's freedom, but not at the cost of so many lives!

Rosita

That afternoon, I went by the Jenny Lind. A notice outside the theater informed all and sundry that, though the drama continued, Miss Lotta Crabtree was appearing in place of
Mlle
. La Fonte, who was temporarily indisposed. I still bought a ticket.

The evening's performance was as good as ever, though I'd learned most of the lines by heart, and Lotta Crabtree seemed to be a lively young filly, with red hair and plenty of spunk. But I don't think she matched Dulcima in voice or looks—and neither did most of the audience.

I knew there was just no use getting in the way of Rosita and Dulcima's differences, and that, sooner or later, the niece would shake the aunt and be back in town. So I lazed around playing poker with Charley Cora and biding my time. Then by Wednesday, I'd made up my mind to hunt up Salazar, and rode down to Diamond Point in the afternoon, stabling White Lightning at the small livery, and took the propeller steamer
Kangaroo
across the Bay.

Docking at San Antonio Landing at 3:00 p.m., I trudged up the drowsing main street to the ramshackle, vine-wrapped town hall. There I found Salazar out of town, “somewhere northward at the mines,” chasing bandits. As he was not expected back under a week, I left him a note, telling him that it was mighty important that he reach me at the San Francisco House before the 1st of December.

I caught the same
Kangaroo
back at suppertime, along with a bunch of visiting miners. As the steamer only made the bay crossing twice a week, I figured that, though I'd missed the sheriff, I was lucky to get back to San Francisco in one day.

It was a good thing I did, for Josh arrived on the next morning's stage and came hunting me before I was out of bed. I roused to recognize Josh's bellowings in the hallway. Piling onto the floor, I staggered to the door and let in my brother with his armload of carpetbags.

Then for the next hour, Joshua Quincy Bean, late
alcalde
of San Diego, sat on the edge of my bed and filled me in on his business and political shenanigans. As soon as he got around to Diamond Dick, I found out why Josh was in such high spirits, despite a long and bone-shaking coach trip.

“That tinhorn Powers might have finagled me out of office, but he didn't get in himself for all of his thimblerigging,” chortled Josh. “And when he let himself get caught red-handed at the
calabozo
, his connections with those midnight lynchings came to the surface. So now he's under a bond to appear before the Los Angeles magistrate in May.”

Josh leaned back, lit up a stogie, blew a great looping billow of blue smoke, and grinned like a contented cougar. “Y'know, I don't think Diamond Dick cares too much for yours truly after I swore out an affidavit holding him responsible for those murders. Best part of all is that he had to sell his dive in San Diego to raise that bond and pay off his lawyers! Here, have a cigar.”

I told my brother that I'd run into Powers twice since coming to town but didn't mention Dulcima. “Powers surely has that pokerface, for he never mentioned you, nor his hard times.”

“Well, an honest confession is good for the soul, they say. but tough on the reputation.” Josh grinned, ringing in another of his old saws. “But Diamond Dick's got more to trouble his soul than that. I also plagued him good and plenty up here, too. With all his law problems, he couldn't raise enough money to make a down payment on a champion little gambling saloon over here at Nine Twenty Sacramento that we'd both heard about.” Josh twiddled with his goatee and snorted. “I went over and signed the papers this morning while you were still sawing wood. So we're in business, Roy . . . until you can lay hands on that danged treasure trove. Yes, sir, I guess
Señor
Richard Powers had best think twice before he tangles with any of us Beans again!” And Josh waved away any more talk of Diamond Dick, along with our wavering rafts of cigar smoke. He'd also brushed aside thought that Murieta would be able to do him much harm in the middle of the bustling city of San Francisco.

I'd held my tongue, covering up my knowledge of the upcoming raid at Benicia, in the hopes that Salazar would be able to put the kibosh on Carlos Hechavarría for good—providing he was able to get to me in time.

* * * * *

By the middle of the month, Josh and I had the new place, which we'd renamed the Golden Nugget, humming. We had ourselves two bartenders, one Shanghai Bender, an ex-sailor with a wooden leg—and the other, that dusky businessman and cat importer, Peter Biggs.

Bender came by his name from the fact that he had been sandbagged at least three times down on the waterfront and toted onboard one of the many clippers plying between California and the Far East. After losing his leg to a shark out in the Sandwich Islands, Shanghai worked his way back to San Francisco and hung about the dockside saloons, swamping and washing bottles and glasses, until he was as proficient at the bar as the next man. About a week after we opened, he came stumping into the Golden Nugget. Josh hired him on the spot after watching Shanghai deftly divest himself of his wooden underpin and use it to subdue a big drunken miner who was trying to start a war in our saloon.

I ran into Peter Biggs about the same time where he was hanging around the El Dorado, looking much the worse for wear and trying to keep his good eye out for some sort of “opportunity,” as well as a place to sleep. I braced him and found that he'd made a tidy fortune peddling his feline rat fighters but had turned around and lost every cent “bucking the tiger.” As I'd been acting as super to Shanghai, as well as dealing some of the games, I fetched Biggs back to Josh and he was hired as assistant to Shanghai behind the mahogany. Thus we had ourselves a pair of bartenders with a grand total of three eyes and three legs, but we still needed a professional dealer.

