King-Pin walked his horse over to him. The ground was marked and scarred by horse tracks. Here the horses had been tied, evidently for some time.
“They walked,” Russell said. “It can’t be far now.”
Francisco looked slowly about him. Gold tinged the ridge beyond Beartrap Creek. The hollow was in shadow now. Darkness came swiftly in these closed-in places where ridges held off the light.
“We’d better camp. We’ll find it in the morning.”
Russell got down. A thin trickle of water came down from the hollow. He tasted it…not bad. “All right,” he said.
He was a tough, bitter man with no loyalties, and no ideals. He wanted money for gambling, for women, for power. Yet the few times he had money it had not lasted, and he was left with nothing. He dreamed of the big strike, the big success that would leave him with money for everything. He had not grasped the fact that he was one of those to whom success was a stranger because he lacked persistence. He was forever grasping at chances to get rich in one swift move, and failure taught him nothing.
He sneered at the vaqueros who herded cattle for other men, he had only contempt for hard-working citizens of any kind, never seeming to realize that even the poorest lived better than he did, year in and year out, and without fear of the law.
He had courage and skill with guns. He had belief in his ability to outfight any man and believed himself smarter than most, with no evidence whatever to prove it. He had worked for a number of other men who planned crimes and always for smaller pay than he had expected. In his life there was always a Zeke Wooston who somehow skimmed the cream, but he never asked himself why this was so.
He invariably pictured those who were successful as lucky or thieves who stole what they had by devices imagined but unknown.
Now he was sure he would find the gold. He never doubted the legend of the gold because to doubt it would mean to doubt his whole existence. The gold had to be there, but if somehow he failed to get it he would shift quickly to another treasure to be stolen.
As for Sean Mulkerin, Russell had no doubt he could defeat him in any kind of a fight, although he would prefer it to be with guns. He was wary only of Wooston, for Wooston was more than a danger to be faced. He was a shrewd, conniving man. If Russell respected any man it was Wooston. In California, as in many other lands, death could be bought, and Wooston had money and was friendly with Captain Nick Bell. Russell knew far too much about Bell for comfort. Bell could kill, or have someone killed because he was the law.
Each man carried a little food and they prepared it now. They had eaten and were drinking coffee by the fire when they heard the sound.
At first it seemed far off, then close by. It sounded like someone chanting, but no words could be distinguished.
Francisco crossed himself quickly, and Russell shifted his cup to his left hand and reached for his rifle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing but the darkness beyond the circle of firelight.
The sound vanished, and Russell wet his lips with his tongue. Wind, probably, he told himself, yet it was no wind that he had ever heard before.
“Funny sound,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “What could it be?”
Francisco shrugged, looking carefully around him. “I do not know, Señor. I think when morning comes it is better we go from here.”
“You joking? You mean leave without the gold?”
“Sometimes gold is very expensive, Señor. Perhaps the gold belongs to ghosts. Perhaps only the Old One knows these ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Russell said, wondering if the statement sounded as hollow as it was. He did not, he told himself, believe in ghosts…but what was that sound?
Maybe wind in the rocks…but there was no wind. Maybe contraction caused by the chill of evening, but in what? Where?
“Let’s get some sleep,” he suggested. But he did not feel at all like sleeping.
He gathered wood that lay close about and stacked it near the fire.
“Zeke must be back to Tomas’ cantina already,” he said, wishing he was there also.
“I think so,” Francisco agreed. The Mexican was staying close to the fire, too. Francisco arranged his blankets near the fire, then lay down. He did not, Russell noted, remove his boots.
“I think tomorrow I will go back,” Francisco said.
“What the matter? You scared?”
Francisco looked at him. “Like you, Señor. There is gold that is not for human hands to touch. I am thinking this is such gold.”
“The Mulkerins touched it. They took some of it a couple of times.”
“The Old One is their friend.”
“You’ll feel different, come daylight.”
“Perhaps, Señor. But I hope I am not such a fool.”
Resting his head on his arm, he closed his eyes, and Russell was alone with his thoughts. He let his eyes scan the darkness. Anything might be out there…but what was he? A scared kid? There ain’t such things as ghosts.
He added wood to the fire and rolled up in his blankets, a pistol in his hand. The fire crackled, a low wind moaned in the treetops, somewhere a stone rattled.
He awoke suddenly. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep. He lay quiet, listening.
The night was still, but suddenly he caught a faint sound of hoofbeats. Faint and far-off, but hoofbeats. He sat up quickly and looked around and in an instant he knew what had happened. He had known, instinctively, since he heard those first far-off sounds.
