by S. L. Hawke
“Come.” Faustino encouraged Guillermo to dress and follow him. “You must drink with the Dons.”
Guillermo followed closely, like a puppy, as Faustino climbed up the hill to the falls. The gathering of the Dons was more sedate, but several bottles were being passed around and many of the old men braved the chill of the small waterfall. When they saw Guillermo, the Dons came up to him and each gave him a kiss on the cheek, then a bottle of a different kind of liquor Faustino recognized as Don Alejandro’s private brandy.
They toasted Guillermo’s health and then resumed their bathing, and a few of the old ones reclined on a sun-warmed boulder, like old lizards. Faustino took Guillermo back to the house to get him ready for the ceremony.
“So you played cards with Sloan? I mean, what was he like? I ain’t never met any man who could face eight armed men with bare hands and not tremble. ‘Course he had his Marshal coverin’ him.” Guillermo tripped, but Faustino caught him before he almost landed in a large cow pile. “Then again, he had a huge sword on him. It was from Nippon.”
Faustino stopped and turned to face Guillermo. “What?”
Guillermo quickly nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, it was from Japan. Finest sammm..uh sum..uh warrior clan weapon I ever saw. Looked comfortable using it too.”
He was the one that left the gold for Jose, my cousin. Imp! Just what I would have done! Faustino broke into a vast grin but said nothing to Guillermo.
The musicians had arrived with word that the Padre’s procession from the southern Mission would be here by sunset. The Bishop from the Santa Cruz Mission had declined the Don’s invitation and though he did not say why, all the families knew that it was a way for the Church to keep its distance from the political turmoils between the gringos and the Ranchos. There were whispers of bribes, and those with families within the Tribes spoke of early times and the heathen Quintano haunting the vestry of the new Church on the Hill.
The tables were set with fine white cloth and moved under a few madrones and the redwoods that haunted the canyon. They avoided the oaks as they were looking blighted from the growth of caterpillars. Thousands of cocoons were swept off the pueblo outbuildings, leaving streaks of black, green and yellow excrement across the whitewash.
A great shade trellis was made of dry corkwood, then twined with the green blossom-laden boughs of the apple, pomegranate, and quince trees, a symbol of wishes for a fruitful union.
Faustino watched the Rancho Road, but still Sloan did not come.
The three Adobes – Branciforte, Carbonera, and Lorenzana – came, as did the Arana Family and the Villagrana Family, who owned farms in the English tradition but held kin to each of these great Houses. The Castros would be following the Padre’s procession, and they were, with singing, viols, and roses. The bride and groom’s gifts were either placed in a corral with bay leaf collars (or as Emma would have called them: Leis) or in coops of thorn to keep the foxes, coyotes, and bobcats out. There were other magnificent presents piled upon the tables as if the entire household were getting married.
Still, there was no Sloan.
The smells of cooking made Faustino’s mouth water. His aunts had made chilaquiles or fried tortilla strips of their own tortillas because they knew no one could make better fresh tortillas than the daughters (and Faustino) of the Carbonera Rancho.
Faustino could not help but laugh and smile at all the family greetings, kisses, and hugs. Abuelas and grandfathers greeted each other with wine, tears, and old embroidered shawls that came from Mexico and for some, Spain.
All gathered around the bower, and finally with flutes and viols came the Padre. The family hushed and Angus, or Guillermo, with his vaqueros, stood stalwartly under the bower, wavering a bit from all the tequila, waiting for his bride.
Conception appeared in a great white dress that made her look like a gigantic silk cloud. Her face was covered by a pure white mantilla, made this year by his aunt. (She could not cook, but she could make lace.) Don Alejandro guided his veiled daughter to the bower where he then placed her hand into Guillermo’s hand. The Padre made the sign of the Cross in the air above them, then taking a stole from Spain, old and moldy but gilded and jeweled, wrapped the stole twice around their clasped hands.
He droned on about God and the responsibilities of marriage both financial and familial. He sprinkled holy water upon their heads. He raised the chalice to the sky and asked for Christ’s blessing.
And still Faustino did not see Sloan.