It seemed pretty fortunate at the time when Charley Cora sauntered into the saloon one evening. “So, this is why you haven't been around to butt heads lately! Heard someone named Bean bought this place, but didn't think of you.”

He smiled slightly and shrugged when I asked him to step up to the bar for a drink. “Fine, but I can't buy one back very easy.” He went on to tell us that a high roller named J.J. Bryant, who'd toted a hefty grudge against him for all of the faro games of Bryant's he'd busted back on the Mississippi, had landed in town the week before. The first thing this Bryant did was to buy out the establishment where Charley worked and have him tossed out on the street. “And to make matters even worse”—Cora shrugged—“be damned if an old girlfriend from Natchez hasn't showed up and is on my trail to marry me. Knowing Arabella Ryan, I'll bet a dollar to a plugged
peso
that she finds out some way to corral this here child.”

“Never bet on a sure thing unless you're able to lose,” said Josh. “You need to get to work to take your mind off your troubles.” And then and there he hired Charley Cora to handle our tables.

So the days ran along, with Josh and me staying at the San Francisco House, taking our meals at a little restaurant on Sacramento, and putting in long hours at the Golden Nugget. Charley Cora dealt the pasteboards, and handled the faro bank, with Peter Biggs tending bar, while Shanghai Bender had advanced to bouncer, owing to the lurid gossip about his deadly wooden leg, which put more fear into possible troublemakers than the pair of murderous little Derringers that Charley kept tucked in his vest. With such a team, the place ticked away like a Waterbury clock, and the money came in hand over fist.

To get shed of the saloon grind, I'd taken Josh to several of the local theaters, including the brand-new Metropolitan, where we saw the Starks and their company give smashingly good performances of
The Rivals, Much Ado
, and
Pizarro
, along with a couple of rollicking comedies. But I always seemed to come back to the Jenny Lind, where the two Edwin Booths, father and son, were bowling over their audiences in their production of
The Iron Chest
. Little Lotta Crabtree was still on stage during intermissions and winning herself a strong following, while Lorette La Fonte became a fading name.

I'd inquired of Dulcima's whereabouts several times, but Colonel McGuire, who looked down-in-the-mouth about it, could only announce that she was still indisposed. I took that to mean that Rosita's express orders kept her under lock and key at her finishing school. McGuire had not had a word from Powers, either, and Josh and I figured that Diamond Dick was lying low trying to beat his indictment.

There'd been several items in the papers concerning Captain Love and his expeditions, but actually little to report beyond the fact that
the gallant officer remains on the trail of the Murieta Gang as well as other dangerous law-breakers.
At 10¢; a mile, Love and his flock were not doing too badly, whether they ever caught up with anyone.

On the last day of November, I had a visit from a real lawdog at last when Salazar himself stumped into the Golden Nugget out of a drizzling rain about suppertime. After shaking hands with Josh and myself, he tugged off his flopping sombrero, which looked more like a damp mushroom than ever, and sat down at a table with us.

Declaring himself mighty happy to see us, Salazar looked over the noisy room and made small talk until Josh got up to tend to some business at one of the tables, then he tackled me. “Well, young Bean, and what's all this business? For, let me tell you, by Saint Lazarus's spotted pups, I only got back from the American River half a day ago.” He picked up one of the beers that Biggs had fetched over and lifted it in a quizzical salute.

Keeping my voice down, I let Salazar have both barrels. The place. The time. And Murieta.

The little sheriff's eyes about stuck out of his head with excitement, and the top of his vanished scalp positively glistened as I repeated everything except where I'd come by the information.

Presently Salazar leaned back and lifted his forgotten drink, sipping at it with great satisfaction. “You have done the world and me a great big favor, young Bean. But I notice you do not say how you came by the welcome news.” Then he shrugged. “Well,
no es importante
, for I know you to be . . . how do the
Anglos
say? . . . the straight shooter. This I also knew when I heard how you put a hole through this low-down
picaro
of a Powers.” He tugged at his ox-horn mustaches and smiled broadly. “And I have heard some other things. Among them that you ran away with his horse while rousting that rattle-headed Haraszthy, and that you may have tried to do the same thing. running away with Powers's little
niña amiga
.”

Before I could start to defend myself, I stopped, for if it came out that Dulcima had been bundled out of town, the talk might turn to Red Rosita. So, I only kept my jaw clamped and ordered another round of drinks from Biggs.

“And to speak of that little beauty
Señorita
Dulcima, I behold you still have the eye for the ladies, and, by all the pretty angels, there's one over there dealing cards.” Salazar nodded his shining head in the direction where Charley Cora's curvesome brunette girlfriend dealt poker to a grinning group of sailors and miners—winning as usual.