California Gold

by John Jakes

  “Oh, you’ve got some kind of high-toned pedigree, have you?” Mack said.

  That amused the lawyer; perhaps he knew he was back in control. “I don’t have to explain myself to riffraff. But I don’t mind telling you I was born in California. That makes me a native son—something you’ll never be.”

  “Listen, I know what you are. I’d say it, but there’s a lady—”

  “Damn insolent—” Fairbanks began, but it was Hellman who took the play, kicking his gray to the bank with a lot of splashing. Mack turned in response to the noise, but wasn’t prepared for the searing pain as Hellman whipped the end of his rein against Mack’s cheek. He jumped away, hearing Carla cry, “Swampy!” in protest, but Hellman managed to hit him a second time.

  Blood ran down Mack’s right cheek. He wanted to go for Hellman’s throat, but Hellman’s face had changed from merely hard to ugly. The German brandished the S&W. “That’s the road to Frisco,” he said. “I find you on my ranch tonight, you’re a dead man.”

  “Swampy, you’re a bastard sometimes,” Carla said. “You too, Walter.”

  Fairbanks responded only by glaring at Mack, but Hellman shouted, “Shut up, goddamn it!”

  What was it Wyatt Paul had said about a closed door? Mack licked his lips, already dry again, then turned and started walking. He passed the buxom girl, who was standing there muddy and sweaty and beautiful; he didn’t miss the look she gave him, hot with admiration.

  The attorney didn’t miss it either.

  4

  THAT EVENING MACK RESTED in a grove of immense eucalyptus trees. From Hellman’s stream he had followed a rutted dirt pike that led toward the coastal mountains, crossing flat land broken by many little waterways with stands of cattail growing along them. At dusk the fog had come down, and though he wasn’t sure he was off Hellman’s land, he decided to risk stopping for the night. He was almost out of his mind with hunger, a condition he tried to forget by studying the fog. It was soft, white, unbelievably chilly—the thickest he’d ever seen.

  Suddenly he heard a horse coming from the east. He dodged behind the trunk of a eucalyptus with the clasp knife in his hand and watched the broad dirt pike, or what he could see of it. His mouth was dusty dry again, now from fear. Was the rider someone sent to make good on Hellman’s threat?

  The fog swirled, agitated by the horse and rider, who emerged from it like specters. For a moment Mack saw nothing except a dark mass. The rider wore some kind of flapping cape. When he saw long hair, he knew it was no assassin.

  “Miss Hellman,” he called, stepping from cover.

  She reined the black horse sharply and trotted back. The cape hung down over her back, shoulders, and breasts; it was a Mexican serape. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I knew Swampy’s ranch hands would be too lazy to search very hard when the tule fog came down. But I’m not—if I want something. May I dismount?”

  There was a certain archness in that question. He knew she was very much more worldly than he was, accustomed to playing games with men—she’d been married to a count, hadn’t she? Still, her presence excited him. She flung off the serape and tethered her horse. She wore a clean white shirt and pants and the gold scarf.

  “This is the main road west. I thought you still might be on it, and on the ranch.”

  “Is this a ranch? It looks like a farm.”

  She laughed. “You have a great deal to learn about California. Farms are ranches out here. See here, I don’t know your name.”

  “James Macklin Chance.”

  “Jim—”

  “No, I go by Mack,” he said as she extended her hand. It was a soft feminine hand, yet he felt strength in it. She held his hand longer than necessary.

  “Mack, then. May I sit for a little?”

  “Why, absolutely. Over here.” He led her to where he’d put his bandanna on the ground. “I’m sorry I don’t have a blanket.”

  “No need for one.” She spread the serape and sat down easily, gracefully. Mack was sharply aware of their isolation in the still, white fog. She patted the ground and he knelt beside her, leaving a proper space between.

  “Your father told me to get off his land but I don’t know where it ends.” He gestured west. “China?”

  She laughed again. “Almost. Would you have gotten off if you knew the boundaries?”

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. I really do admire you. Papa’s a powerful man. And as you saw, he can be dangerous. Frankly, I can’t think of another person, young or old, who ever stood up to Swampy quite the way you did. You have remarkable courage.”

