Roy Bean's Gold (26 page)

“That's Belle, Charley Cora's girlfriend. He convinced Josh that we needed someone to dress up our games, and she was hired a week ago.” As if she knew we were talking about her, Belle glanced over, flashing one of her wide red smiles, then turned back to trimming her customers.

“
Sí
. Now I know her. She and this gambler, Cora, got into a row at the mining camps along the Sacramento not long ago.
Señorita
Belle, as you can see is
mucha bella.
And this
Señor
Cora, a devil at faro. is also the very devil when jealous. He shot a bullet through the leg of one of the
señorita
's admirers and the pair had to leave that camp in a hurry. That Belle. She'll get that young man hung yet.”

Presently Salazar arose, thanked me again for my information, donned his serape and shapeless sombrero, shook hands with Josh, and went out into the rainy night.

“Now, what in tunket was that about?” Josh wanted to know. “I thought he could be here to haul you in for horse theft. You know, that little sawed-off horned toad never wastes much time or effort.”

“Just a friendly visit,” I said, looking a bit more closely at Charley Cora where that gambler sat keeping one eye on his game and the other on his buxom girlfriend.

* * * * *

The next thing we heard of Salazar was a front-page story in the
Alta California
four days later, on December 3rd:

MURIETA THWARTED!

SHERIFF SALAZAR SAVES ARMORY

BANDITS DRIVEN HEADLONG FROM BENICIA

MANY SHOTS EXCHANGED

Acting upon reliable information, Sheriff Salazar of ­Alameda County, and a number of his posse men, laid in ambush at the Benicia U.S. Armory, north of Oakland—San Antonio Landing—on the night of December 2nd, and attacked the Joaquín Murieta Gang, when those rogues attempted to gain entrance into the Fort close on to midnight.

After hailing the goodly body of brigands, who'd come equipped with two wagons to haul away their proposed plunder of weapons and ammunition, Sheriff Salazar opened fire. The ball was immediately begun, and the entire gang, under California's most notorious bandit chief, returned the lawmen's fire with a will, before, at last, abandoning their rolling stock and fleeing for their lives into the western mountains. It is estimated that over a hundred shots or more were exchanged in the darkness.

One
bandido
was cut from the saddle and later identified as Pío Hidalgo, one of the most brutal robbers. Two of the sheriff's group were slightly wounded. It is not known the exact extent of the damage inflicted upon the ubiquitous Joaquín, aside from the obvious thwarting of his grandiose plans to arm some of the dissatisfied villains, who still lurk in the wilds.

Well, that put the kibosh on Carlos Hechavarría for the time being, but I had a feeling that if he ever found out who tipped off Salazar, it would go mighty hot for both Rosita and myself. And it was more than likely that Carlos “Murieta” had gotten word that Josh was in San Francisco.

I surely wished that Salazar and his bunch had shot straighter.

A
s if Salazar's stand-off with Carlos Hechavarría at Benicia wasn't enough, Josh had himself a falling-out with Charley Cora at the end of that week, and practically heaved him out of the saloon, along with his girlfriend, after Cora had stuck one of his pet Derringers into the face of a high roller who'd tried to get fresh with the bold-eyed Belle.

“Think I did right, Roy, tossing out that hothead and his calico cat?” Josh fussed while we sat at supper. “Can't have him throwing down on someone every time they pat his tootsie's rear. There's just bound to be a shooting, sooner or later.”

“Charley's a good man,” I said, “just about the best I ever saw with a faro bank, in front of it or behind it. but we don't need any more rumpus. I've got enough on my mind as it is.”

Josh looked narrowly at me, and wagged his head. “I guess you're just champing at the bit to get out after that gold cache, and I won't be a bit down-hearted if you find it,” he mumbled, between bites of pie. “But, like you've said, there's got to be dozens of twin peaks out there. Looks like you got yourself a gold needle in a haystack of mountains.”

I agreed.

* * * * *

Dulcima appeared in town two days before Christmas. And Diamond Dick was with her!

