by Daniel Knapp
"That is the truth."
Mosby's angry, sneering face and the ugly, rough feel of his hands hung suspended in Esther's thoughts again. "HE DID IT!" she screamed, rage enveloping her. She picked up the other sticks and threw them all against the wall of the cabin. "HE DID IT, AND ONE DAY I WILL KILL HIM FOR IT!"
"Yes," Solana said, reaching, wrapping her arms around Esther and rocking her back and forth as she sobbed, "I... will... not... kill... the... baby." She rocked her until the uncontrollable crying and the wracking, deep sobs drained all the energy from Esther and she closed her eyes. She was asleep when Miwokan finally arrived.
Eighteen
South Fork Cabin
September 1, 1847
Solana and Miwokan came today. He is gone now, but Solana will stay with me until the child is born. She says she is sure it will happen within this quarter of the moon. She sits rocking and nursing her three-month-old son, Mwamwaash, as I write this. Miwokan brought a spear for me as a token of his appreciation today. It is fiercely beautiful, carved with bear symbols, its long, hand-sharpened stone spearhead imbedded in an oak shaft. In the wood just below the base of the stone he somehow has set a circle of upturned bear claws. How I would, forgive me, Lord, like to see that awful circle of points in Luther Mosby's heart!
How my hatred of the man persists, grows, the periods of wrath against him increasing as the blessed days when my mind is clear and my spirit and body do not fail me grow longer in number.
Strange as well how the Indians persist in their somewhat idolatrous beliefs about me. "Bear Woman" indeed! I suppose with this nose and this hand I do look like I have had an altercation with a grizzly and escaped. And no matter what I say, neither Solana nor Miwokan will look upon what I did during Solana's breech birth as anything short of a "miracle."
While it is true that I luckily was able to reach up and ease her unborn child the last bit around, it had already turned in the right direction during Solana's trip here. And it was good fortune accompanying desperation more than anything else. Lucky that I remembered even unclearly the time I watched mother do the same thing midwifing in Vermont, and read more on it in Elisha Canby's medical book at Bent's Fort. In any case, Solana had broken water and not delivered for two days. Surely when they reached here on their way to Mount Diablo, something had to be done immediately or she might have died before reaching Dr. Marsh's place. Still, they ignore simple fact and regard me, subtly, most of them at a distance, thank God, as though I were a saint! I have given up trying to reason with them on the matter.
It would be obvious that summer is ending even without keeping track. The nights grow colder after each sunset, and Sutter tells me his fields of grain are ready for harvest. He, as usual, has been most understanding about my request that he not come so often. I know he believes the issue in me was the true reason I did not wish to rejoin Alex, although he has never spoken directly of it. It is just as well. I wish no one to know of the details on the ribbon-bound pages that I wrote after the events occurred. No matter what course of action fate leads me to. It is better that way.
Forgot again to show Sutter the strange yellow-streaked stones I have been collecting from the river. Must remember to take them out of the small drawer of the armoire next time he comes.
The solitude and the beauty of these parts suits me well. Still do not respond with feelings equal to the profusion of life and color that has surrounded me here each day this spring and summer. Perhaps the feeble emotions I feel from time to time are a sign of further "healing." Perhaps not. Certainly have "felt" things during my time here when provoked and angered. I wonder what feelings I will have when the child is born? It is hard to imagine loving Mosby's child, although I care that it is born healthy and strong for its own sake. Perhaps that tardy portion of my returning senses, once-felt feelings of happiness, delight—dear God, perhaps even joy—will return to me when I no longer carry Mosby's flesh and blood. Foolish musings, all of this. We will just wait and see and try, however difficult it still is, to accept God's will.
Solana is probably right. Even these larger trousers I asked Sutter for seem fit to burst. Saw myself in these male "hermit" clothes in a quiet patch of water yesterday. Must admit they are a sight, but do not care, in fact, prefer the manner in which they hide even from me the otherwise obvious reminders that I am a woman.
Feel fortunate to be this far from "civilization," if in Alta California it can be called that. Sutter says the number of settlers who arrived this summer was much greater than last year. One wonders, having crossed all that vast territory, suffering the hardships, why so many do.
