by David Xavier
They packed light. The Mission San Fernando was a short cattle drive. As the rancheros took their points and moved the herd out, Salomon stood hand in hand with Juana, looking up at her from the hacienda steps. He waved his hat and slapped his horse’s flanks and rode into the dust to join his herd. He would come back to her a man with money.
In the night they rode by the stars and slept little. The rancheros told stories by firelight, their legged and high-crotched shadows acting in the night behind them. Salomon sat and listened as he held a plate under his chin and ate. In the daylight they lumbered along with the cattle and squinted in the sun.
A lone rider appeared on a ridgeline to the east, too far and too hot to distinguish the heat-shimmered features. Just a distorted shape that paced them for miles. The men became aware, as the shape did not trouble to hide itself, and they looked across the steaming cattlebacks to each other for explanations. One rider pulled his rifle from his scabbard and rode with it pointed upward, the butt on his hip, but he soon put it away. When Salomon looked again the rider was not there, gone in an instant as if finally evaporated to travel the air and appear again under closer circumstances.
The next day the rider appeared again, this time to the west. He rode beside them all hours of the day before riding away, growing smaller in the waves of heat. The cattle were not disturbed by the rider, and during the night, they were not restless.
They came upon a figure squatting in a creekbed. He had tied his mule to a cottonwood, where it paced and tossed against its load in momentary fits. The man stood from his squat, ankle deep in water and still stooped. His head hung forward in the manner of a vulture at rest. Salomon sat his horse as the cattle crossed behind him and his men whistled and hollered among them. He spoke as much to himself as to the man.
“What is this man doing?”
The man looked down at the water and back up. Water dripped from his red beard. His tattered clothes were too tight, like he’d worn them in a hot rain.
“Looking for gold.”
Salomon sat up. “You speak spanish.”
“I do when I speak to mexicans.”
He regarded the creek. “You look for gold in a creek?”
“Well, I don’t look for it where I won’t find it.”
“You find any?”
“No.”
“Is it just lying in the sand for you to pick it up?”
“No,” the man said. “You have to find the right spot. And finding the right spot is about as easy as finding a tick on a fine lady.”
“A what?”
The man looked out at nothing. “Not quite as enjoyable, though.”
The man had bad teeth. Salomon looked far up the creek. It would be odd in this whole tumble of water for this man to be standing in the right spot. “Well, good luck to you.”
“Isn’t luck that’s involved. Not when every man is wished luck upon. Then we all have the same chances and luck isn’t nothing but a word. Might just say good day to me and be on your way.”
He sat wordless, the babble of the creek beneath them, a language for all ears. He turned his horse. “Well, good luck just the same.”
Salomon moved along. When he looked back, the man was squatting once more, looking closely into his pan and poking his finger at his findings.
He took point and rode ahead. He climbed an outcropping, a rise in the prairie where internal rock had stretched and torn through the earth’s fabric. Atop the rock, where the wind was free to blow as it wished, where it seemed not to blow at all but rather to pull at his clothing in a hundred tiny grasps, he watched his herd move below.
His horse picked its way along the fold, and there at the point where rock came back to hide beneath the earth again was erected a miniature monument. Salomon dismounted and crouched with reins in hand. It was a stack of stones knee-high, some flat, some round, looking delicately balanced, masterfully positioned to withstand wind and rain. He stood and regarded this puzzle. This moment of play in a passing traveler, a man who could be dead and dried to dust, or could have been here and gone just hours before. A man who could be hidden beside him now, grinning from the sage in delight at his puzzlement.
On the horizon rose a great cloud from the earth, pulled by that grasping wind. Salomon watched it, then mounted and rejoined his men. By the time he reached them, the cattle were trotting and bawling, rolling their eyes and pitching their heads. The vaqueros had pulled their handkerchiefs over their faces and pulled their hat brims low. The dust cloud rolled in.
The cattle pushed through, needing little encouragement and responding less to it. They lowered their heads and hurried along, trusting their way to the steps that went before them, and the riders did the same with heads lowered and eyes put to a squint. One rider looked around in goggles, but soon lowered his head against the stinging dust just the same. The cloud brushed over them one and all and erased any color of the cattle. It came in waves, allowing brief pockets of extended visibility, just enough to assure each rider that they were still among the right crowd before lowering their head into another wave. They rode that way until the winds gave up and dropped the dirt and sands for another day. The cattle did not stop their trot, spurred on now by the smell of water. Salomon rode up beside one of his riders.
“Where did you get those?”
“These?” The man held up his goggles. They were crudely made. Discs of glass in a sling of leather. “These I made.”