  “I was thirsty—and I just didn’t know any better.” But he liked the praise, especially from her.

  “Walter was very jealous of what you did. Walter would never oppose my father.”

  “He’s your father’s lawyer, isn’t he?”

  “One of them. Walter impresses Swampy because he’s very old-line California. Swampy’s chasing after respectability in San Francisco like an old bull at stud.”

  The words brought a hot feeling to Mack’s face; young girls didn’t talk like that. At least not the daughters of the Welsh and Irish miners back east.

  “Swampy isn’t a very good father but I’ll say this for him—he’s a devil of a fine businessman. Henry Miller, another German—his real name’s Kreiser—owns a million four hundred thousand acres. But Swampy owns a million two hundred thousand.”

  Mack whistled. “How did your pa get his nickname?”

  “By means of what certain people call the ‘swamp scheme.’ Too tedious to go into. Both my father and Miller got rich from the scheme, but Papa hates for people to remind him by using his nickname. I goad him with it.”

  “I noticed. Once or twice he almost made me laugh. But when he aimed his gun, he wasn’t funny.”

  “No. Papa has no sense of humor and no kindness when it comes to money and property. He’s cheated and ruined more business rivals than I can tell you about. And he treated you abominably. One of the reasons I came after you was to apologize for him. Make amends. So you’ll think less harshly of the Hellmans—”

  “Well, I won’t soon forget your father.” The son of a bitch. He cleared his throat. “Is Walter your—uh—beau?”

  “He’d like to be.” She drew her trouser-clad knees up and clasped her hands around them. “I don’t have a real beau at the moment. I was married to a Polish count—well, you heard. I’m still getting over that.” She leaned toward him. “I’d rather talk about you.”

  Kneeling next to her, he was unprepared when she brought her pink mouth to his and caressed him with it, and then with the tip of her tongue. Her breath smelled of sweet clove and of something not quite hidden by it—gin.

  “Is that agreeable, Mr. Chance?”

  “Yes. Yes it is, Miss Hellman.”

  She laughed heartily at his half-strangled answer. Then, softening, she touched his right cheek, careful to keep her fingers away from the dark blood crusted on the edges of the cut.

  “Does it hurt terribly?”

  “Some. It’ll heal.”

  “Papa was brutal to do that.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll never forget it,” he answered with a vague hint of threat.

  That amused her all over again. “Good for you.” She patted his cheek twice more, a little gesture of condescending approval. It spoiled the headiness of the moment.

  The tule fog appeared to be thinning, brightening. The previous night the moon had been full, and perhaps it was up there above the fog, lighting it with a pearly radiance. Carla seized his hand while she got to her feet and then walked off to the black horse. She returned with a large bundle wrapped in a checkered cloth, and a sloshing canteen.

  “I brought food and water for the rest of your trip.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “Oh, I’ll get my reward.” Her lightly mocking tone put him off again. Carla Hellman fascinated him, bu
t she began to alarm him a little too. He felt vaguely like a frog spitted on a stick.

  She sat down again. “This pike leads you into Wheatville, which is just past the boundary of the ranch. From Wheatville you can catch the railroad to San Francisco, if you can afford it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you’re going there.”

  “Absolutely. I came from Pennsylvania to make my fortune in California.”

  “Just like that.”

  “I know it’ll take time, but I’ll do it.”

  “I expect you will, Mr. Macklin Chance.” Her smile shone. “In fact I suspected you’d go right on to the City in spite of Walter’s warning. Walter is no fool, but he can be frightfully stupid about certain things. He believes a lot of tripe about the superiority of Anglo-Saxons and native Californians. I’d advise you to stay out of his way. Not that you’ll move in the same circles. But he has powerful friends, and many connections. His father and his uncle started the Fairbanks Trust. A very large bank.”

  “I’ll stay out of his way if he stays out of mine.”

