Ghosts in the Gulch: An Evergreen Cemetery Mystery (Evergreen Cemetery Mysteries Book 1)

by S. L. Hawke

“I feel like my ears are being scraped out. Make it stop!” A.J. closed his eyes and pressed the palms of his hands into his sockets. Faustino had never seen such a brave man reduced to being such an infant.

  “How about I sing to you?” Faustino offered, watching A.J. lay there. He was shaking slightly.

  “Are you intentionally trying to make me crazy?” Sloan sat up and rocked slightly.

  “I have a very nice voice.” Faustino saw how sweaty A.J. seemed to be. It was cool in the tent.

  “Munching, that is all they are doing. Until the leaves are gone and then they will start chewing on our clothes, our skin–”

  “¡A mi burro! ¡a mi burro! ¡le duele la cabeza! ¡y el medico le hadado! ¡una gorrita gruesa ! ¡una gorrita gruesa! ¡mi burro enfermo esta! ¡mi burro enfermo esta!!”

  The camp dog barked. Another soldier shouted to shut the hell up. Another voice yelled to shut the other voice up. A.J. lifted his head from beneath his hands.

  “My God, you did it!” A.J. laughed with relief. Then he grabbed Faustino by the back of the neck, briefly hugged him in relief and gratitude.

  Sloan lay back down on his bedroll, eyes wide open and thumbs twiddling, slowly, but in circles nonetheless.

  In the darkness the sound of grunting could be heard. Faustino recognized the sound and knew what it was. There were no women in the camp as far as they knew. A male voice gurgled an expletive.

  “Shit,” Sloan sighed.

  “Think of Emma,” Faustino whispered.

  “Never stopped.”

  Then Faustino saw A.J. roll over and curl up tightly, jamming his hat over his face and head. Lying here eased the searing jealousy and deep sadness Faustino felt as he watched the love between A.J. and Emma grow. But Emma cornered him and reminded Faustino that A.J.’s heart was not the size of a pebble. It was, again, Emma who saved Faustino from his own sadness.

  Faustino both envied and hated their love. Unable to stand seeing their continual fawning over one another, he tried to remember the feel of Sloan’s head on his shoulder as they made their way back to the Estate. Then, concerned for A.J.’s head wound, Emma let him into their shared chamber, he learned (and that they had been sharing a bed for over a week), to watch A.J. sleep. A.J. tossed and muttered, a nightmare by the sound of it. Faustino murmured over him, hoping to lull him to peace, but instead had woken him.

  He was not prepared for A.J.’s pure physical strength and anger. Faustino was pinned against the wall by one hand. Sloan’s beautiful green eyes were dark with large pupils and Faustino knew with both a thrill and a fear that Sloan could kill him in a single move.

  Faustino loved him even more and felt his heart break completely. A.J. slowly let him go and turned away. Faustino watched as A.J. looked out the window, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching.

  “Fergus McRee, the officer Vasquez shot, is alive.” Then A.J. turned to face him, his face pale and sweaty. “I thought you should know.” Emma ran in, a flurry of silk and perfume. As soon as A.J. saw her, he lost this darkness and listened to her gently tell the story of why Faustino was in the room, and reminded Sloan of Faustino’s loyalty to her.

  “I love you,” Sloan said to Emma, kissing her as he strode from the room without a backward glance.

  “Men love each other differently,” Emma said to Faustino as she brushed his hair. ”It’s a much deeper love than the love that holds men and women together.”

  “What would you know of such things?” Faustino grumbled bitterly, but let Emma trim his goatee.

  “As a ‘boy’ I have experienced many a lonely man wanting to seek caresses of a young man.” Emma looked in the mirror at Faustino, checking the sides of his shoulder length tresses. There was no disgust, no aversion, nothing in her voice that showed any disdain of Faustino. She had always accepted him.

  “Did you read the books I gave you on Alexander the Great, and the love he had for his best friend?”

  “But how do you know they shared...” Faustino could not bring himself to discuss the details with a woman. Emma dropped her chin and raised her eyebrows with a look that reminded Faustino how smart she truly was. “They were the most feared army on Earth. There is no shame in loving your fellow man.”

  “I love you, mi amore,” Faustino said with a slight smile. Emma also smiled, but with sadness as she looked at Faustino.

