by F. M. Parker
He removed his hat and faced the bow of the ferry to let the breeze created by the movement of the vessel cool his warm face. To his surprise, a group of men, all strangers, were looking at him and talking among themselves. Levi counted six in the party, and the way they stared bothered him. Did they somehow know he was an army deserter?
One of the group, a big man with a long brushy beard, left his comrades and pushed through the crowd of people and vehicles on the ferry deck toward Levi. The man halted and his eyes, black and penetrating, inspected Levi from head to toe, hesitating for a brief moment on the scar on his forehead. He glanced at Levi’s two horses, the army saddle on the black and the rifle in its scabbard.
Levi placed his hat back on his head to hide the scar, and waited for the man to show his intentions.
“Is that a Spencer rifle in that boot?” asked the man.
“Yes,” Levi replied.
“I thought so from the shape of the stock. Best rifle made today. My name’s Ottoson, Ralph Ottoson.” The man extended his hand.
“I’m Levi Coffin,” Levi replied, wondering what the man wanted. He shook the offered hand.
“My friends and me,” Ottoson nodded in the direction of his comrades, “are going to California. We heard there’s been a new gold strike out there in the Sierra Nevadas. Where might you be heading?”
“The same place.”
“We were kind of hoping that was the case,” Ottoson said. He nodded at Levi’s rifle. “Do you know how to use that Spencer, or is it just an ornament?”
“I’m too poor to own something that I can’t use.”
Ottoson grinned at the answer. “Are you traveling alone?” he asked.
“Nope, I’m planning to take these two horses with me.”
Ottoson broke into a smile. “You’re a smartalecky young fellow, but I think underneath that you’re all right. If you can hold up your end of the work and stand with us in any fighting we get into with Indians, I’d like to give you an invite to travel with us.”
Levi ranged his sight to check the men and their equipment. They had saddle horses, and heavily loaded packhorses. There was a rifle in a scabbard on every mount, and the men wore pistols, as did Ottoson. They appeared well prepared for a long journey.
When Levi looked back at Ottoson, the man was closely regarding him. “Have you ever been in a gunfight and killed men?” Ottoson asked.
An expression of deep sadness came over Levi’s face. Then he lifted a hand and swept it across his eyes as if brushing away the cobwebs of the memories the question had awakened. His mouth tightened, he wasn’t going to answer such a question.
“‘I gather that you have,” Ottoson said. “Was it a fair fight?”
Levi bore Ottoson’s stare without looking away. He knew it would be safer to travel the long distance through Indian country to California with other men rather than try it alone. Why not with these men who appeared to be honest and their offer a straightforward proposition?
“Yes, fair, if you mean did they have guns and an equal chance to kill me.”
Ottoson studied Levi for a few seconds more, then he spoke. “We can use another gun. I’ll gamble that you are a man who’ll stand tough in a fight.”
“Since you’ll take a chance on a stranger, I’ll take a chance on all of you.”
Ottoson threw back his head and laughed. “Good. We’ll ride like hell and be in California before all the gold is dug.”
Chapter 9
Celeste swung the pistol up, cocking it as it rose, shoved it out and pressed the trigger. Just the way Vicaro had drilled into her. The pistol cracked. She heard the thud of the lead ball striking the half hundred balls already embedded in the post.
The wooden post was six feet tall, half a foot in diameter, and an old straw hat sat upon its top. The bark had been cut away to expose a section of white wood the size of a hand approximately eighteen inches below the hat. This was the second post in the past month that had sat on this very same spot in the gully north of the Beremendes’s hacienda. The first one had been shot to pieces.
“Are you ready for the second shot?” Vicaro Zaragoza asked.
“Ready,” Celeste replied. The Colt revolver rested lightly in her hand hanging by her leg.
“Fire.” Vicaro’s voice was sharp.
Celeste fired again. The bullet slammed the post, ricocheting off the compacted mass of lead and sending splinters flying.
“Excellente,” Vicaro called. “You do it exactly right. However your hand was slower with the second shot. Your hand must be stronger so it can lift la pistola more quickly.”
Celeste studied the post. For the first three days of practice, Vicaro had her firing at large paper targets. The spread of the pattern of her shots had gradually tightened until her hand could cover them. One morning when she went to meet with him, he had led her to the gully and showed her a post with a hat.
“Since you plan to kill a man, you should practice shooting at a target that somewhat looks like one,” Vicaro said.
“From now on until you fight Dokken, this will be your target. Now send a bullet into the heart of that God-cursed man standing ready to shoot you.”
Celeste had fired day after day at the post until the part that represented the heart was shattered. Vicaro cut another post and planted it in the ground. The practice continued under the critical eye of the old pistolero.
Vicaro called out again and Celeste fired twice more. Her pistol was now empty and Vicaro handed her another loaded one. She had purchased a second gun exactly like Ernesto’s so that once the practice started Vicaro could reload the empty weapon while she shot and thus speed her practice.
