California Gold

by John Jakes

  “I don’t know,” he repeated with a shrug. “I’m willing to try, though.”

  With a little laugh, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’ve changed too. Look at all this gray in my hair.”

  “It’s becoming.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not young any longer. I’m not sure of myself, the way I was when I was twenty. It’s a penalty of age. I’ll tell you another: I get cold in bed at night. Books won’t keep a body warm. I think a husband would be…very desirable.”

  “The right husband.”

  “There’s only one, Mack.” Unable to hold back, she clung to his neck and cried. Peter Sledgeman walked near the auto and gave the lovers a look of hatred.

  “No, there’s never been any other.” She kissed his dry, cracked mouth.

  He hugged her there in the morning sunshine, ready to faint from excitement and exhaustion. But he had things to do. “I have to drag Tarbox out of whatever hole he’s hiding in,” Mack said then, “and send him to Fresno for a doctor.”

  “I must get busy too,” Nellie said. She found her reporter’s pad and set her sights on Sheriff Chittenden. Moving away, she closed her eyes and said, “Margaret, bless you.”

  “What did you say?” Mack called from six feet behind her.

  “Nothing, darling, nothing.”

  Nine days later, Diego Marquez was well enough to leave the barracks. Mack drove him into Fresno to catch the Southern Pacific.

  As he walked with Marquez to the platform, he wondered what would become of the ex-priest. He looked grossly fat, and still showed poor color even though he’d quite recovered from the dangerous fever and pneumonia.

  “Good-bye, Mack. Thank you for what you did.”

  “De nada. It was the only right thing. I wish we could be real friends again.”

  With a weary wryness, Marquez said, “A long time ago you suggested I was a conscience. Self-appointed. Can you tell me the name of any man who is friendly with his conscience?”

  “I’m serious, Diego.”

  “What you propose is not possible.”

  “It was possible once.”

  “All greedy men despise a liberal spirit. Are you such a rare exception?”

  “If that’s what you think about me, it makes me angry. You don’t know me anymore.”

  “I know myself. I know what I believe and preach. The Church constrained me to walk a narrow road. Then I left her to walk another, steeper one, strewn with thorns and traps and almost sure to lead to darkness. It’s the familiar road of fools and martyrs—those who willingly let their bodies be crushed because they are so presumptuous as to think their ideas must prevail. We are on different sides.”

  “Different armies. The same side.”

  Marquez looked doubtful as they shook hands and he put his foot on the step of the southbound Pullman car. For a moment his eyes lost focus and he swayed. The black porter caught Marquez quickly and steadied him until he recovered his balance.

  Mack shook his head. What a pair they were, he and Marquez. Two California outcasts. After a moment Marquez said, “Thank you again.”

  “You’re entirely welcome.”

  Marquez made the sign of the cross. “God protect you.” The porter helped him up the steps.

  It was slow going, and Marquez frequently uttered little gasps. He acted like a man beset by everything from piles to the white Christian Republican wrath of General Otis. Well, that too was California. Mack was consumed by an enormous sadness as the southbound express pulled out in a cloud of steam.

  That night he had a strange dream. It began with the blizzard but soon shifted to California, to scenes of himself with Swampy, the old German refusing him water. Then Mack saw himself refusing it to Gopal Mukerji in the yard of the ranch.

  Waking about 3 A.M., he thought he knew what it meant. He’d come perilously close to becoming a Walter Fairbanks, a man who claimed his gold and then denied others the right to look for theirs.

  In the morning, using the repaired telephone line at the ranch, he contacted Alex Muller on Greenwich Street.

  “Dig out the address for Yacob Steinweis. Telegraph him and tell him I’ll sell him the land.”

  84

  AT NOON ON THE THIRD Friday in August, 1911, James Macklin Chance married the former Natalia Rotchev in a parlor of the Hollywood Hotel, a justice performing the civil ceremony. William R. Hearst gave the bride away and Johnson came down from Niles to stand up for Mack. The moment the Texan stomped across the veranda of the rambling frame hotel, two bellhops recognized him and one asked him to sign a baggage check. Such was the escalating fame of Broncho Billy, his pictures, and his stock company.