The man’s lips were cracked and sand-peppered, and his clothing dusted over, releasing small wisps into the remaining breezes when he moved. The only untouched parts on this man were his teeth, which Salomon looked at when he spoke, and the bare strip across his eyes.
“Made them for what?”
“Made them for this purpose.”
“Let me see them. You made these for dust storms?”
“Be careful with the stitching. The glass pops out.”
“What are you, an inventor?”
The man shook his head. “I’ve seen a picture of these before.”
Salomon handed them back. “Do they work?”
The man shrugged. “The glass is dark and hard to see through. It’s too thick.”
“And you carry those around just for dust clouds? How many times have you used them?”
“Not many. I wear them some days just to give them some use. At night, sometimes.”
“You sleep with those on?”
“When it is late and someone will not put a light out.”
Soon the white walls of the Mission San Fernando were in sight, as if rising unearthed like the bleached skull of some colossus. About the outside, mounted soldiers danced left and right in idle games and bets between each other, tossing rings as each took turns riding by with a lance. The games stopped and they gathered side by side and watched as the cattle herd came close and grew in width, then they rode out to wave the vaqueros in, hollering with hats in hand. They led the way to an immense perimeter of crude fencing that stretched for acres, large enough to handle a herd twice the size that hurried through the gates now. Indian orphans in blankets stood about the fence with their feet on the low rung, sticking their dark arms through the slats at passing cattle.
Inside, Salomon was shown to a small room and sat in front of a cleared desk. Dust powdered off his clothing with every step, and he beat his hand against his shirt until the true color showed through. Two footprints showed where he had been standing on the tile, and he sat with folded papers in hand while his vaqueros led the cattle moaning through the mission gates. One voice carried high over it all. A soldier at the mission. Salomon watched from the window, then sat and bounced his heel, then stood and watched from the window again. He wiped his brow and tried the window but it would not open. He unbuttoned his shirt and flapped the opening, then held it open and blew into his shirt folds.
The commanding officer came through the
door with medals clicking on his uniform and made for the seat behind the desk, watching Salomon as he crossed the room. He was a man without gray, and his eyes worked as quickly as his feet. Salomon placed the papers in his lips and went to buttoning and tucking his shirt.
“What are you doing?” the officer asked.
“You surprised me.”
“What?”
Salomon took the papers from his lips. “I said you surprised me.”
The commanding officer touched the desktop and thumbed his fingers. He blew across the desk before he sat, blew across it from left to right like a windstorm alive, and he opened and closed the desk drawers until he found a jar of ink and a pen. He placed them atop the desk, smoothed his sideburns, and folded his hands.
“You are Salomon Pico?”
“Yes, sir.” He held out his papers. The officer looked at the papers. He creased and closed his eyes and shook his head, raising a hand.
“Pío Pico has sent you here.”
Salomon nodded.
“I apologize for being late. A man sent by Pío is a man not to be ignored, would you agree?”
Again Salomon nodded. The officer smiled and sat back. He put his feet on the desk, crossed at his ankles. He mopped his neck with a handkerchief and sighed. He raised a finger.
“Except by me, cousin. Except by me. I am Capitán Andrés Pico. Pío is my brother.”
Salomon did not speak.
“There are many ways to serve one’s country. Pío does what he is best at, and I do what I am best at. And you?”
Salomon shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t know I was supposed to be serving my country.”
“Nobody knows that. The Californios have been beaten into sad shape. Between the Americans and the indian tribes, I don’t know which to blame more. Men have had the patriotism cut from their hearts, but men should always do what they can for their country. Isn’t this true?”
“Yes.”
“You are a good ranchero?”
“I am a ranchero.”
“You know much about the cattle market? You know about breeding, and diseases, and fattening a cow for the best meat? So one cow will feed a hundred healthy men?”
Salomon looked down. He brought his head back up and nodded. Andrés smiled. “What do you know?”
“I know the earth.”
“You know the earth? The way the earth rolls and sways, and where water may be found, and how a hoof print looks in the dry dust and cracked clay, and what path an animal will take when being followed, and how a man will ride when he is not?”
“I know all that. I had to learn.”
Andrés put his feet down and spread his elbows on the desk. “Your father was José Dolores Pico.”
“Yes.”
“He was a fine soldier. I see his name among the founding military explorers of California. He served New Spain in a uniform for a long time.”
Salomon leaned forward. “I know that. He was a good man. He died without a coin in his pocket.”
Andrés tilted his head and gave a short wave. “He had a lot of children. It happens. He is remembered as a loyal soldier. A good soldier. And you?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be a soldier.”