  “My, you are a truculent fellow. I do like that. Walter’s so contained and tight. Every action and utterance carefully considered. Typical lawyer: no blood, no passion.” She leaned back against the eucalyptus and rested her head. The golden scarf shimmered in the fog, glowing now with a radiance almost pure white. He saw the line of her breasts silhouetted against the light and he grew stiff, quickly and uncontrollably.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  “Let’s see. My great-grandfather was a traveling tinker in England. My grandfather owned a public house in London but he sold it to come to America—Ohio, where my pa was born. James Ohio Chance was his name. He came out here in the Gold Rush, and met and married a Hibernian lady—not a popular thing for a Protestant to do.”

  “I went to a Catholic girls’ school near Monterey,” Carla interrupted. “Saint Ursula’s. The nuns taught a number of Protestant girls from good families. I was bored, and I made such a fuss, Swampy took me to Europe when I was eleven. I visited Europe three times before I was sixteen.”

  “With your father and mother?”

  “With a paid companion. Swampy stayed in California. I never knew my mother. She ran off when I was a baby.”

  “Did you meet that Polish count in Europe?”

  “Boleslaw? Yes. He chased me to this country and Papa persuaded me to marry him. It was a ghastly mistake, but Boleslaw was an attractive man, and I couldn’t see beneath—” She shivered suddenly. “The fog’s chilly. Come keep me warm.”

  He slid over and hesitantly slipped his arm around her. She murmured and snuggled down, resting her hand on his left knee. The light pressure turned his member so hard it hurt, and he shifted away just a little.

  “I’ve never met a young man quite like you, Mack Chance. You’re bold, yet you’re very shy.”

  “No, no—well, I guess. With you. I don’t know much about rich girls.”

  “It’s time you learned, and here’s your first lesson.” She touched him again, and brought her mouth close. He felt the swell of her breast against his shirt as her tongue explored. Then she paused. “Here’s the second one. When I can’t get something—that’s when I want it most. I go after it until I have it.” She caressed his hair. “Fair warning?” Another kiss. “Walter Fairbanks would probably commit murder to get where you are now.”

  “I’m not Walter Fairbanks.”

  “Thank heaven.” She ran her tongue over his cheek. “You can help me forget.”

  He stroked her face in turn. “Forget what?”

  “The past couple of years. Boleslaw, the count, was a handsome man, but he was vicious. I don’t mind someone getting drunk, but I discovered that he had worse addictions. Opium. And he didn’t care for a husband’s duties in the boudoir. But he liked to hire these dreadful depraved people from the streets and watch while—well, I was lucky to get out.” Another shiver then. “I didn’t think marriage was supposed to leave scars, but mine did.”

  He was too shocked to speak. Her smile seemed less assured, sad again. “I’ll be going to San Francisco soon too. Only a short visit. Some shopping, a couple of social affairs—then I’m going away for a while. I need to be by myself, to get rid of some of the bad memories.” She kissed him. “I think you could definitely help.” She giggled. “Can you picture Swampy’s face if he knew I was making love to someone without a penny?”

  That was ice water dashed in his face. He untangled himself and jumped up.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, getting up too.

  “Miss Hellman, don’t use me to get back at your father.”

  She slapped him. He grabbed her arm. To his amazement, she laughed, then flung her other arm around his neck and plunged her tongue in his mouth. His loins shook from the grinding contact of her body.

  “I’m not, I’m not, my dear,” she said, her hand dropping to squeeze him. He nearly exploded. “Mack, I want to make love. Please, you’ve gotten me excited. Let’s undress. Here, I’ll begin…” She unfastened the long scarf, spilling her hair, billowy and golden, onto her shoulders. The moon was visible now, blazing behind the shredding veil of tule fog.

  He reached for the buttons of her shirt and undid them. Standing close, facing him, she shrugged off the shirt and then the chemise beneath. Her breasts were big and heavy, with dark-brown tips. He bent and kissed them. She threw her head back and exclaimed softly, then hugged him and began kissing his throat, his chest—

  She stopped.

  “What is it, what did I do?” He could barely keep from pulling at her, couldn’t keep his hands still.

  “We ought to make this as pleasant as we can. Wait just a minute.” She walked slowly, seductively, to her picketed horse, and then brought back a second, larger canteen. “Here. Bathe.”

  “What?”