Celeste fretted at the delay in seeking out Dokken. Yet at the same time she worried. She had the desire to kill but she doubted that she had the courage. Violence was foreign to her nature, and she had never observed the killing of a human until that dreadful day when Ernesto had been shot to death.
She did not want to die, for life was too grand for that, even with all her troubles; therefore, she must not falter at the crucial moment in the fight with Dokken, for surely he would then kill her. Courage and strength, those two things she must acquire. Vicaro could not teach her those things as he had taught her to shoot. Only she could take herself the rest of the way to being a brave pistolero and duelist.
“Vicaro, is there anything more that you can teach me to increase my skill with a pistol?”
“No, Senorita Celeste. You know all the movements to shoot swiftly and accurately. Now you must practice until you are more skilled than any man you might fight.”
“I want to fight only Dokken.”
“There may be others who wish to harm you that you do not yet know about.”
“I hope there is only Dokken.”
“Do you want to shoot some more?”
“No. I must be alone for a while. We have a cabin on the south end of the rancho. I will go there and think about what I plan to do.”
“I understand,” the old man said. “There are times in a person’s life when he must look inside himself and find the truth of what he is. When will you go?”
“Just as soon as I can get ready. We have plenty of powder and caps for my practice. Please help me mold a supply of bullets.”
“I’ll melt the lead right away,” Vicaro said. He walked off toward the blacksmith shop.
Celeste worked with Vicaro through the remainder of the morning and the middle of the day. Again and again lead was melted to a liquid in the hot forge and poured into the bullet molds. To cool them they were immersed in a bucket of cold water. The teats that always remained at the pour hole and the raised rims where the two sides of the mold came together were carefully shaved away from each bullet with a sharp knife. Celeste filled a sack with several pounds of lead balls.
“That should be enough,” she told Vicaro.
“By the time you have shot all of them you will be a much better pistolero.”
“I won
’t waste any,” Celeste replied.
“I’ll saddle your mare and rope you a packhorse while you gather your food and clothing.”
“Be sure to put the straw hat in one of the pack saddles.”
“Yes, the hat must go with you.”
“Would you stay at the rancho while I’m gone? The cattle and sheep are on good pasture. Now I’m going to start the men preparing the bottom land for growing wheat. You could help Ignacio keep them at the task.”
“How long will you be gone?” Vicaro asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe a month. Perhaps even longer, until I feel ready. But don’t worry about me for I’ll be safe.”
Vicaro looked into the lovely face of the young woman. He feared for her and yet at the same time was proud that she wanted revenge for her brother’s death. “I’ll stay and help Ignacio as long as I can. Until the gringos discover I’m here.”
“Thank you. Thank you for all your help.”
“Always keep your pistol with you,” Vicaro warned her.
“I will.” Celeste hurried into the hacienda.
Celeste packed her bedroll and enough food to last several days. She carried the items from the hacienda and stowed them in the pack saddle on the horse that Vicaro had brought to the front with her mare.
She turned to Ignacio and Vicaro who stood watching her. “We must plant wheat this year,” she said to Ignacio. “To do that the land of the valley bottom must be cleared of the brush and leveled.”
Celeste saw the expression of dislike for the task on Ignacio’s face, but she continued on. “Take our vaqueros and begin. Start where there is the least vegetation and the land is most flat. You will need many tools. Go to Sacramento and get them. Our friends who own the hardware stores will give you credit in my name. Ignacio, listen to me for this is very important. Hundreds of acres must be ready when planting time arrives in the fall.”
“I hear you, senorita, but the men will not want to do that kind of work. They work hard when they are upon their caballos. On their feet, they do not work so well. And it will be very hot down there in the valley.”
“If they do not clear the land, there will not be a rancho to ride upon for the gringos will own it,” Celeste said, aggravated at Ignacio but knowing he spoke the truth. “Vicaro will help you convince the men to work very hard.”
Ignacio looked at the old bandit, and then smiled crookedly. “Senorita, with Vicaro watching, the men will work very hard.”
“Then see that it’s done,” Celeste said, her voice firm.
* * *
Celeste rode into the yard of the cabin with evening dusk falling. She removed the saddle from the mare and the pack saddle and provisions from the second horse. Both animals were hobbled and turned loose to graze.
She surveyed the one-room cabin that was made of stone, and had a flat earthen roof. It sat high above the San Joaquin Valley on the east flank of Mount Mocho. A long ledge of sandstone outcropped from the mountain side just above the cabin. A spring welled up at the base of the ledge. Many years ago her grandfather had walled the spring. She went straight to it and lay down and drank from its cold water.
Celeste arose and looked both ways across the mountainside with its broad grassy meadows and patches of brush. She turned to gaze down at the great, flat bottomed valley. Purple shadows had filled the broad chasm while to the east the far mountains were still partially lit by the sun’s rays. She had always loved this lonely, isolated place. She was glad she had left the hacienda with all its people and activity. Here a person could truly search her soul.