They drank from the chalice, and then the Eucharist was held aloft. The Padre broke it and fed it to the bride and groom. Then with a blessing on both their heads he pronounced them wed. The crowd remained somber. The Padre motioned for the madrinas (all Faustino’s aunts) to give Guillermo the thirteen coins of the apostles, which he blessed. Guillermo then took the coins in his hands and gave them to his bride. Conception held the coins in her hand while the Padre blessed her with holy water and olive oil.
Faustino came up along the side of the couple preparing his riatta for the final end of the ceremony. After Guillermo held out the box and Conception placed the coin therein, Guillermo closed the box and gave it to his bride just as Faustino tossed the rope over their heads and lasso-ed them together.
He gave out a great whoop and yip as he cinched the riatta. He was joined by all the other men in a great howling.
Then the drumming sounded. Two huge, painted paper puppets were held aloft, one of the groom, one of the bride. The puppeteers below waved their hands and had the puppets kiss each other. Horns blared and flutes screeched in off tones as the puppets danced in circles. The real bride and groom were taken to the upstairs to consummate their marriage, while the puppets danced and distracted the devils who might be lurking around the feast. All the unmarried men and women joined in the dancing with the puppets for a short while, then Conception came out onto the balcony with her mantilla and a bouquet of flowers. She threw them off the ledge to her sisters and female unmarried cousins. Whoever caught the mantilla and the flowers was certain to wed in the next year.
Sloan was nowhere to be seen.
The newly wed couple joined them. The meal was consumed, the wine drunk, and now it was time to thank everyone. Don Alejandro was about to raise his glass when a sudden thundering of hooves came upon them like an earthquake. Men, faces covered in white hoods, came into the gathering, smashing tables, turning over jugs, and breaking dishes. Dogs barked and women screamed. At the head of this white-masked, dark-cloaked, broad–brimmed, hatted posse was the Ice Eyed Gringo, Ian McKenna.
Guillermo suddenly came to life.
“What is your business here?” he cried out in English, emphasizing his Irish accent to McKenna, standing in front of the mounted men despite the pleas from his bride.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” McKenna spat on the ground.
“No, sir. You should have better manners. If this is a matter of money, we can settle this debt in town, as men of equal standing.”
“Don’t insult me!” McKenna growled back. “I came here to remind you of your roots. It’s your duty to stay within your people.”
Guillermo raised his pointy chin with some defiance. Faustino had never seen him with this look in his eye, as if he had faced a posse of armed white men all his life.
“You English never thought us to be more than cattle.” At this point Guillermo also spat on the ground. Faustino saw that his cousin Conception, though crying silently, did so with pride in her brave new husband.
McKenna pulled his pistol and pointed it at Guillermo.
Faustino moved carefully down closer to his cousin, ready to protect her should McKenna move suddenly. He cocked his small pistol, ready to perhaps gun this gringo down, except that he could not aim well.
“You’re a disgrace to your kin. To your people. To your clan.” McKenna also had an accent, similar to Guillermo’s Irish one, but slightly different.
Guillermo pretended to look surprised despite the
tone of his voice. “You’re a Scot? You could have fooled me, ENGLISHMAN.”
Faustino watched as the hammer of McKenna’s pistol started to move back. His cousin dug her nails into his arm.
“She’s coming here.” Faustino suddenly strode forward, impressed by Guillermo’s bravery and inspired by his confidence in McKenna’s dealings with him. McKenna saw him and frowned. For a moment Faustino saw uncertainty. “What would she think, your Royal Hawaiian…beloved?”
“Shut your mouth, greaser.” McKenna’s hand was shaking. He dropped his pistol but held his rifle aloft, drawing cries and sobs from the wedding party. He pointed the rifle directly at Faustino. “As for you, Irishman, you are a disgrace to the white race. If you think you can save these poor despicable land stealers from the inevitable–”
“This ain’t no different from the way your land was stolen by soldiers. English soldiers. You mark my words, McKenna, you ain’t no different from them.”
McKenna swung his rifle towards Guillermo. Faustino blocked Guillermo’s body with his own. Conception screamed as her mother and aunts held her back from the men.
2
A sudden noise of horses crying and the sound of a carriage approaching caused the cowed crowd to move and seek out the source of the sound.
