by S. L. Hawke
“Honestly this is all a very serious matter!” Cynthia scolded.
“Cynthia, if we were just running an ordinary hotel for gold miners, it would be a serious matter. Let’s just let Jack decide when he gets here, what he would like to do.”
“Well said!” Jonathan, Cynthia’s husband, had come into the kitchen. Two young men ran past him like excited pups, followed by two young girls. Cynthia made a gesture to one of them to get the plates from the sideboard.
“Emma is right, Cynthia. The Knights are gaining a foothold. In a few months, we will be flying the Confederate Cross if we don’t do something. Surely Liam and Edward convinced him to take this on.” Sophia got down her can of flour from the pantry shelf and generously prepared her table with a fine coating. The stove and oven had made the room almost uncomfortable.
“Jack will help Emma. I promise you that.” Cynthia crossed her arms. “Besides, if I know Jack, he probably won’t have anything to do with her, especially if she did show up with all those skirts and fancy French lace drawers from Paris or London or those silk bodices from–”
“Cynthia! Shh!” Sophia began getting out butter, onions, carrots, turnips, and apples from the crate bearing the label of the Marinovic farm up the road. “You’re making us all want to stop our work, take baths and lounge around all day eating chocolates, which–”
“–which thanks to Emma we have the opportunity to eat, while the Chinese starve and work in inhumane conditions, away from their families, while young girls are raped by men like–” Cynthia swallowed hard. “You’re right. I should keep quiet.”
Cynthia cradled the pea bowl and broke open the pods with a harsh snap. Jack, you have no idea what you are walking into.
8
Summit Ridge, Santa Cruz Mountains
My mare neighed. The sound of a bramble crackling brought Andrew and me awake, him standing with his pistol, me crouched with my small tonto. My katana was in my other hand, but sheathed. The darkness lifted, starlight casting shadows. The moon had set. Before either of us could speak to each other, we heard more horse sounds and the thunder of many hooves, distant but worrisome.
Suddenly a man, nearly naked, crashed towards our camp and almost pitched himself headfirst into our fire pit. The coals illuminated his face as he gratefully held his shivering hands over them.
“What the hell?” Andrew yelled. The man quickly held his shivering hands aloft. Resisting the urge to laugh, I threw him a canteen. “You fleeing the law?” Andrew pointed the pistol right at the man’s face. His star glinted off his shirt pocket.
The young man’s hair was sticking straight up from what looked like pine sap. The cuts and abrasions on his chest and face were fresh, probably from running straight through the brush.
“My name’s Angus. Angus McTierney. I…I…was…” He was shaking badly, not from cold but from fatigue and fear. He was on the run for his life that was for certain. Irish too, by the sound of his brogue.
“Cà bhufuil tá ó strainséir?” My Gaelic was more Scottish than Irish but from the panicked look on his face, I knew he understood me. He answered in Irish Gal that he was from Down County, a small poor village outside and to the north of Dublin.
“Speak something we can all understand!” Andrew cocked his pistol. The man held his hands up and stood. He no longer shook.
“I’m not a criminal. I’m….” He seemed to struggle. He choked up a bit. Andrew moved his head from side to side with annoyance.
“On the run?” I prompted. Angus nodded anxiously.
“That be the Don’s men. They caught me with his daughter!” Angus stammered.
“Well, I’ll shoot you myself,” Andrew aimed his pistol at Angus.
“No! No! Please, it wa’an’t like that!” Angus saw my tonto in hand. “That’s a tonto. I’d been with the Nippons once. Please. You have to help me or he…the Don…he’s…” here Liam began to whimper, “–he’s gonna castrate me!”
The sound of horse hooves closed in, slowed by the climb of the hill. The road was less than a full furlong away from our camp. They’d be on us in minutes. I grabbed Angus, sat him down on the ground and gave him my jacket. He put it on, thanking me.
“I suggest you tell us your side of the story before the Don gets here.” Placing twigs on the fire, the flame rose giving us more light. Andrew sighed harshly, went to his bedroll and took out his rifle. He faced the direction of the road, ready for the Latino posse to make an appearance.