I discovered this when the hotel clerk handed me a note as Josh and I came down to breakfast:

Mister Roy Bean,

Friend Roy, here I am back in San Francisco, for a moment. But go out with Colonel McGuire's touring company in the morning, in order to be at Rabbit Creek for our Christmas performance. We have Mart Taylor, Mrs. Sinclair, and several other live wires. Colonel McGuire agrees that Mr. Powers, who has been through some bad times, should be our manager. If you still wish to see me, I'll be at the same hotel, the Oriental on Montgomery, for most of the afternoon.

Dulcima Stevens

I went over to the Oriental in the early afternoon and sent up word that I was in the lobby. In a few minutes the porter brought down a message for me to go up to room 200. And I didn't waste a moment in climbing those stairs.

When I knocked, the door opened immediately, and there stood Dulcima, in a fancy embroidered yellow dressing gown, golden hair piled upon her head—and with a drink in her hand. It would have been perfect, save for the fact that Diamond Dick Powers, dressed in a flashy checked suit, flaming red necktie, and polished boots, lounged in one of the two easy chairs.

“
Ah
there, Bean.” Powers stood up and, reaching for his ulster and wide-brimmed hat, crossed the floor to the doorway, as I stood aside, without a word to him.

“Host of things to do for the busy manager.” Powers waved a hand at a pile of luggage in the corner, all strapped and bound up with rope and cord. “I'm on my way to check with the rest of our company. Have to be on the road at first light.” Then he was gone out, shutting the door behind him—and I was alone with Dulcima.

“Now, I know you haven't much use for Dick . . .
ah
, Richard. but he's been a lifesaver for me, Roy.” Dulcima wavered slightly as she walked over to the dresser and, without asking, poured me a stiff drink of whiskey. “Here, you can drink to our forthcoming triumphs out in the wilds of California.”

I took the glass, sat down in the chair vacated by Powers, and looked at her. Dulcima's eyes, always blue as the summer skies at midday, were sparkling with a different light, and her mouth was—mighty inviting. But I downed some of the drink and waited for her to speak.

She crossed back to the bed and sat down on its edge, tipped up her glass, and drained it like an old soldier. “You know that hellcat, that so-called aunt of mine? She had me kidnapped again and carried back to that hateful Salinas finishing school . . . that two-by-four prison for little milksop females.”

I nodded and downed the rest of my whiskey to keep her company, as I noticed Dulcima's pretty knees appearing through the edge of that fancy gown—and even more. I felt like I needed another drink then and there.

“Roy, you must know that I'm old enough, nearly eighteen, and I'll live my own life, in spite of that flashy
perra
.” She stood up again, and marched back to the whiskey, poured herself another glass, then came over to me. As she bent with the half-empty bottle, her dressing gown slid open, and I could see that it was her sole bit of clothing! “Here, let me fill up your glass.”

“How long have you known Powers?” I rasped, trying to get the drink down and smooth out the dryness in my throat. “He says a long time.”

Dulcima belted away half of her drink with the ease of an old toper, then sat the glass down on the carpet, dressing gown falling half off her shoulders as she did. “Ever since the first time I ran off from that old hairpin Miss Granville and her silly little school and came up to San Francisco. I hadn't any money to speak of, and Dick Powers found me on the streets and was very kind. He bought me a meal, got me a room, and, when he found out that I wanted to go on the stage, had me in to Colonel McGuire's little theater at the edge of town.” She smiled shyly as she settled her robe about her again. Then she frowned and shook her finger. “I know you think Richard is more . . . than a friend. Well, that's neither here nor there, is it?” Her soft red mouth hardened somewhat. “He's helped me get where I want, in spite of Rosita . . . Red Rosita Almada . . . and Joaquín Murieta!”

I gaped at her, then gulped down the rest of my whiskey.

“Yes, Roy, I know a good many things. I discovered Rosita's brother was the bandit, and that her pretty hands, those perfumed little fingers, were not any too clean at that.” She leaned over to recover her drink and her gown fell from her—completely, revealing young, swelling breasts and deliciously dimpled body. But she paid no attention. “I knew all this five years ago, when I heard them plotting at the
rancho
. Rosita must have suspicioned what I knew, for she sent me off to that school at Salinas. and kept me there as much as possible.”

I stood up, weaving a bit myself from the warmth of the room and the alcohol. “Does Dick Powers know this?”

Dulcima also arose, completely child-like in her nakedness, looking at me innocently with her blue eyes, now a bit out of focus from drink. Then she shook her golden curls. “No, I know enough to keep certain things to myself, Roy. do you?”