I grow weary. Must remember to bolt the windows, having seen the bear tracks about the remains of the trash fire. No doubt a cub, so small and closer-placed were its prints. Nevertheless, would hate to have even a medium-sized cub climb through the window some night in search of food. Will say a prayer for Alex as I lie beside the spear of the "Bear Woman!" So good to hear from Sutter that Alex is equal to his cousin in position, doing so well. I would be proud if I could but feel such things. And grateful as well that I have partially come to accept the self-imposed loss of him... Still unable to think of any possible means to return what is left of Alex's money... without revealing I have survived. Someday, dearest husband, I will find a way to replace what I have used of it, and either have the money itself returned to you, or arrange for some gain of at least equal value. Dearest, dearest Alex... Oh, God, how I love and miss you when I allow myself to think of the times gone by. But I must not, cannot waver from a purpose concerning Mosby that is now vague and simply suspended by lack of strength, knowledge, money, and circumstance.
Nineteen
Forty miles southwest of Esthers cabin, at Isaac Claussen's small ranch, Luther Mosby drew on his cigar and blew smoke at one of the Californios sitting opposite him. The heavier, darker man in tooled, silver-studded chaps, embroidered muslin shirt, and waist-length jacket grinned, one large, gold tooth gleaming. He held up his right hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and raising his eyebrows as he nodded his head and smiled again. Mosby scowled. It annoyed him that the Californio was so certain he would win the ten-dollar bet they had just made. The thought that September had never been a good month irritated him further. And we're just five days into the damn thing, he calculated. He dismissed the foreboding quickly, certain there was no way he could lose his bet, the way things were stacked.
Isaac Claussen nudged Mosby's ribs. Burly, red-bearded, and gruff, he was about to call Mosby "Alamo," but he thought better of it. "He'll think you stove that smile straight up his ass when he takes another look at the size of the bull, won't he?"
"I can't abide fuckin' greasers," Mosby said.
"I can understand that." Claussen chose his words carefully. "What with you losin' so many friends you left behind to the bastards… not bein' able to persuade that dumbass Colonel… Colonel…?"
"Fannin."
"Colonel Fannin into gettin' off his ass and helpin' 'em outa the pickle they wuz in at the Alamo."
"That's ancient history," Mosby said, taking stock of the slender, sad-eyed Californio perched next to the one who had made the bet. "Don't really have nothin' to do with it anyway. Just never could stand the oily cocksuckers and never will."
"Don't care much for greasers myself," Claussen chimed in. "But they brought in the grizzly."
"Yeah. He ain't much, though. Seen a lot bigger."
"This bull ought to make short work of him."
"That's the way I see it. And that greaser better have ten dollars or I'll pull that fuckin' gold tooth out of his head with my own hands."
Across from Mosby, Joaquin Alejandro Murietta took it all in. Six rangy Americanos sat on the twelve-foot-high, double-thick oak fence that opened on a chute leading to the corral. Thirty feet in diameter, the fence also encircled a stone and adobe outbuilding. Two more rough-looking gringos were leading one of the longhorns in the nearby corral this way. Besides the man
next to him with the gold tooth there were two more mestizos—Californios of mixed Spanish, Mexican, and Indian blood. They stood at the latched heavy door to the outbuilding, ready to let the bear loose and climb jutting stones, a small, high window-ledge, and the fence to safety. Twice as many Americanos as them. It could be ugly, Murietta thought, if the man next to him won his bet.
Murietta sighed and took a measured swig of the whiskey from Isaac Claussen's still. It was rotten, but he did not spit it out. He felt contempt for Claussen, who had made so much money by selling this barbaric liquid to mestizos, Indians, and whites who knew no better. He swallowed and sighed. The quality of the whiskey matched what was about to take place within the confines of the circular fence. Since the day his father took him to Mexico City as a young boy and gave him his first exposure to the corrida de toros, this Alta California bull-and-bear fighting had been to him only meaningless cruelty, the sport of savages. There was no ultimate test of man's courage in the face of painful, violent death; simply brutality.