“I love his daughter, Conception.” Angus said the name perfectly. “I even speak Castellano. I want to marry her. She didn’t want to wait, you know, because her father would say no, but if we could make a baby, then we could get married.”
Andrew snorted. “Now, that’s a good one.”
“No, I swear, it’s true.”
“Let me guess, you don’t have dowry.” My skepticism couldn’t be left out of my voice. The pants he had on were well made, even I could see that. But it was the gold medal of a Catholic Saint, one the size of a twenty dollar gold piece that betrayed him.
“No, it’s because he is such a great model of a man,” Andrew grumbled. “They’re getting’ closer.” The hooves were coming faster. They saw, as was my intention, the campfire.
“I got the money, I got land, and sheep. But in my family, we are supposed to carry the woman to our home, then get the priest. Don Alejandro didn’t see it like that.”
Time was running out. I grabbed Angus. “Does he know you speak the language?”
“What?” Angus was a bit slow, but I could see he was true.
“Does he know you can understand him?” The sound of men and horses was coming upon us fast.
“Hurry up, A.J.!” Andrew said with his rifle aimed high. Angus violently shook his head. I held one finger up to shush him. “Say nothing. Follow my lead,” I whispered. Angus creased his forehead in an expression of both fear and confusion as he stood up.
“Andrew, drop your rifle! Now!” I said in a hoarse whisper. Andrew lowered it slowly but did not slacken his grip.
The vaqueros galloped onto our camp, but reined in on command. Like in the literature I had often read, the horses and their mounts parted to let the Don walk his own mount forward.
“Stand aside!” he ordered us in Castellano.
“A.J.?” Andrew mumbled at me.
My hand waved in a downward motion. The Don, a small but imposing man underneath his black hat replete with silver conchas, narrowed his eyes. “You gringos are on private land!” he said in English, a small trace of an accent tinged and created authority, rather than diminished it.
“Don Alejandro – I–” Angus cried in English. I grabbed Angus and forced him down on his knees. The Don looked upward and around.
“Well – You wish to kill him too, eh?” The Don gestured at me. He shrugged his shoulders. “Go ahead. But cross me or my land, and that is a different manner.”
I bowed in the manner of the Spanish Royal Court, slowly, so as not to give the impression of mockery.
“Your pardon, sir. We are travelers from San Francisco, through New Almaden. My name is Andrew Jackson Sloan. This man is United States Marshal Andrew Sweeney. We are trying to find the main road into Santa Cruz. This man came out of the bush in a state of panic, but as you can see,” here I grabbed the gold medallion by its equally heavy chain and pulled it in a strangulating manner against Angus, causing him to grab at his neck in surprise, “he carries too much gold for such a man in these parts. Did he steal this from you?” The medallion glinted off the firelight, while Angus was both trying to reach for it and keep himself from getting strangled. Obviously the Don had never seen such a large amulet of faith other than his own. It did not come from the daughter as a token of affection, which was my first thought, but had indeed been Angus’ very own.
The Don was speechless for a moment. Soft whispers of astonishment among his vaqueros created the impression I had hoped for. Andrew swore softly but did not move.
“You speak very well, Mr. Sloan. My name is Don Alejandro Antonio de Carbonera. That halfwit–” he pointed to Angus, “–was molesting my daughter. I demand satisfaction.” This last part was said with some hesitation. I let go of Angus’ chain. He fell over coughing and hacking. I moved aside.
“Don Alejandro, this man is Catholic too. You share a faith. But he comes from Ireland. Like your traditions of courtship and proof of dowry, this young man foolishly believed that because you share the same faith you might share the same courtship rites.”
“How can stealing my daughter from my very house be a courtship rite?” Don Sebastian snorted with derision. Suddenly Angus became animated.