  There was a lively reception following, attended by a raffish crowd of journalists and some of Mack’s associates—Alex and his wife, Sophia; Billy Biggerstaff, his manager in Riverside, and Mrs. Biggerstaff; Haven Ogg of the oil company, with his wife and all twelve children; Enrique Potter, a widower now. At about seven, Mack and Nellie bid the guests good-evening and retired to the bedroom of the hotel’s largest suite. There was none of the shyness or hurried clumsiness of lovers new to one another; rather, a comfortable quality, like a reunion of longtime sweethearts.

  After, they talked a while of the convoluted road each had traveled to this intersection of their lives that they’d almost passed by. Nellie had a strong point to make to her new husband.

  “If I give up some of myself, I expect the same of you. I won’t be ignored—jobbed aside—the way Carla was.”

  “I understand.” He reached out. “What time is it?” He knocked his pocket watch off the side table and crawled out of bed naked and knelt over it, squinting. “Half past ten. I have to go.”

  “Now? Where?”

  “Downstairs. The chef promised me the kitchen as soon as the dining room closed.”

  “Why on earth—”

  “Be patient. It’s a surprise.”

  He kissed her ardently, jumped into his trousers and a shirt, and left her in the dark. He didn’t come back until after midnight.

  At Hollywood and Highland, on the corner opposite the hotel, a man watched the high cupola of the wedding suite.

  The night air had a stale, dusty smell, the smell of drought, relieved only a little by the faded scent of withering rosebushes. But the man, whose age and features the darkness concealed, was immune to the subtle odors. All he fixed on was the flash of electric light in the cupola, the figure moving in silhouette, then the light blinking off again.

  Good. They were still there. He could safely sleep till morning in some out-of-the-way corner of this proper, righteous suburban community of thirty-five hundred souls.

  He wandered for several blocks until he found a nook between two alley trash boxes, next to a fence with a sign reading NO DOGS—NO JEWS—NO ACTORS.

  Trembling, Wyatt crouched down between the trash boxes. His tongue felt huge and heavy. A thousand little insects crawled over his scalp, in his ears, under his arms, up his groin. He fumbled in the pocket of his rancid coat, a stolen coat two sizes too large, then nearly broke the needle giving himself the desperately craved injection.

  In the morning, Mack loaded two wicker hampers on top of other gear in a rented surrey. Soon after, Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Chance went clipping along westward on Sunset Boulevard, a broad dirt avenue with P.E. rails in the center and telephone and telegraph wires straggling overhead. Hollywood was a drowsy little town of checkerboard lots, dull midwestern bungalows, and the occasional interruption of a showy Cape Cod manse. Nellie clung to his arm and smiled and sang to herself. After Mack came back to bed smelling of flour, spices, and other kitchen scents, they’d scarcely slept. She was tired, but she felt delicious.

  “Saddle horse,” Wyatt said to the youngster on duty at Knarr’s Sunset Livery. He’d watched the isolated building about twenty minutes until he was sure there was but one person inside.

  “Here’s a nice fast mare. Rosabelle. Need her one day, or more?”

  “One da
y.” The boy reached for a saddle blanket without great haste. “Hurry up about it.”

  When Rosabelle was saddled, the boy had second thoughts about this stranger. The man’s nondescript suit bore all sorts of foul-looking stains, a shiny, weeping sore marked the corner of his mouth, and his hair was long, spiky, and dulled by dirt; even the white streaks had a gray cast. The boy decided on his own initiative to discourage the customer by doubling the price.

  “Six dollars.”

  The livery was dark and smelled of straw and manure. Wyatt kept shooting glances at the burning sunshine outside the double doors. The boy held out his hand for payment, hoping the man wouldn’t have it. Definitely something wrong about him.

  Turned away from the youngster, Wyatt suddenly swung back with his hands clasped together, a hammer of flesh. He bashed the boy’s head, staggering him, then pounded him a second and third time.

  The horses began to stamp and whinny and kick their stalls. Wyatt slapped a hand over the youngster’s mouth and dragged him into an empty stall. Gripping the sides of the stall, he watched the double doors while he stamped the youngster’s head, neck, and chest with his hobnailed shoe.