Murietta took another drink, and the alcohol began to soften the edge of his contempt for Claussen, the other Americanos, the three other Californios, and the crude ritual itself. He was here only because he needed his share of the money Claussen would pay for the meat and skin of the bear. The thought and the necessity did not lessen the degree of shame he felt. Quickly he took another drink.
The two Americans prodded the longhorn bull through the end of the chute and closed the solid gate behind it. Enormous, it stood still for a moment, then saw the two mestizos. One of them had just thrown a long rope attached to the door handle over the fence. He was halfway up the side of the building when the other mestizo threw the latch, kicked the door open, and quickly climbed after him.
The bull charged. For a moment it seemed to Mosby that there was something wrong with its gait, that the bull favored one foreleg. But then the bear appeared on his hind legs in the doorway and roared. The bull swerved from the fence and the second mestizo. Hurtling through the doorway and into the bear, he drove it back against the rear wall of the building.
The men felt the impact in their buttocks. The bear roared again, rolled under and away from the bull, and scrambled out into the ring. It stopped in the center, saw the men sitting on the fence, roared in anger again and was about to race at Claussen's dangling boot when the bull cleared the doorway. It came straight on, driving into the bear's back, stunning it and slicing one horn-tip forward along a flank. The bear howled as it flew forward, rolled, and then smashed against the base of the fence. Dazed, the bull paused for a moment, then turned as the shouting and whistling of the Americans distracted him.
Forgetting the bear momentarily, the bull charged the fence under Mosby. When the animal hit it, Mosby nearly toppled over backward. Riding the fence with his thighs as though it were a bucking horse, Mosby recovered, righted himself, and watched as the enraged bull struggled to free one imbedded horn.
The bear, temporarily senseless and riddled with pain, rolled over, tried to stand and collapsed. The Americans jeered at it. The bull, free again, trotted away from the bear, its nostrils flaring, and looked upward at dangling boots as it circled the far half of the enclosure. It reached the man beside Murietta and stopped. Sunlight gleamed on the heavy mestizo's false tooth, confusing the bull. Myopically, the bear watched the circling bull as its senses began to clear. Instinctively, the bear rose up on all four paws, but it was still too stunned to stand.
When the bear fell again, the bull caught the movement, turned, pawed at the ground, and began another charge. Again Mosby saw the odd movement of one foreleg. As the bull reached the center of the enclosed circle, its left forehoof dug into the packed earth and wedged between two large rocks just below the surface. With the sound of a rifle shot, the bone in its left foreleg snapped and it went down, bellowing and sliding to within three yards of the bear.
Both animals lay still for ten seconds. No one made a sound. The bear finally growled and began to rise. The bull was up and ready by the time the bear stood on its hind legs at full height. The bear crouched as the bull charged, its left foreleg buckling under again. Sliding on its chest, the bull slammed into the bear, hooked up and drove one horn deep into its lower belly. Roaring, the bear slashed at the back and shoulders of the bull, its three-inch claws tearing through hide, fat and muscle. Enraged, the bull rose on three legs, swung its head, and the horn pulled free. Escaping the tight area between the bloody horns and the fence, the bear struck the bull along the side of the head and sent it toppling to its side.
The bull bellowed and moaned in pain. Free to maneuver now, the bear took two loping steps and threw itself at the bull's exposed neck. Gripping the other animal in a lethal embrace, the bear snapped its jaws shut on the bull's throat, its hind legs pumping, its hind claws ripping deep into the larger animal's belly. When the bull's neck snapped and it stopped moving, the bear backed off. Tentatively, it moved back to the bull and took a long, slashing swipe at its flank. The bull quivered but did not move.
When the bear rose on its hind legs, Isaac Claussen fired his revolver into the air six times in succession. The other Americans unholstered and fired their guns. The bear, confused by the sharp, ear-splitting sounds, dropped to all fours, searched for an escape through the fence, followed its line to the outbuilding, saw the darker shape of the door, and ran for it. Once the bear was inside, the mestizo holding the long rope yanked the door shut, pulled the line taut, and waited while his companion jumped down, ran over to the door, latched it, and threw the thick outside-bolt home.
For a few minutes, as the Americans reloaded their revolvers, the bear roared and flailed at the door. Weakened, the bear finally gave up, retreated to one corner, sat down, and licked at the large puncture-wound seven inches above its genitals.