She returned to the cabin and carried her provisions inside to set up her camp. Darkness was falling swiftly and Celeste dug out her candles. The bottom end of one was melted with a match and then placed on the table top and held until the wax hardened. She walked into the yard. The noise of the night insects was building. A slow wind came alive and began to fall into the cooling valley. The stone walls of the cabin emitted low clicking sounds as they cooled. She saw the outlines of the horses nearby and heard them cropping the wild mountain grass.
She folded her arms across her breast and leaned against the cabin wall. If there was one place on earth where she could prepare herself to kill, or perhaps be killed, it would be here. She forced her mind away from those dismal thoughts. Tonight she would think only of the happy times when Ernesto and she had played here as children.
Chapter 10
The male golden eagle rode the blustery wind, kiting north on his eight-foot wings along the eastern flank of Mount Mocho. The aerial hunter had prowled this land for thirty years, an extremely long life for an eagle. He knew every hilltop, every gully, every tree. Today he would first inspect the place where the white animal with the sweet meat sometimes gathered.
The eagle saw the small house where the humans stayed. His telescopic eyes had already told him that no sheep were there, but the lone human on the slope above the cabin drew the hunting bird. He would go a little closer. He set his wings and began to descend in a long glide.
An explosion erupted from the ground, sending shock waves jarring the air. Then another, and another, until six gunshots had rapidly been fired in a rolling volley that was almost one continuous sound. The eagle was frightened by the noise and he flared his strong wings, halting his descent. He pumped hard climbing away on the soft ladder of the air.
Celeste watched the fist-sized rocks that she had placed upon the top of the boulder shatter into hundreds of pieces and go zinging away. She holstered the empty pistol. She pivoted left, drawing a second pistol from the waistband of her leather pants.
She shot at the knot on the post that she had set in the ground, and upon which the straw hat rested.
Splinters flew from the post at her intended point of aim. She nodded with satisfaction. Already she was better with a pistol than Ernesto had been. That was very unexpected, but so necessary.
All morning she had practiced, shooting at her targets from the hillside above, from the slope below, with the sun in her face, and at her back. She felt the familiarity, the immense ease with which she handled the pistol. She was very near to being ready to challenge Dokken. That thought sent a chill through her body.
She walked to the cabin, entered, and sat down at the crude table and reloaded the two weapons. Holstering one and leaving the second on the table, she went to the pole-framed bunk and lay down. After a short rest, the strenuous work of the day would start.
* * *
Celeste squatted beside the slab of sandstone and gripped the two ends. She grunted as she hoisted upward and came erect with the heavy load. What would her mother have said at such an unladylike sound. How shocked that gentle woman would have been to know her daughter planned to kill a man.
Celeste brought the block of stone in against her body and carried it to a new stone wall rising from the earth. She placed the slab so that it overlapped the ends of the two below and thus would bind them together and strengthen the wall. She remembered from long ago when she had heard her father give instructions to his workmen, that the correct way to lay a wall was to place one stone on two and two on one.
Cattle and sheep were held in the vicinity of the cabin during periods of the year when grass was available. A corral to hold the mounts of the vaqueros had been needed for a long time, but somehow had never gotten built. Celeste was constructing the walls of the corral.
The sun burned down like a fireball. Sweat dripped from her face and trickled down between her breasts. Her shirt was soaked. She halted to catch her breath and check what she had built in a month.
The corral was square and some sixty feet on a side. Already the wall was nearly three feet tall. She wondered how many tons of rock she had carried and lain. The task was becoming more difficult, for the closer supply of stones had all been used up and now transporting additional ones from a greater distance was a true test of strength and determination. She had brought no gloves and at first the rough stones had badly bruised her hands
. That period was now past and thick calluses had formed on palms and fingers.
Her body had grown lean and hard. She could see the muscles in her arms and hands, and feel the strength in her shoulders and back. The two-pound-and-ten-ounce Colt pistol seemed to have lessened to but a fraction of its actual weight. She could now hold the gun out horizontal and aimed at a target for many seconds before her arms started to tremble.
Her hands and face were burned to a deep brown. The sun had also roughened her normally smooth skin. That was good because now she would appear more masculine. She often talked to the mare, and at those times, she practiced speaking in a deep male tone.
There were other female characteristics that she recognized and was working to change. Women touched their hair from time to time. Men rarely did. Also she must look men directly in the eyes. That would be difficult, for from the very earliest age, little girls are taught not to look beyond a glance at a strange man.
She reached up and touched the grime on her forehead. The sweat had dried quickly in the warm, dry air, crusting into a thin film of white salt crystals on her skin. In the evening she would bathe at the spring.
Feeling restless, she decided that enough stone work had been done for the day. She whistled for the mare. The faithful steed never drifted beyond Celeste’s call. The packhorse was now also let loose but it dragged a long thirty-foot riata so it could be easily caught.
The mare stopped grazing in the meadow below the cabin and raised its head to listen. Celeste whistled again. The horse came at a run, tossing its head and watching the woman with its intelligent brown eyes.
Celeste saddled and swung astride. The mare left the yard at a rocking chair gallop. Celeste spoke to the mare and petted the satin smooth shoulder of the horse. She felt better already.
* * *