Francisco was gone.
He reached for his gun, started to rise. In a moment of blind rage he wanted only to pursue Francisco and kill him, but he realized his chances of overtaking the Mexican were slight. The man knew this country better that he, and Francisco had a good lead.
Getting up he gathered a few sticks and built up his fire. Dawn was far away.
The coffeepot was still at the edge of the coals so he nudged it closer. He tugged his boots on, stood up, and stamped his feet. He picked up his gun and slid it into the clumsy holster.
His rage subsided and he decided it was the best thing that could have happened. Now he alone would find the gold, and he alone would know where it was. That is, he and the Mulkerin outfit.
He could take care of that in due time, if Zeke Wooston did not.
He would wait until daylight, then hunt for the place where the Mulkerins had gotten their gold. He would load up whatever he could carry and start for the coast.
He could even ride back to Los Angeles, tell Wooston that Francisco had left him and that he’d had a bad time finding his way out of the hills. Let them think he had found nothing.
The night now seemed like any other night. The spooky feeling was gone. He added more wood to the fire, drank more coffee, and saddled his horse. When he returned to the fire a faint light was showing in the east.
An hour later he was riding. The tracks were plain here, tracks coming out of that hollow, that horseshoe-like place in the mountain wall. He rode his horse as far as he could, watered it at the small creek, then tied it on a small patch of grass.
Taking his rifle he started up the creek.
It was an hour before he found the cave. The terrace before it puzzled him. Flat as a floor, free of all large stones, packed very solid as if rolled by something heavy. It looked like some sort of a working area and it puzzled him.
When he saw the cave he was wary. Rifle ready, he approached it. He spoke, and there was no reply. His lips felt dry and he glanced around, seeing nothing. His eyes swept the high rim…was someone watching? Was the cave a trap?
He was thinking like a kid again. He stepped into the cave and stopped. On the packed sand of the cave floor lay Juan, the Old One.
He lay perfectly still as if he had merely closed his eyes. Russell touched his hand…cool…not really cold.
Was he dead? Russell lifted an eyelid. The Indian was dead, all right.
Straightening up, he glanced around. Seeing the pots he
checked them…empty. From one he shook a tiny fleck of gold dust.
Damn!
Was that all there was? He started to turn away and suddenly felt a chill go through him.
The body was gone.
Chapter 16
* * *
FOR AN INSTANT he stood riveted, a cold prickling traveling along his spine and up the back of his neck. His tongue, gone suddenly dry, fumbled at drier lips. Very slowly, he lowered his hand to his gun.
He was having trouble breathing, as though he had been struck suddenly in the pit of the stomach. His eyes, like those of a trapped animal, moved warily from side to side fearful of what they might see.
The cave was empty. There was nothing there, nothing at all.
He did not move. His muscles seemed stiff, and when he tried to swallow he had to struggle to do it.
Carefully, he drew his gun. The cave mouth was empty, outside there was sunlight. He crouched down, his back against the cave wall. His eyes went again to the place where the Old One’s body had lain.
The marks of it were there. That, at least, had not been an illusion. The marks were there, and something else he must not have noticed before. The tracks of sandals…
Of woven sandals. His tongue managed to wet his dry lips. He could see the marks of two sets of sandals on either side of the place where the Old One had lain.
Sandals?
That was silly. He was imagining things. Those tracks or whatever they were had to have been there before.
They must have been.
Only they were not.
He straightened up slowly. No use staying here, the gold was gone. It was time to get out. Yet the gold must have come from here, from somewhere around. Gold did not just appear out of thin air. He told himself that, several times.
Circling to avoid the spot where the old man’s body had been, he eased out of the cave mouth into the sunlight. All was quiet. The terrace outside was empty. It was very flat, right down to the edge of the creek. Like a floor. Maybe it had been a floor at some time.
He mopped his face with a handkerchief and squinted his eyes against the morning sun. Heat waves shimmered beyond the terrace. He’d never seen them so close before. Heat waves usually only showed themselves at some distance.
He mopped his face again and looked slowly around. No signs of mining, no arrastra, no rusted picks or shovels, no evidence of placer mining.
Where the devil had that body gone to?
He must go. He wanted to get away from here, far, far away, yet there was a deep-seated fear within him…would they let him go?
And who were they?
He still held the pistol in his hand. He walked slowly, putting each foot down carefully, walking as if in a trance, back to the trail. Only he could not seem to see the trail. It was here…right here.