McKenna pulled his rifle back up as his horse, sensing his hesitance, cantered backward.
A black shiny carriage replete with golden, red, blue, and black fringed flags of the Russian Royalty appeared with four Cossack guards. One of the horsed guards came between Faustino and Guillermo and McKenna, his powerful and much larger European horse snorting and pawing the ground.
The Cossack looked like a huge bear with his black fur hat and bristly beard. He also held one pistol aloft, another in his belt, and a saber in the other hand. The horse, sidestepping, he controlled solely with his legs.
The crowd gasped and a few of McKenna’s men rode up to defend him, but McKenna held up one hand for them to stand down. Faustino saw that he was white with shock. This was the carriage that could carry Emma on one of her outings and quite possibly, Emma now would be inside.
Another Cossack guard climbed down from the carriage and opened its door.
McKenna’s eyes bulged but he did not dismount. His horse shied backward as it sensed his distress and confusion at the scene that unfolded in front of him.
Sloan climbed out and extended a hand behind him, the Duchess popping out with a feathered and brightly jeweled head.
“Oh my goodness, do please forgive me. We broke a wheel. Don Alejandro?” The Duchess looked out among the frightened crowd who simply stared back. Faustino could see that they were all thinking the same thing. What devils had arrived to this place? “Don Alejandro?” The Duchess called again to no one in particular.
Don Alejandro ran forward and took the Duchess’ hand in a deep bow of the royal Spanish court. Sloan stepped in front of the Duchess, waved the Cossack aside and simply stared at McKenna in a way Faustino had seen only once, towards himself, before they had come to understand one another.
“I think you took the wrong road,” he said to McKenna. “An honest mistake in these parts. The Gulch is full of trails that lead us down the wrong side.” His eyes did not move from McKenna.
Faustino watched the two men stare at each other. McKenna walked his horse closer to Sloan, who was wearing a new tuxedo and was hatless. Faustino did not hear another man approach Sloan from the carriage, a tall, light-haired man as well, with jewel-colored eyes and a twig-thin mustache. It was none other than Shaw-Jones. Faustino felt a sense of rescue and comfort at seeing him.
“So are these the American Cowboys I have heard so much about?” he said rather loudly, deliberately emphasizing his very strong British Accent. “We both seem to have overdressed for this occasion, AyJay.”
“I suspect,” A.J. answered him, but did not remove his gaze from McKenna. The British gentleman clapped his hands loudly together and also studied McKenna.
“What happens next? Do they slaughter cattle or something?”
McKenna narrowed his eyes at the Englishman’s remark.
“You have a story for me.” McKenna addressed Sloan.
“You should trust that weddings are no place to talk politics,” Sloan answered.
“Here! Here!” said the Englishman. Faustino saw three things at that moment.
One, McKenna was white with rage that Sloan had appeared where Emma should have been. Two, an English Royal, or so Faustino thought McKenna thought of him, also appeared, reminding McKenna of his humiliation and loss of his homeland. And lastly, three, McKenna jeopardized himself and his position with a sympathetic source of money.
All because of Sloan. Faustino had never been more proud of Sloan than he was at this moment.
“Go to hell,” McKenna mumbled then said something, judging by Sloan’s expression, only he could hear. McKenna turned his horse and galloped off, his men following.
Faustino stared at Shaw-Jones in a tuxedo. He looked very handsome and in place. He also spoke to the Cossacks in their native tongue. The four men remounted their ponies and cantered off in different directions. They would be safe, Faustino translated for his cousin, as the Russians would protect the Duchess with their lives. Faustino felt eyes on him.
Shaw-Jones was now staring at him. They locked eyes for the briefest moment. Faustino felt himself unexpectedly blush, straighten his embroidered jacket, but not sure why such a man would make him feel embarrassed. When he looked back at the European, they met eyes again. Faustino nodded to him. The nod was returned, and then Shaw-Jones was distracted by an offer of wine.
Conception and Guillermo greeted the Duchess with bows and curtseys. Shaw-Jones babbled in his peculiar way at the Duchess, still on the arm of Don Alejandro, using his hands as if they were birds. Faustino shook his head with a smile, marveling at the strangeness of the English, but wondered why Guillermo used this as an insult. Faustino decided it was something only Gringos understood, and instead approached Sloan to see if he truly wanted to play cards.