  “Be like a son to him, and he will love you forever,” she whispered in his ear, then kissed him on the cheek.

  “Jo moriria per tu,” Faustino whispered in the darkness between them.

  Actions Undone

  Rancho San de Augustin Lands, Corralitos

  They stayed at the camp two more days. Faustino made small earplugs out of beeswax, lamb’s wool, and linen for Sloan to wear and hopefully get some sleep. There was a fine green dust over every flat surface, and the leaves of the old oaks were indeed being eaten away. Faustino felt as if the very world he knew was dying and that whatever happened from here was a future he could not plan or count on.

  Ingram made shipping adjustments for the size and safety of the pomegranates, as the hand explosives were called. He even made the suggestion that nails be mixed inside the canisters so that maximum damage could be done to the enemy. Faustino did not like the way Ingram watched Sloan and found Ingram in Sloan’s tent, searching his personal bags.

  Fortunately, A.J. told Faustino Ingram might be suspicious, as smart criminals usually were. Faustino suggested planting some items in the bags that suggested A.J. was also a criminal at heart.

  “Like what?” A.J. had asked Faustino as they had packed the shells into their special bags.

  “I’ll think of something,” Faustino had answered. By that afternoon, Faustino had forged a letter of gratitude from Towne for A.J.’s ‘widows and orphans of Confederate soldiers’ donations. Ingram had found it, and at that evening’s dinner, Ingram toasted Sloan and poured himself three whiskeys. He was snoring at the table when the evening was done.

  On the way back to the Estate, A.J. told Faustino that Ingram was dangerous and would be most likely to escape from whatever trap anyone would set. Only the Devil himself, A.J. said in his funny drawl, would be able to rope Ingram in. For one frightening moment, Faustino recalled his interview with ‘El Diablo’ at New Almaden. As they camped out under the blinking stars in the dark blanket of sky about them, Faustino listened to A.J. express how angry he was at Fergus’ deception, at the Army’s untrustworthiness.

  Faustino began to understand that his El Diablo, the man who held him in prison at New Almaden, was Fergus McRee. McRee had not wanted Faustino to help Sloan out of love, but by pretending to act the part of El Diablo, had tricked him into wanting to help prevent war against all people, Indian, Negro, Asian, white and Latino. Sloan dropped off, Faustino aching to sleep next to him, but knowing all he could do was to help him achieve this end for the good of all. In the middle of the night, Sloan’s blanket had fallen off and he was shivering. Faustino covered him gently and prayed to The Lady of Trails for forgiveness.

  They parted ways at the gulch.

  Rancho de Carbonera never looked so lovely to Faustino’s eyes as it did today, festooned with May-blooming roses de Castile, native Lupine, Spanish Mustard and Anise blooms, and the orange mariposa flowers, entwined in wreaths and bundles, all along its balcony.

  The bride was sequestered above in her mother’s bedroom while the madrinas and the Dons built the barbeque pit for tomorrow’s wedding feast. Faustino had made sure his cousins ground the maize for tamal and then put half the corn through another grind (though they protested loudly) for just his special tortillas. He worked on getting his grandmother’s mole sauce perfect for the chicken, his cousin Conception’s favorite meal, by grinding the cacao beans to a paste, working in the chili, some garlic, onion, honey, and dandelion green, then carefully adding almonds, followed by some cow’s butter. He warmed the whole paste on the griddle in a heavy iron saucepan, then added water with some dried apricots. Later
he would add the last of the dried tomato slices they had in the larder and some flour from the tortilla grinding stone to, as his abuelita said: unite the families of ears and arms (chili) to make us all better at embracing the truths and the complaints of our loved ones.

  But it was the cakes that Faustino fussed the most over. He made two: One he prepared with the sugar cane brick Emma had sent along with her gift package. It took two weeks to prepare, burning the panela sugar with water then diluting it with wine in order to make the dulce quemado liquid that soaked the cake. He choose the dried fruits with care, especially Emma’s pineapple, and the figs, plums, apricots and almonds from the Valley.

  He managed to find pecans, payment from the Confederates for his guiding services. Another type of nut came from a large sealed crate that washed ashore from a shipwreck that contained a strange but buttery nut he had never seen before. The result was an excellent moist nut that helped hold the batter together but did not overpower the fruits or the other nuts in the cake batter itself. The lemons were too green, but he used them anyway, and managed to be able to finally frost the cake with a marzipan icing (another gift from Emma).

