by David Xavier
“It is good to see you, cousin.”
The Mexican Army escort stood mounted outside the jail with rifles trained. Their horses stepped in place on the dusty road, their saddle leather creaking and buckles clicking. Salomon stood among the ranks, the Comanche pony beneath him once again. The crowd had followed but they remained quiet now but for murmurs. There was one horse without a rider.
The voice from the jail carried crisp across the street. Andrés Pico sounded as a bell tower toll. A chair was thrown from inside and the legs caught in the wrought iron. A desk was overturned. The soldiers exchanged glances in the street and grinned. Inside the discussion quieted and the door opened. The crowd outside began to move forward but the Army rifles were raised once more.
Andrés Pico walked to the platform edge, a leather holster slung over his shoulder, two pistolas strapped in place. The sheriff hurried close behind, speaking quickly, pleading his case. Andrés called a name and one of the soldiers came forward with a bank satchel outheld.
“I have already alerted American officials,” Andrés addressed the crowd. He raised the satchel. “I am buying this man’s freedom from the San Francisco authorities for the full reward of fifteen-thousand dollars.”
“With all due respect, Don Andrés,” the sheriff said, “I cannot allow this.”
Andrés turned to the soldier and snapped. The soldier held forth a second satchel. Andrés grabbed it and held it high.
“For twenty-thousand dollars.” He turned to the sheriff. “This is not a negotiation. I am buying this man’s charges from you. He will commit no more. He will disappear and you will not hear of him again, I will see to it.”
Andrés stepped into the street and tossed Salomon the gunbelt and mounted among the soldiers. The sheriff stepped forward in protest and put a hand to his gun. The soldiers swung their rifles and the sheriff backed away with his hands in clear sight. The mob advanced and Andrés stepped his horse at them and spoke.
“Any man follows us will be in clear violation of the treaty between governments. I will consider any followers a threat and will order him shot on sight. Let this be the end of this.”
He reined his horse around and kicked into a run. The patrol followed in a pounding a hoofs that clattered between the building fronts, leaving nothing but shouts and dust behind.
They rode south, taking the well-traveled El Camino Real. Andrés led the patrol at a high gait. He called over his shoulder and pointed to the expanse of hunched prairie before them. A scout went ahead at a handgallop.
Andrés Pico’s appearance had changed slightly over the years. He wore civilian clothing. His mustache had grayed. His eyes had taken on deep crow’s feet as eyes that stare against sunlit dust all day would. He was now a member of the California State Assembly, a political man, however, he wore his clothing tailored by a military seamstress, and it gave him the look of a trim commanding officer.
“You still have not bought a saddle.”
“I can’t seem to get used to one.”
“You have made a name for yourself, cousin. And not a good one, I am afraid.”
“How did you know I was in San Francisco?”
“An indian from the Mission San Antonio de Padua came to me. I have been to every mission in California. Twice. The priest there recognized you and sent the indian. It pays to make friends. He said a patrol of vigilantes took you away in a cage along with a madman. He said it would slow their pace.”
“He was a madman.”
“People could say the same about you, Sal. This land, my California. It is United States land. I am an American citizen now. So is my brother. Peace has been declared, has been promised, by my own hand. By my brother’s hand. And you have stretched that promise for too long. I read about you. The Los Angeles Star printed the story. You run with violent men. Men known for their blackness of mind. Their viciousness.”
“They are not bad men at heart.”
Andrés reined his horse to a stop. “They lack respect for human life. For human dignity.” He pointed. “And they follow you.”
“They have been pushed to violence. It was their only recourse.”
“Don’t make excuses. I do not accept excuses. I have not become the man I am today by listening to excuses. They are savages and so are you by association. The photo of you and them standing like heroes. Be careful with whom you surround yourself. You walk with men black as coal, and your hands are smudged the same. I know you, my cousin. You are a good man. But make no mistake, Sal, make no mistake. No amount of gold dropped in the church basket can erase your sins. You cannot pay off God. He doesn’t give a damn about your gold. Even a boy in Sunday school knows a life of sin leads to hell.”