Sloan turned to Guillermo. He placed a hand on Guillermo’s shoulder with a slap.
“Shit, Sloan, you sure do know how to make an impression,” Guillermo said. Sloan looked at Faustino and winked.
“Think you can beat the English at cards?” Sloan asked quietly to Faustino.
Imp, Faustino thought, as he blushed with pride.
Faustino did not believe the sounds that came from Shaw-Jones’ machine. They were outside the MacAree Ranch workshop. It was shaped like a great brass horn but was made of a fabric so soft, it felt like the fur of a magical animal. And then, inside its well-like mouth were heavy metal squares that grabbed at any iron you were wearing except the gold. Or tin, like his drinking cup. What did Shaw-Jones say? He had taken the electrical pulse used in telegraphing and directed it into this machine to capture and record sounds.
“So this horn listens for all the sounds in the air and helps us hear them as well?” Faustino studied the machine then shook his head. He expected Shaw-Jones would scoff at his words, as most white men (except Sloan, and now Guillermo) would.
Shaw-Jones looked startled. “Essentially that is correct.”
“Be careful,” Sloan added. The smile in his voice was strong. “You should see him with cyphers.”
Shaw-Jones did something very odd, Faustino thought. He straightened his jacket, his shirt, as if he were self-conscious. “Hmm,” he simply said. Faustino shrugged.
Is there anyone here with us tonight? The voice was a woman’s, far away and harsh as if crying from a great distance.
“This happens at night, when most are asleep.” Shaw-Jones’ English accent elongated his words for effect. Faustino blew out air from his lips like loud flatulence. Shaw-Jones scowled at him. Faustino could feel he was recalling their conversation on horseback, after the Powder Works accident.
“I’d come to the Estate a few weeks ago, following Her Royal Highness until she–” And
here Faustino saw an expression in the Englishman’s face that caught how he felt about stumbling on a couple in the ecstatic throes of love. “–was in flagrante with the Marshal.”
Faustino laughed out loud at Shaw-Jones’ funny use of words. “Once that happens, well, my job is essentially over, as a man like Sloan will do what he can to keep a woman such as Her Highness close by.”
“But Emma is a fighter,” Faustino contested.
“Ohhhh yes…which quickens the process. That, and the simple fact of fertility.” Here Shaw-Jones ambled his horse around the other side of Faustino to study the now unconscious Sloan.
“Is he all right?” Faustino could not see, only feel the dead weight of Sloan against him.
“I think so. Good thinking to tie him to you. He’d be a bugger to try and get back in the saddle again if he fell off.” Faustino caught Shaw-Jones’ eye again. Then he jauntily cantered back around the other side. Shaw-Jones continued: “After he moved into Her Highness’ bed, well, and the morning sickness she is seeming to have…” Here Faustino noticed he had the same thoughts that Emma could be pregnant. “I think I can safely say that I may return to the job for which I was intentionally hired.”
“Inventing?” Faustino smiled.
Here Shaw-Jones looked off into the distance. “Discovering.”
“The voices in the gulch?” Shaw-Jones snapped his head around and stared at Faustino.
“I’ve seen you out there. Maybe you could not see me,” Faustino said with a teasing note. He could feel Shaw-Jones study him.
“Hmm,” Shaw-Jones answered.
“I grew up here. And yes, there are strange things at night – but how do you know that isn’t some other gringos looking for this cabron?” Faustino gestured at Sloan who was staring down into the canyon darkness. Faustino saw that he had an almost frightened look on his face. “This is like that time we saw that strange metal needle on top of the hill, outside Corralitos,” Faustino added. Or the time I saw strange towers on the other side of the great bay in the early morning. And then, what about lights in the sky that travel straight across the bay over the hills? And then there was the strange man they had found at the base of the creek, dead, but with well-made clothes of odd cloth and an American Flag with too many stars and containers made of glass and another substance that melted and reeked when put next to fire. He had metal in his teeth, gold metal. They had taken it out, his older brother…