  The second cake was a more European style cake he had learned from a sous cook of the French Chef at New Almaden Mines. He made sure to use the flour Emma had sent as a wedding gift, alongside the precious sugar. He also used the freshly churned butter and carefully added cinnamon to the cake, but let the icing, and its dash of rose oil, create, along with sugared rose petals, an elegant white tower of fluffy icing that would make even the Queen of Spain swoon.

  Lastly, he decided to simply make a cake for Sloan. Like the man, the cake was all chocolate paste, sugar, eggs, and very little flour. He thought about this cake as the men drank and washed down by the creek of the Carboneras.

  “Oh how will you please that wife of yours with that little cow’s teat dangling between your white lily legs!” screamed Rudolfo, who liked to fondle small boys in secret. He was Faustino’s first experience and his last, as Faustino’s father had Rudolfo banned from their adobe. But here, no one knew, except Faustino. He was not a gentle man, but an angry and hurtful man with selfish needs. Faustino avoided him most of the time and warned all his younger cousins to stay away from Rudolfo as well.

  Loud, raucous laughter assaulted the air like bullets. Faustino disliked these communal washes, but he promised his cousin to look after her groom and make sure he was not too hung over as each vaquero challenged poor Angus to drink more rum, more tequila, with every splash and scrub.

  “Hey Cabron, go easy,” he said quietly to Guillermo, handing him a cake of soap and a burlap sack rag after Guillermo finished a shot of tequila from a clay cup.

  Guillermo smiled his creaky, over toothy grin. “They mean no harm. Ain’t met a man who could put me under the table. Irish whiskey is the mother of all hangovers.”

  “Hey Tino! Give him some advice, so Conception doesn’t run after him with her nails out!” one cousin yelled as he splashed in the deep pool of the creek.

  “Oh HO! Like your Martina, Francisco? Eh Heh!” another joked. Many of the men simply sat or splashed in the water, using neither soap nor rag.

  “If you washed your privates more she’d want you more…” said Gregorio who was lathering up his penis and balls so vigorously they became magnificently engorged. Faustino blushed, and Guillermo turned away and said to Faustino: “I don’t go in for that. Saw too much of that as a sailor.” Guillermo grimaced. As if to help ignore the others who began to join Gregorio in the ‘washing’ of their own privates, Guillermo looked down the empty part of the creek. “Did he say he’d come?”

  “Who? Sloan?” Faustino looked away also to avoid witnessing the raucous actions behind them.

  “Yeah. I mean if it weren’t for him, I’d be dead or neutered by the Don’s hand.” Guillermo washed his hair, though already he was thinning at the top. Faustino self-consciously touched the top of his head.

  “I think he will come. He challenged me to a card game.”

  “You know him?” Guillermo rinsed his head and then looked at Faustino in awe. Faustino smiled and nodded. He was washed and clean already, having done his own toilet in private. “He spoke just like the Don.”

  “He does speak well.” Faustino felt an ache in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten all day and thought back to the day he approached Sloan on the matter of Guillermo’s wedding.

  “I can’t stand this.” Sloan shook out his bedroll so vigorously Faustino thought Sloan would throw it down into the chasm. They were camped on an overlook in the pines, away from the caterpillars, and high enough to see or hear anyone coming at them. They were headed back to Santa Cruz, the business with the Rebels completed. Sloan seemed in a hurry to get into town. Faustino suspected he needed to meet with the Marshal at first, but mostly Faustino began to understand, it was to lay with Emma again.

  “Fleas?” Faustino had brought up some water from a small creek. “I would bathe.”

  “I intend to, believe me.” Sloan threw his blanket across a small pine tree. Faustino shook his head and took the blanket off the overburdened sapling. He then went over to his saddle bag and took out four lemons and a tin of salt. He quickly cut the lemons with his vest knife and put them in a kettle, which he placed on the fire pit rocks.

  “What are you doing?” Sloan started picking off the vermin, but Faustino knew he did not have many, being so careful; he was just being odd, like yesterday evening, when the caterpillar noises were driving him to the edge of sanity. Whenever they stopped to piss or rest the horses, he did a peculiar dance of picking off fleas and shaking himself.