“It’s true, Don Alejandro,” Angus said in beautiful Spanish Castellano, not the more quaint style used among those settled here. Don Alejandro’s grey eyebrows raised up. His vaqueros gasped in astonishment. “My people, they are simple shepherds. But they believe that a woman should be brought back to the man’s farm, to see if it is to her liking, and to see if he has enough of one for her to become his wife. Conception and I love each other and want to be married. I have 10,000 head of sheep up in Bonny Doon. I have 1,000 head of goats–”
“Uh, Angus–” I pulled him back down. He pulled away.
“Don Alejandro, I love your daughter, and if that isn’t good enough, you can kill me because…”and here he outdid anything I could have done for him. He knelt in front of the Don: “I can’t live without her.” Then in a true passionate appeal Angus bared his chest, closed his eyes, and opened his arms to the air. “Go ahead.”
Suddenly we heard a great crash and the heavy thud of a horse breaking through the brush. The horse and rider appeared behind us. The rider dismounted in a flourish of ruffles and threw herself in front of Angus. Her hat fell off letting dark waves of hair fall down.
“No!!” she screamed at the Don. “Father, I won’t let you.”
Don Alejandro’s face at this moment did not contort in anger, did not purple with rage. He was simply overcome with surprise.
“If I may,” I strode carefully forward, tipped my hat to the young lady who began to fuss and weep over Angus who tenderly returned her affections. Don Alejandro shook his head as if he were coming out of a fugue.
“Please, Mr. Sloan. Speak.”
“This man is clearly…” here I paused. Andrew was wide-eyed with both amazement and laughter. “–a man of means. Your daughter clearly wants him. That alone is miraculous in itself.”
The vaqueros around him, like a Grecian chorus, agreed. “Perhaps you could inspect his holdings, ponder his merits, and then reach an agreement, get to know one another by agreeing to the European Royal custom of Engagement.”
Conception was right beside me at this point. “Please, father, listen to this man.”
“He is a stranger, Conception. Be quiet.” Don Alejandro gave Angus a stern, angry look. “Very well.” Conception squealed with delight and helped Angus up. “BUT!” The thunder in his voice could have broken the drought. The two young lovers came to attention. “I will decide the wedding date. No more–” here he wagged his gloved finger back and forth, “hanky or panky between either of you. Proper visiting and courting.”“ Here Conception sobbed and fell to her knees with gratitude, bringing a set of rolled eyes from her father, as well as a small smile.
Angus stood and straightened my jacket around him. “Sir,” he spoke stiffly. “I love your daughter. I respectfully ask to take the name of your grandmother, Sanchez, as proof of my utmost respect for your way of life.” Again Don Alejandro was too shocked to speak. Then he looked away, waved his hand in a dismissive manner as Conception began to cover Angus with kisses, and said: “Yes, yes, we can talk about all this later…yes, yes, oh Conception, have some modesty and let your future husband breathe!”
Conception’s horse was brought along for her to mount up, with Angus behind her. The Don tipped his hat fully at me.
“You’ll find the road not far from here. Steer east first at the stone marker, then turn west. Be wary of the lower gulch. A group of miners are working a gold claim and will shoot any or all that find them near their camp.”
We thanked them as they cantered off, letting the dust settle and the silence return. Clouds had begun to come in and it was no longer warm. I put more wood on the fire.
Andrew let go of his hold on the rifle and slung it over his shoulder.
“Can you just explain to me what happened?”
“I thought you spoke Castellano.”
“No, I mean, the part about being Catholic and taking the woman off to see the size of his…house?” Andrew sat back down on his bedroll but neither of us could find sleep again.
“I heard about that custom from my father.” I lamented the loss of my short jacket. The cold increased, as did the wind. The stars disappeared one by one as if the end of the world were near. Rummaging inside my saddle bag I found a knitted sweater wrapped in white tissue. A note from Pete was pinned to it. Andrew looked on with curiosity.
“Where do you think he got that gold medallion from?” Andrew wiped his rifle down and replaced it carefully in its saddle case.
“I suspect, Marshal, simply calling on the man will answer your questions.” They were so young, those two, but utterly devoted to each other. The thought made me sad.