Mosby, Claussen, and the rest waited until the bear was silent. Then they dropped down into the ring. Three of the Californios followed them and stared at the bull. Murietta stayed where he was. The stench of animal sweat, blood, torn intestines, and feces filled the air.
"Get this fuckin' thing outa here!" Claussen snapped. Two of his men quickly trussed and tied the bull, opened the gate to the chute, and began dragging the animal out of the ring.
"Some fuckin' bull you got me," he shouted at one of the men hauling on the ropes. "Well, you got the pleasure of butcherin' him up. And have the job finished before sundown!"
Mosby turned to the mestizos. The heavy one with the gold tooth was smiling.
"There was somethin' wrong with that bull's left foreleg," Mosby said, glancing at Claussen. He took out a ten dollar gold piece and flipped it in the air. As he caught it, he winked at Claussen. "He was all right yesterday, wasn't he?"
"Yeah," Claussen said. "Wasn't nothin' wrong with him."
"When'd these greasers bring in the bear? How long they been here?" "Couple days," Claussen said, catching the drift. "Where they been sleepin'?" "Why, down by the corral. In them sheds." One of the two men who had hauled the dead bull to Claussen's barn came back. He took his place in a fanned semicircle around the three mestizos as Mosby turned again to the man with the gold tooth. "So any one of these greasers could have tampered with the bull last night, right?"
"Well, I'll be goddamned," Claussen said. He saw now what Mosby was up to.
"We did not touch the bull, señor," the man with the gold tooth said.
Mosby had his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver. "You're a lyin' greaser son of a bitch."
The man with the gold tooth scanned the Americans around him and his two companions. The flesh under his left eye twitched. There were too many.
"We did not touch the bull, señor," the Californio said again. "But since you have doubt of that, I will forget about our bet."
"He's gonna forget about it!" Mosby said, turning briefly to Claussen and laughing. "You need proof, there it is. Anyone ever know a greaser was willing to forget about ten dollars?"
All the Americans laug
hed.
"I would not take your money now, gringo. I would not let it touch my fingers," the man with the gold tooth said, hard-pressed to control his growing rage. "If Señor Claussen will pay us for the bear, we will be on our way."
"You hear that, Claussen? Thievin' son of a bitch insults me, calls me a gringo, and wants money to boot."
"Señor—"
"Listen, you oily little bastard, you're gonna leave all right. Right now. Without a fuckin' penny from any of us." Mosby's fingers were around the tooled handle of his revolver, ready to pull.
The Californio glared at him. He thought for a moment about pulling on the tall, hawk-nosed man with the moustache, but he knew he and his friends would be dead in less than a minute if he did. He stared at Mosby for a moment longer, then spat down at the dirt. Some of the saliva struck the toe of Mosby's right boot. "Vámonos," he said to the two men with him, forgetting for the moment about Murietta. He started to brush past Mosby.
"Wait a minute, greaser," Mosby said, straight-arming him. He pointed to his boot. "You're goin' to clean that off, with your hand, before you leave."
The Californio looked coldly at the hand on his shoulder. His eyes turned to Mosby. "No, señor. Some other day, perhaps." He started to turn, move off again.
"No other fuckin' day!" Mosby snapped, gripping at the man's jacket, spinning him back, and kneeing him hard in the groin. The Californio doubled over. Mosby saw him reach at his boot, saw the knife blade gleam as it came out. He stepped back just out of reach as the knife whipped up toward him. He pulled his revolver. The force of the upward swing tipped the Californio off balance for a second. He watched helplessly as Mosby held the gun on him for several seconds, laughed, and then blew a hole in the center of his chest.
The rest happened quickly. The other two Californios started to make their moves, were grabbed by each arm, held, punched, and kicked in the face, body, groin, and shins. Murietta, who had watched it all without moving, slipped off the fence into the ring while the deafening sound of the gun was still reverberating and they began beating the other two mestizos. Moving quickly, he ran to the door of the outbuilding, slipped the latch, pulled the bolt free, and kicked the door open before moving to one side and flattening himself against the wall.