“I have already met the devil.”
They rode. The land rolled beneath them as if reeled from a spool, the mountain rise in the distance and clouds white as sails. The air was crisp and the wind rattled the grass and lifted the dandelion spores.
“Your wife, the beautiful Juana. Your son. They will not come back. They are looking at you now and they are covering their eyes. Revenge is for the Lord, Sal. It is time to find peace within.”
After a while, Salomon said, “I hope I have not tarnished your name.”
“My name is mine. The only man who can smear it is myself.”
“But you have spoken for me. You are tarnished by association. Your hands are smudged.”
Andrés looked over and grinned. “Who said this? This is nonsense.” He added, “This is what soap and water is for, Sal. The coal is gone. Start anew. Only the man who answers to the name can clear or muddy it. You are what you make of yourself each day. There is no past or future.”
They climbed a rise and the land continued to tumble green and bright afar. Wildflowers tilted near and far.
“There is a woman in Santa Maria, yes? And a boy.”
Salomon looked at his cousin. “Yes.”
“Do you care for them?”
Salomon did not answer. The plains stretched clear and bright before him. In the distance sloped stripes of rain from a gray wisp of cloud already breaking apart.
“Do you love her, Sal?”
“I do.”
“Then you must go to them. They are in danger there. You have been in their home. People have seen you with them. If you do not go to them, I will send them away myself. To where nobody knows their names, their faces. I will send them to Baja California. Across the border. To where they know nobody but themselves and no one will come looking for them.”
“I will go to them.”
The red-rocked canyons crested in the distance. The canyons of El Camino Real. The scout returned at a run. “The road is clear, Señor Pico. You think we should ride the canyons?”
Andrés glanced to Salomon. “I think not.”
They split at the Los Padres Hills.
“Ride south, Sal. I am doing well in San Fernando. My brother is respected in Los Angeles. The further south you go, the better.”
“I will, cousin.”
Andrés held out his hand. “I am looking forward to meeting her one day.”
Salomon nodded and shook his cousin’s hand. “You will.”
He rode the woodlands alone, slipping behind the mask of trees like a ghost. The grassduned prairie lay empty in folds, the windrippled grass the only movement. He rode the ravines and stayed low. He rested at the treeline and waited overlooking the old hideout. The stones in the distance lay still. A pair of chickadees dove to land upon the branches but darted away just before touching. Salomon waited. A man adjusted his position on the rocks and his riflebarrel winked. Salomon shook his head. He leaned and spat and carried on.
He cut along the trees where the Los Padres linked crossways to the Santa Maria Hills. He descended into the open and dropped into a siltpowdered arroyo. There were no tracks. He climbed and rode the gravel washes. He stood in the valley and circled to view the windtouched hills and mountain peaks in the far distance with thin snow clinging t
o them like veils. A rider appeared on a hillside. They stood in mirror of each other, as unmoving as a painting, until the hillside rider removed his hat and swung it overhead several times. The man’s teeth were visible. Salomon smiled and kicked his pony into a run.
“You swing that sombrero much more and you will knock the sun into setting early.”
“Salomon,” Marquez was still smiling. “We thought they hanged you. We were ready to ride north with pistolas loaded and firing.”
“You would have been late to that party. You would have had to trade pistolas for shovels if you wanted to bring me back.”
“It was Arturo.” Marquez was no longer smiling. “He cannot ride. He runs a fever every night and shouts to himself in his sleep.”
Arturo sat shirtless by the fire with his arm in a sling and a bandage of cut fabric round his ribs, a paper and whittled coal in one hand. His hair was pushed back in sweat. His eyes were half-closed. When they rode up, he stood in smiles and tried to greet Salomon but he staggered and fell in a fit of coughs. Salomon dismounted first and when he knelt, Arturo grasped his sleeve with an ugly smile.
“How many more hangings can you survive?”