“No need to get all cranky about it.” Andrew looked up at the sky. He grumbled obscenities. The fire got bigger and I moved closer to it, opening the paper-wrapped bulk, throwing it into the fire and reading the letter attached to it.
Andre–
Ma chère has many talents and no children. So you must benefit from her as much as I have done. The young boy marshal much appreciated his. Do not be a stranger so long. I have enclosed a letter of introduction, should you need it, to Her Royal Majesty La Duchesse of Russia, and her niece, Her Royal Highness Emma Leonovna, to be a body guard to their estate, or if you would have it, a manager of their external affaires d’états. I hear that her taste in cuisine is above reproach.
Pete
“Mine’s brown,” Andrew said. “A little long in the sleeves.” I opened mine out and gratefully crawled into it. Both of us closed our eyes against our saddles but did not sleep. When dawn came we made short work of some biscuits, some dried fruit, and fried chicken. Coffee was harsh and bitter without sugar, but I welcomed it and its effect on my bowels. A bracing clean up in the stream brought me fully awake.
“Are you finished with your toilette, Missy? Because we still have a long way to go from here!” Andrew chided me as he filled up his canteen. I did the same. The horses grabbed at the last few remaining sweet wild grasses as we mounted up and began our trip down into Santa Cruz.
9
Summit was not exactly where we had spent the night. By afternoon we dipped down into the valley and then we came to a ridge and stopped. The view from our saddles rendered us both speechless. The clouds puffed above the ocean, but light streamed between them illuminating patterns on the water itself, making gold flakes out of the wave tops. A dark cloud of burning and smoke covered Santa Cruz but to the south was farmland and houses as far as the cliffs to the ocean. A train puffing steam could be seen in the far distance, or was it yet another kiln or blacksmithery? The coastline curved gently in an arc. Far across on the other side was another township, hidden by smoke haze and a flutter of sails and the dark smoking stacks of steamer vessels.
More ships were anchored off shore, steamers at harbors both to the right and to the far left of our vision. Hills, yellowed by lack of rain, looked like old, bald men trying hard to treat the hair they had left, trees and their stumps visible even from this far away. Industry churned from this place.
Judging by the many ridges in between, I gathered we had a good few miles before getting to the river mouth, maybe two days ride. Any other man would have made it in one day, but I was loathe to move forward. My sisters would demand answers, actions, things of me that I found myself unwilling to give them. The
thought of keeping another widow company made me angry, as I realized I had no patience for a woman who lacked depth. The very image of Sally Towne came to mind. Still, Margaret was no fool. She did not make friends of the female nature that were not interesting. Something nagged at me about her letter, about the state I would find of my family. I also tried to remember my mother and wondered how she was truly faring.
My youngest sister wed again, my mother dying, my son being raised in a strange land, and the country at war. When all this was done, I would build a house of stone and remain behind it with books and paints until I died of old age’s affliction.
“Let’s just get this done.” Adjusting my hat on my head I tapped my mare with my heels, urging her to go forward down the road. Andrew followed, and we descended back down into the darkness of those deep redwood trees.
The road was easy to follow but we saw no signs of a stone marker post to veer left at, or signs of any kind. There was no fork in the well-traveled road. Instead, we followed the deep wagon ruts further down the hill until we came to a small cabin that looked abandoned. The smell of a recent fire lingered, along with a latrine that had too much in its pit.
“Shit” was the last thing I heard Andrew say before the shooting started.
Funny the things you remembered after the fact. Andrew was hit sidelong first thing. His gelding threw him but I dismounted, my blade catching a bullet, and my saddle bag another. I counted five shots, all pistol, so this was definitely one person, with one bullet left, or desperately trying to reload a hot chamber.
“Ahhhck Goddammit!” Andrew cursed, but he crawled to the cover of an old stump. I scurried next to him. The horses ran into the shadows, unclaimed and hopefully unharmed. None of this made sense. They, or whoever shot at us, should have gone after the horses. Then it hit me. I took my hat off and using a nearby broken branch, I raised the hat above the trunk. A single shot fired. It missed the hat and glanced off the tree trunk.