  “I’ll take care of the fleas. You wash with salt, and put your clothes in a pile and sprinkle the rest of the salt on the clothes. Okay? Big clumsy baby.” Faustino gave Sloan a mock scowl like his uncles used to do when he cried about dirty hands. Sloan’s lower jaw went side to side as he scowled back.

  “You gave me this rash. You are setting me up like you did Fergus.”

  Faustino looked down at the ground but continued his meal preparation.

  “I’m sorry that Vasquez did what he did, but I did not tell him to. I told you that many times. Please believe me this time. I do not know how else to convince you! I’m on your side, your Union Government Side, I agree with you, and I want the same thing, my family’s land intact, and my family unharmed.” Faustino was angry at this continual demand to prove his loyalty. He placed the lemons on the now strong flames of the new fire. The boiled water he would throw onto the blanket. The cure was old but it worked, most times. Lemon or orange on anything killed most bugs.

  Sloan started scratching his arms. He scratched his stomach and started stripping his clothes off right in front of Faustino.

  “Eh! Eh!” Faustino held his hands up. “Go to the stream, pronto, eh?”

  Like a child unable to care for himself, Sloan was scratching himself across his chest, which was now blistering with a bright red rash. Faustino saw as Sloan stripped himself again that it was not fleas that were making him itch, it was hiedra, and it gave you the infernal rash from hell. Faustino had gotten it only once, on his privates, and never ever touched himself in the wild again without an aggressive wash. He groaned when he saw what Sloan had gotten, probably while he was relieving himself on the trail.

  “I showed you the plant you needed to avoid when you went wee wee.”

  “God Dammit, don’t talk to me like that!” Sloan spoke English now. Faustino tried to look down Sloan’s pants but was met with a strong slap on the arm. “It ain’t there.”

  Faustino had never heard Sloan use poor English before. Indeed, he was not himself. But the Flames of Hell Rash could reduce the strongest man into a weeping idiot. He had a cousin throw himself on the barbeque coals to stop the itching, only to proclaim, as his skin blistered and rotted from the burn, that it was a relief that he didn’t have to scratch anymore.

  “I can help with this. I have a special cream.” Faustino tri
ed very hard not to smile. Sloan stripped off the rest of his clothes and stood in the tiny stream that was barely three inches deep. He rubbed the cold water across his rash and was about to touch his penis to wash it when Faustino cried out.

  “No, Cabron, DON’T TOUCH YOURSELF!!!” He ran over to him with the salt and his last lemon and, putting on his gloves, made a paste of the lemon and salt. Sloan sat down in the tiny stream, splashing his rash with the water, trembling from the pain of it. “This will hurt,” Faustino warned. Sloan simply nodded and closed his eyes. Faustino rubbed the salt into the rash with the lemon.

  A groan left Sloan’s lips, but he let Faustino rub the rash, rub across his chest, his shoulders, his back, as gently as the gritty salt would allow, then rinse, softly.

  “It will get better, I have a cream for this, it will go away,” Faustino murmured. Sloan groaned and kept his eyes closed. Faustino smiled to himself feeling both replete and desperately saddened by the fact that this would be the only intimacy they would probably ever know.

  “You stopped it. Thank God. You did it. Again. How can I repay you for this?” Sloan said with a mixture of relief, groaning, and almost passionate gratitude.

  “You need to come to the wedding!” Faustino grinned.

  “Wedding?” Sloan looked confused.

  “Guillermo...uh you know him as…Angus?” Faustino rinsed off the salt, and finally the lemon smell coated Sloan’s shoulders with a delicious and refreshing scent.

  “Yes, I…know him…Uh…I will come.” The words felt like a vow. “God, you’ve made me love you.”

  Faustino started. “I…mean…uh…” Sloan struggled with pain and language, “You’ve given me a reason to love life again.” Sloan corrected his Castellano to the old fashioned phrase of gratitude. Faustino held back tears.

  “No, miho, what you said was absolutely perfect!” Faustino choked.

  There was no sign of Sloan, but many guests would be arriving near midday. More dirty cousins arrived and the creek could barely contain them all. Last year it was overflowing its banks, but this year, hardly any rain had fallen and the crops and cattle were starting to suffer. The Dons went upstream to the falls to do their bathing.