“None.”
“We were set to ride tomorrow. I would not let anyone harm you.”
“I know it. Sit back. How does the arm look?”
“To hell with my arm. You are a brother to me. I would have set fire to the town if they hurt you.”
Marquez sat nearby. He exhaled. “It is not so good, Sal.”
Salomon peeled back the sling and bandage and grimaced.
“To hell with my arm. I have another.”
“The ribs too,” Marquez said, stirring the small flames beneath the coffeepot.
Arturo fended Salomon’s hands. “What are you a doctor now? To hell with my ribs. I have plenty of those too.”
“Is the ball out?” Salomon said.
“Bah.” Arturo tossed a hand. He jutted his chin to Marquez. “Ask the surgeon. He’s been having fun sticking me with his knife all day.”
“It’s not much fun at all,” Marquez said to Salomon. He lifted his jaw and pointed to a bruise. “He swung at me.”
“You doctor like a man with no eyes,” Arturo said.
Marquez spoke into his cup, “And you patient like a birthing woman.”
Arturo looked at Marquez for a brief moment and tried to stand. Salomon held him back. Arturo had dropped something. The paper he was holding. The breeze picked at it, pushing it toward to the trees. It tumbled and clung momentarily to twigs and grass along the way, then was snatched up in a fist. Tsunipu approached from the trees, the paper in one hand. Marquez gave a start and shook his head.
The indian squatted at the fire and looked at Salomon. “You did not hang.”
“No, I did not.”
“Do you ever make an entrance in a normal way?” Marquez said.
“You escaped?”
Salomon shook his head. “I was bought and paid for by a respected man and pardoned.”
A smile creased Tsunipu’s cheeks. He looked like a different man. “Pardoned but not forgiven.”
“I doubt I’ll get that lucky. And I doubt I will get another chance like this. I am going south, my friends. You will not see me again. Not like this.”
The men did not speak. They sat and blinked at the fire.
“What about your gold?” Marquez asked.
“I want no part of it. You can divide my share between yourselves.” He added, “What you can find of it.”
They were quiet again for some time.
“He needs a doctor,” Salomon said. “We will have to bring him in.”
“I said to hell with my–”
“No,” Tsunipu said. “He will heal.”
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I dragged the smoke of saguaro and bear’s blood over you.”
Arturo glanced to Salomon. They sat in silence again. After a moment, Arturo asked, “Will I keep my arm?”
Tsunipu moved just his eyes. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“You don’t have the crow’s black stripes.”
“The what?”
“What is that?” Salomon pointed to Tsunipu’s hand. “The paper.”
“That’s nothing,” Arturo said. He sat up with a reaching arm, but could not move far. “You can throw that in the fire.”
Tsunipu pulled at the paper corners and smoothed it.
“Read it,” Marquez said.
“Just throw it in the fire.”
“What’s it say?”
Tsunipu glanced up from the paper. “It is his belongings left behind.”
“I thought I was going to die.”
Tsunipu read in silence as the others looked on. He lowered the paper and looked straight ahead for a moment, then put an arm forward and left the paper atop the small flames. Marquez plucked it off and stamped it.
“You spelled my name wrong,” Tsunipu said.
Marquez sat dragging his eyes across the singed paper paper. “I get a third of his gold share.”
“I am still here. Burn that up.”
“And his handcarved knife,” Marquez stood. “I get The Butcher’s famous knife.”
Arturo pointed with the blade. “You will get it sooner if you don’t burn that up.”
Marquez read the rest and sat again, the paper hanging at his knees.
“Don’t smile at me like that,” Arturo said.
“You are a brother to me too,” Marquez told him.
“Now I wish I was dead.”
Tsunipu pulled his knife and held the tip in the flames.
“You’re not going to go poking around in me again,” Arturo said.
The indian rotated the blade. “There is a T in my letters.”
“A what?” Arturo checked the other faces. “Where? You come at me again with that knife and I’ll cut you wide open.”