  “Please bathe first. I’m sorry to tell you, but you smell like a barnyard. It isn’t very romantic.”

  He felt stupid, insulted, furious, and went limp, his skin prickling in the chill. He snatched the canteen while she raised her chemise against her breasts with a coquettish false modesty.

  He yanked the cork and inverted the canteen with a snap of his wrist. The water ran out noisily, splattering the ground. She watched it, and him, with disbelief. “What in hell—”

  “Listen, I may be a clod without much schooling, but I’m not some servant to be ordered around. Put your clothes on and go home.”

  He kicked the canteen, and it flew past her leg, generating a startled little cry. Moments later, she was heading east at a gallop, repeatedly quirting her luckless black horse. Mack’s last glimpse was of the bright banner of her hair streaming out behind her.

  Sleepless, he sat with his back against the rough trunk of a eucalyptus. The full moon shed brilliant light over the grove. He wound the gold ribbon of scarf around his left hand, then unwound it and wound it the other way.

  He’d thrown away a chance to make love to a spectacular girl. Well, he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, and she’d displayed a certain kindness toward him, but there was another side. She was spoiled, accustomed to having her way, like the old German who’d sired her. The willful streak had suddenly asserted itself, and instead of an eager, generous girl, she was suddenly a queen about to grant her favors for the night. He’d have liked to make love to her. But not on her terms.

  With a long sigh, he began to fold the scarf, shortening it until it fit between the pages of T. Fowler Haines, which he put away along with the memory of her hair, eyes, hands, and naked skin. Strange young girl. He didn’t doubt that she’d be trouble, a lot of trouble, for any man who involved himself with her. But why think of that? He’d never see her again.

  5

  MACK’S RECENT TROUBLES MADE it hard for him to appreciate that he was nearing San Francisco. When he arrived in the little town of Wheatville, on the main line to Oakland and San Francisco, his mood didn’t improve. There we
re scruffy blanket men everywhere, wheat-field workers with all of their worldly goods in blanket rolls tied on their backs.

  When a crashing rainstorm sent him hunting for shelter in an alley behind the main street, he literally stumbled on a ragged man lying unconscious in the mud between two puddles. It was an old Indian, Mack realized, when he rolled him over and saw the narrow dark face, high forehead, and black hair without a strand of gray despite the man’s obvious age. A bloody abrasion marked the Indian’s forehead, but he was breathing.

  Mack dragged him against the rear wall of a hardware store and, in the slashing rain, managed to wake him up. Hobbling, gripping Mack’s arm with an emaciated hand, the old Indian led him back through a warren of packing-case hovels to the one that was his. Solemnly, he gestured Mack in.

  The place smelled of offal and rotting meat, but Mack was glad to be out of the rain. The Indian lit a small fire and shared some purple berries and a tasty root that took a long time to chew. Mack helped him wash the bleeding abrasion with water from his canteen.

  “Three of the blanket men fell on me to rob me,” the Indian said, his black eyes watery. “They found I had nothing and beat me anyway. They would do the same if I were Chinese.”

  “Why don’t you leave? Or is this your home?”

  “I am Chumash, from the south. I have no home any longer. I work the fields, up and down. Wherever the white men will allow it,” he added for clarification. After studying Mack a moment, the Indian said, “You like California?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve not been here long, but I’m going to get rich here.”

  “Hah,” said the old man. The joyless laugh showed his brown teeth and ruined gums. “There is a dark side to your dream. My people know. One ancestor, in the mission of San Luis Rey de Francia, was no better than a slave. The friars rented him to the rancheros for a profit, and if he protested or disobeyed, they flogged him with knotted ropes ‘for the good of his soul.’ My father, as a young man, free in the pueblo of Los Angeles after Mexico took back the mission lands, was not much better off. He worked as a ranch hand. He was paid every Friday, with brandy. By Saturday he was drunk, which was the point. He spent Sunday in jail and on Monday morning he was herded out with others of his kind, and his services were auctioned to the ranchers for one more week. By Friday he had worked off his fine and was a few cents ahead. Once more he was paid with brandy…” The Indian shrugged. “In California there are only two kinds. Those who take, and those they take from.”