  He left the youngster dead and, after locking up the stables, mounted Rosabelle and trotted into Sunset Boulevard, immediately turning west and galloping ahead of a big red interurban car.

  It was another hot, hazy morning, and Mack soon shed his jacket. The foothills of the Santa Monicas had a sere yellow look. A sultry breeze came up, raising dust.

  He turned the surrey toward the foot of Coldwater Canyon. At the last farm they passed, the householder, up on a ladder repairing his windmill, shouted to them.

  “You goin’ up yonder?”

  “Yes, sir, I own some property. We’re going to hike in and camp.”

  “Careful with your campfire—this drought’s bad, and everything’s tinder dry.”

  “Appreciate the warning.” Mack shook the reins and drove on.

  At dusk, Wyatt stole into a grove a few hundred yards above the twisting Coldwater Canyon road. Dust blew over the ground; the wind was stronger. But there’d be no rain tonight. The evening sky was yellow-white, like firelit brass.

  Chilly and shaking, Wyatt staggered behind a tree for the last of his syringes. He dropped it when he finished, needle and barrel catching the light.

  Mack had unhitched the surrey and tethered the horse with a large nose bag. Now, smelling Wyatt, the horse whinnied. Wyatt sidled up to the fretful horse and began to smile and stroke and charm the animal to silence while his eyes searched the hills above. A mile or so up, on a folded edge of ridge, a smudge of red located the campsite. The hot, still air and the dust of the countryside made him feel excruciatingly dirty, and so did his four-day stubble of beard. He hated that soiled, gritty feel of his skin; it was the feel of poverty. Failure…

  Well, things would improve when he finished this. That lawyer would deposit the agreed-upon sum into the separate bank account he had set up, and he could move forward again. Of course to clear his trail he had to dispose of Nellie along with Mack, but that didn’t bother him, not for a moment.

  He continued petting and whispering to the horse until it was quiet. Then he stole out of the purpling shadow of the grove and began to climb a narrow foot trail.

  In a clearing on the brown ridge, Mack had set up the double tent. As he started a small fire for the evening, Nellie cast an apprehensive eye at the sere hilltops. “Mack, it’s a tinderbox up here. Should we really be doing that?”

  He cast his eye around too, but said, “I’ll take extra care, douse it thoroughly when we’re ready for bed. I can do this, too.” With his big clasp knife he traced a safety trench all the way around the fire, then spent a few minutes deepening it with a stick.

  He next unfolded a little picnic stool—canvas between crossed legs. From one hamper he brought two bottles of Sonoma Creek zinfandel; his vineyard’s best. From the other he took his waiter’s corkscrew, silver, plates, napkins, and goblets.

  Then he produced the delicacies.

  First, a pâté en croûte of veal and pork, mushrooms and brandy, the crust glazed with egg before he baked it. Next, some Hass avocados, halved, with fresh lemons to squeeze over them. His main offering was matambre, a dish he’d learned from the Argentinian woman who now cooked in Riverside. To make it he’d butterflied flank steaks and filled them with spinach leaves, thinly sliced onion rings, carrots, peppers, olives, and hard-boiled eggs, then rolled up the steaks, tied them, poached them in red wine and broth, and baked them. He took the result from a box of ice already melted into cold water, unwrapping the protective oilskin and slicing the cold meat into round sections. There were grapes and Calgold oranges for dessert. He rocked back on his boot heels and grinned.

  “Your wedding supper, Mrs. C.”

  “It looks heavenly. I’ll have to hire a cook; I can’t match you in the kitchen.”

  “I confess I didn’t do it all. The hotel chef helped with preparations.”

  “No false modesty now. You have a wonderful touch.”

  “I miss doing those big dinners. I’ve started to miss my polo ponies, and a lot of other things I enjoyed before it all went wrong.” He knelt beside her and kissed her cheek. “You’ll put everything right.”

  “I’ll try.”

  They sat on the ground with their plates and wineglasses, the little camp stool serving as their table. The darkening sky was vast and hot, the stars blurred. Far down below, lights twinkled in farmhouses and a few imposing homes. To the south, they could just see the lighted oil derricks on the flat open land along Wilshire Boulevard. The tent flap snapped and crackled in the wind.