“It needs to be drained.”
“I like it the way it is.”
Tsunipu motioned and Salomon and Marquez went forward. They held him down cursing while Tsunipu worked. He cursed the sun from the sky before he passed out in a daze of sweat and muttered through dreams.
Later Salomon caught sight of the paper underfoot, discarded so suddenly by Marquez hours ago. He held it to catch the flamelight. Below Arturo’s scrawling of earthly effects to Tsunipu and Marquez, he left one more thing to Salomon:
To Salomon, the brother I have defended since childhood, I promise to be at your side at all times in protection from the other side. Not a day will go by that I will not stand beside you with weapons raised. Not a blow will come at you without crossing my sword first. I will see you again on the other side.
Salomon knelt and fed the paper’s corner to the flames and watched it flare up.
He rode under pale clouds mirroring the sun’s hiding at the edge of earth. Off the slopes of the Santa Maria’s, the distant crags capped like seafoam, over the surging valley floor. The sun appeared and lit the cloudcolors, and an unbalanced arrowhead of fowl dragged the heavens like a fisherman’s net, and crisp lark-calls rose about the wildflower air like pollen. Below him the hovels of Santa Maria lay white as bone in daybreak, the church tower cast its first shadow. Salomon rode the newly bugged grasswaves, his figure skylined across the pastel swaths.
Santa Maria crawled about in sunrise chores. Salomon tied his pony hidden upon the hillside and buttoned his coat to hide his pistolas. He descended the hills and waited behind thick brush, watching the chores at the water. Then he went out at once and strolled the creekbank toward the washers. He crouched ankle-deep among the few early risers and smiled to them. They smiled and carried on with their baskets. They twisted clothing in wetknuckled grips. He drank from a cupped hand and washed his face with ice-cold waters. He saw his reflection and gave himself a slow shave by the edge of his knife.
He walked the plaza and no
dded to the few faces he passed. He went along the mud huts, passing open windows and smiles. He stopped with his back to a wall and brushed his fingers to his eyebrows, his chin. He took a deep breath and pushed off the wall and passed a few more huts to stand at the señorita’s door. The smell of warm bread and coffee went past him, and from behind the door came the sounds of a humble breakfast, a quiet conversation of voices too muffled to recognize. He swallowed and removed his hat and pushed a hand across his hair several times. It had been over a year since he had seen her last. He stood there with his sombrero in hand for some time and glanced up with small smiles for passers.
Then she spoke from within and it was her voice clear and calm. He knocked, hardly more than a tapping, and the voice stopped. He swallowed again and held his breath as footsteps came near. There was silence then and his world stopped. The door rattled and opened and he breathed again at last and could not help but to smile. Vicente sat at the table behind her with widening eyes, and she stood at the door and looked about the same as when he first saw her green eyes.
“My God,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I have come for you, señorita,” he said. “I have come for you.”
They went south that same day and left every possession behind. The only thing Marisela Valderez took along was a cactus rose Salomon had given her long ago, now preserved dry by days spent on a sunlit windowsill. She wore it in her hair, red against black. The dragoon’s pistola Salomon had given her, Vicente now tucked in his belt as he followed on a rangy dun. They rode double upon the Comanche pony, her arms clutched to Salomon as if to never let go.
Through woodlands and over hills they rode, under linen clouds and blue skies. They stopped to watch each toss of wind on the long grass and swaying trees, and pointed to every leaping animal, every swooping bird. At night they sat fireside as Salomon stood over them in story, and they laughed embracing in firesparked light and stayed up head against shoulder long after the last embers dimmed and the outermost stars shone.
In the morning Salomon and Vicente fished in the creeks with willow sticks and thread, and did not catch anything despite seeing the fish swimming in the clear pools and dropping their thick lines on their heads. They set their willows aside and circled the pool with their hands in the water. They crossed and bumped and wrestled in the pool and made as if they were trying to drown each other as Marisela stood with her hands on her knees and laughed from the banks.