She came to me and put up her arms. “Remember when I told you that I meant to come visiting?” Those slim, rounded arms were about me now, her smooth curves pressed hard against me, and her golden head buried against my chest. “Well, I did. only that she-cat came in the night and had me thrown into her closed carriage.” She raised her lips. “Did you miss me?”

I picked her up and toted her back to the bed. And mighty shortly I was showing her just how much I'd missed her.

* * * * *

Dulcima was mine at last. When I left her, I was walking two yards above the wooden sidewalk, as I recalled all the things we'd said—and done. There'd just been no way that I could have kept from telling her of that fortune out there—somewhere. And we'd planned that I'd search the country for it while she toured with the McGuire's company.

I spent a good share of the next day, December 24th, thinking of her sweet embraces and her promise to wait for me until I'd found Jeff Kirker's gold. Diamond Dick Powers was just a back number now.

Around suppertime that Christmas Eve, Josh came to where I was running the faro layout for a cheerful mob of celebrating miners, sailors, and Mexicans. “If you can stop mooning over that little piece of calico long enough to keep one eye on the game and the other on the place, I'll go up the street and take some supper. We're just too busy for the both of us to feed at once.”

“Wouldn't need to double up like this if you hadn't heaved out Charley Cora,” I growled, not meaning it, but irked by Josh's reference to Dulcima.

He stood for a moment looking over the busy, smoke-hazed room, one thumb in his vest and the other twiddling with his goatee, as he always did when pleased with himself. “Well, that nigra Biggs does a mighty fair job handling the dice game when Shanghai takes a turn at the bar. And you have the makings of a first-rate gambler yourself.”

My brother had left his overcoat at the hotel to have some buttons tightened, so he pulled on his hat and my own ulster, then lingered to talk to me, between deals, of our family back home and wonder if Ma and Pa would still be having the same sort of big Christmas they used to have when we were all young 'uns.

“Sometimes, Roy, I wish I'd gone back to old Mason County after the war, and not stayed way out here. I think brother Sam showed better sense staying put in New Mexico after you two flew the coop out of Chihuahua City.”

I nodded and kept dealing, still out of sorts. And that was the last time that I saw my brother Joshua Quincy Bean alive.

He'd left the Golden Nugget and was walking through the gently falling drizzle toward our favorite restaurant when someone stepped from an alley off Sutter and fired two pistol balls into his back at such close range they set his coat on fire—despite the rain.

A gambler from the Red Rooster, who'd seen Josh fall into the street, caught a glimpse of someone in a serape and sombrero run up Sutter and fade into the night, then he beat out the flames from my brother's clothing and began to yell for a policeman.

They fetched Josh back to the saloon and laid him on a poker table, while our customers and employees stood around in stunned silence. After we shut the place, Shanghai stumped back to the bar and brought over a couple of bottles, and we sat down and drank to Josh. The police had already been in, looking for any possible motives for my brother's assassination, but I could only say that Joaquín Murieta was known to have made threats, and that Charley Cora and Dick Powers had little reason to wish Josh any too well. I didn't mean to throw suspicion on either gambler, but it had to be said. A young reporter from one of the shabbier weeklies, named Ridge, who'd been tagging the police around heard me, but I didn't think anything of it. “Shot by a person or persons unknown,” said Coroner Riley, who then began to jot down the cost of a funeral in his capacity as part-time undertaker.

As I sat there, drink in hand, looking at Josh laid out in his muddy clothing and thinking what a hell of a Christmas it was going to be, I recalled how glad he'd been to see me when I'd arrived at San Diego in the summer just past. Yes, it was just one hell of a jolt.

Then I got another jolt when Riley, long red face creased in unaccustomed thought, spoke up again. “Y'say your brother there was a-wearin' yore overcoat? Well”—he took a healthy belt of whiskey—“could be they was tryin' for you.”

J
osh was buried the day after Christmas in a small cemetery south of town at Potero Hill. In use since the days of the rush it was a peaceful but lonely spot where a huge pair of redwoods stood like mournful sentinels at the back of the two-acre lot. Most of the great redwoods around San Francisco had long been felled for building everything from ore sluices to lumber for slap-up housing.