  After they ate, pleasurably sipping their way through one bottle of the zinfandel, Mack went to the tent for the plans he’d brought along. They studied and discussed them for a while by the fire.

  “The design is still very good,” Nellie said finally.

  “I agree. It’s time we built a new house on Nob Hill.”

  The wind blew bits of parched brown grass into the fire, igniting and whirling them upward on the air currents. Mack hadn’t hiked in the hills for years, and he felt renewed and refreshed.

  “You’re smiling,” Nellie said.

  “I’m happy. I wish Jim were still with me, but he isn’t, so I’ll settle for what I have.” He leaned over to plant a light kiss. “Which I like very much, Mrs. Chance.”

  She caressed his cheek, but her eyes were momentarily troubled. “Do you really think he’s gone for good?”

  “Yes. I feel sure he’s alive, but I know now that he doesn’t want any part of me. Maybe I don’t want to find him anymore—”

  “Oh, Mack, no.”

  “It’s true. Maybe I can’t stand to face him and hear what he thinks of me. I do know that lately I haven’t kept after the Pinkertons quite so hard as I once did.”

  “But if you think there’s still any chance of finding him, you mustn’t give up. You simply mustn’t. Not while you can draw a breath. He’s your boy.”

  “Nellie, Nellie…” He tousled her hair, his face lined by pain. “I know. Do you think I don’t know? God, there’s hardly an hour that I don’t feel it.”

  And she was right, absolutely right, about pressing the search till the day he died. Yet deep within, he was apprehensive. He’d probed for the truth about Jim’s feelings, and found it, and he feared it.

  The canvas of the tent snapped again, and wind blowing over the mountain summit streamed into the fire, causing them to hitch back away from it. Scattering sparks fell among the tall weeds to one side of the clearing. Mack scanned the sky.

  “Wind’s changed direction. Santan coming. Guess we’d better think about going home in the morning. I’ve things to do in Riverside.”

  Drowsily, lovingly, Nellie caressed the curve of his chin. “All right. But we still have the night.” She gave him a lingering kiss. “Oh, my, I do wonder why it took me so long to come to my senses.”

  “B
oth of us, Nellie. I had some pretty wrong-headed ideas about women.”

  “I had some pretty wrong-headed ideas of my own. Long ago, I should have gotten over being scornful of the way you set your sights for the top of a mountain, and then got there. I really do admire you for all you’ve accomplished—and especially the way you’ve put all your success to so many good uses.”

  He kissed her chin, smiling again. “Are you trying to soften me up so I’ll take you on a better honeymoon someday?”

  “This has been the best honeymoon I’ve ever had. And the only one I want.”

  She kissed him.

  The santan blew.

  Higher up, in deep weeds so dry they snapped at the touch, Wyatt watched the embracing couple in the penumbra of light. The climb up the hills, well away from the foot trail, had been long and arduous, but worth it; he’d cornered them. And the shift of the wind gave him an extra benefit he hadn’t anticipated.

  He rummaged in his pocket for his last scrap of bread, then stuffed it into his mouth. He probed the pocket again. The matchbox was safe, but he should hold off until they were sleeping soundly in the tent before he set the fire. So he hunkered down to wait. In ten minutes he was perspiring, in thirty his palms crawled and silent screams filled his head. If he didn’t get back to Los Angeles soon, didn’t get a pipe of opium or a syringe of morphine, he’d die. He couldn’t wait hours and hours.

  He pulled out the box of matches and sat there cross-legged in the parched weeds, tossing the matches up and down, up and down, listening to them rattle.

  The wind ripped down over the Santa Monicas, blowing harder.

  Mack leaned on his elbows, musing.

  “I’ve made so much money in California—more than I ever dreamed of making—and I built such a wall of property, and propriety, around myself, I didn’t understand what it had done to me till the moment that Hindustani fellow stood there with the dipper and I told him to put it down. I had a dream that told me I was doing exactly what Swampy and Fairbanks did to me. I almost shut the door on Steinweis too. ‘I’ve got mine, you stay out, so I can keep more for myself…’ ”