“You’re not supposed to. But you are expected to.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is on one hand men are shoved into uniform, and on the other hand men would run into battle with a bare back.”
“Well, what does the military do when there is no war to fight anyway?”
Andrés looked at him. “Mexico has been at war for three months. With the United States. They want what is not theirs. They want mexican land. That is why we have made soldiers of hundreds of new men. That is why you have brought my brother’s cattle to market.”
“My cattle.”
“My brother’s. Your land. I am aware of the situation. You have done well. Pío has been generous. You have earned the land now. You can be proud of that.”
“I didn’t know we were at war.”
“You have been spending too much time under the sun and too little time reading the papers. That is okay. You have brought heavy cattle to the mission, and horses that are strong and eager. You should go back to your ranch. It is what you are best at, no doubt. It is what God has given you talents for. Of this you must be positive.”
There was a silent pause in which Andrés kept his eyes on his cousin. Salomon looked up. “I am not a soldier. I have no experience.”
“You catch on quick. I am not looking for a soldier, Sal. I am looking for a man who knows the country even better than I do. I was a ranchero myself. I spent days tracking lost calves just as you have. I went so deep into the country alone I thought I was the last man on earth. Under my supervision you would be a scout. You would not fire a weapon unless you found yourself in a quandary.”
Salomon moved his feet beneath his chair and back again. “What sort of quandary?”
Andrés nodded his chin toward Salomon. “Where there are weapons ready to fire at you. But this will not happen if you are good with the land. If you know where to go. If you think ahead of the Americans.”
“I can do that.”
Andrés wet his lips and drummed his fingers. “You have a wife.”
“Yes.”
“Then you will want to stay away from war. Children?”
“No.”
“Then you will surely want to stay away. I do not want to rob your wife of children before she has had any. I would have a bigger enemy on my hands than anything the United States government sends my way. But you have land.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you should do what you think a man should do.”
Salomon sat looking at the floor. Andrés snapped his fingers and Salomon raised his head. He handed Andrés the cattle papers.
Pío Pico paid the vaqueros at the mission, making the short trip from Pueblo de Los Angeles to oversee the deal himself. With payment in hand, each man turned and yipped in the yard, shouting their riches.
“And for you, cousin, an extra gift for you and your wife.”
Salomon held the paper money. “We are grateful, Pío. It is too much.”
“Nonsense. Take it.” He leaned over a matchflame and lit his cigar. “It is a pleasure for me. You met my brother here, yes?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did he convince you to join the army?”
Salomon looked at Pío. He was smiling with the cigar in his teeth, as if he knew the story already.
“It is okay, cousin. My brother has a convincing way about him. It is hard to say no to him. I have that way myself, but I will spare you the confusion. Join the war, Sal. A man can be among cattle anytime, but he can only be among the patriots of his country in times of war. The ranch will be there when you return.”
“I don’t want to leave my duties.”
“Ah. Duties. Let them fall, for you have other duties. Let them fall for other men to pick up. I will move livestock where it is needed.”
“I don’t want to leave my wife.”
Pío took the cigar from his mouth and stood in the swirl of smoke. He thumbed his eyebrow with his cigar hand. “It is understandable. No man does. Every man puts his life on hold. There is no man alive who is a soldier and nothing else. But it is when man is most vulnerable that he is poised best for greatness.”
Salomon was buckling his saddle when Andrés stepped outside and stood beside him, pulling gloves on. He looked out at the indian children throwing rocks at a hat caught in tree branches.
“When men are picking up weapons against each other, you must ask yourself if you are doing enough at home to give them reason to fight for you.”
Salomon looked at him over the saddleback. “Yes, sir. I thought I was until you told me otherwise. I wasn’t concerned o
ne way or the other until you spoke up.”
“I did not mean to stir your mind. It is the way of a commander to see another man and wonder if he is a soldier inside or not. I can decide with one look.”
“I wish you would drop the subject.”
Andrés turned to face him, his hands behind his back. His medals glinted.
Salomon swallowed and added, “Sir.”
“Go home to your wife, Sal.”
“Well.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over. The leather creaked beneath him and the horse stepped in place. “Now you’ve got me to thinking.”
The men were saddled and waiting, and Salomon joined them at a run. In Juana’s arms Salomon told her he would join the Mexican Army.
“You have a place here.”
“I am not a ranchero, Juana. I am just pretending to be.”
“You are not a soldier, either. But you are a husband, and you are not pretending that. Why go to war for land when other men are willing to fight for you?”
After a moment, he said, “I think that is why.”