Brush, bare sand, some scattered rock, but no trail. Surely he had come in from the east? Of course, he could see the great gap in the mountain over there. He stumbled into the brush. Just head for that gap and he’d find his way out.
What could have happened to that trail? Of course, it was probably just behind some brush, he’d just cut too short or something. He would come upon it any time now. Anyway, there was the gap. Head for that and he’d be out where his horse was.
It was very hot in the brush where no breeze could reach him. He started to hurry, sweat streaked his face, ran down his body under his shirt. He stumbled, almost went to his knees and straightened up. There was a bush right before him. He must have turned halfway around when he almost fell. He changed direction, pushed his way between clinging bushes and thrust on.
Suddenly he came up short. He had faced around and was heading back. He mopped his face, stared wildly around and plunged on again. When he fought himself free of the brush his shirt was torn. He had been carrying his pistol in his hand and now he thrust it back in the holster.
He stood in a small open space among clumps of brush and trees, panting for breath. God, but it was hot! He stared around him. Where the devil was that trail?
Due to the height of the brush he could no longer see the gap and only a portion of the rim. He started on, then paused.
On the sand, right before him, were the distinct tracks of sandals.
Two feet, side by side.
Only they stood where no man could have stood due to the bulge of the brush. They were there, as if someone had stood there only a moment before, looking at him.
He turned away, found a space between trees and walked through. Ahead of him there was a flat rock about waist high, standing between two trees. A third tree was behind it, and the rock looked almost like a stone picnic table.
Or a butcher’s block. Or an altar. Or both.
He had started forward to sit down on it, wanting a rest. Now he backed away, until the brush brought him up short. An altar?
What kind of a silly thought was that? An altar in such a place as this? Of course, he supposed, the Indians might have used altars. He had little idea of how they worshiped or even if they did.
Speaking of Indians…what happened to that body?
And those sandal tracks?
Still, the place where a rock had been lying might look something like a sandal track, or a lot of things might have caused it. Anyway there were no Indians around here. Francisco said that.
But Francisco was gone. He had fled in the night. Why?
King-Pin Russell looked again at the altar. Then for the first time he realized that three tracks came out of the woods leading up to the altar.
Like the tracks of a gigantic turkey three trails emerged from the brush and ended at the altar, if altar it was.
He mopped the sweat from his face and neck. Which way to go? Damn it, how could he have lost that trail? If he could only see over the brush, locate the gap. After all, it was the only way out. If he could locate the gap he had only to go down the slope to it.
He looked around for a tree to climb, but there were none near that would bear his weight. The highest place and the best footing were on the altar.
He started toward it, then stopped, a curious reluctance coming over him. What kind of a damn’ fool you gettin’ to be? he asked himself. You’re like a kid or some silly woman.
He rested his hands on the altar, then vaulted easily to the top. Standing on tiptoes he peered over the brush and saw the gap…just over there.
His vision blurred. He shook his head, feeling slightly dizzy and nauseous. What was the matter, anyway? Heat waves shimmered and the horizon became vague, unreal. What was the matter? What was happening to him? He swayed, clutched at the empty air, and fell. He seemed to fall for a long, long time, then smashed against the ground.
The earth seemed to tip and roll and he clutched at it, his brain spinning in slow, dipping rolls. He tried to rise but his muscles had no strength, he tried to think, but his thoughts would not focus.
He lifted his head and the heat waves shimmered and the trees showed through them, but there was no solidity anywhere, not in the trees, nor yet in the mountains. He was neither wholly conscious nor unconscious and yet vaguely he seemed to see the shimmering air, seemed to hear the shuffling sounds of sandals, seemed to see the unreal shapes of Indians in the dancing heat waves.
Were they near or far? Were they real or only figments of his distraught mind?
The Indians, like no Indians he had ever seen, came slowly from the heat waves.
“He pursued the Old One,” one said.
“He was the enemy of the Señora,” another said.
“He is evil,” said a third.
“If he goes now he will tell others of this place,” the first one said.
“So he must not go,” said the second, “not for a long, long time.”
Was it only in his mind? Was he vaguely conscious, or was this a dream, a nightmare, a haunting unreality come to torture his delirium?
He felt hands grasp his arms and legs. He tried to move, and he could not. He felt himself lifted
…carried.…
* * *
HILO CAME UP from the schooner to help, and several of the Chumash, who had helped before, came to the ranch. They dug holes and sank posts, slender posts to hold up roofs made of tules for shade. The oak trees near the house offered shade also, and a space was roped off for the dancing.
Sean rode out on the hill near Las Flores Canyon and shot three steers to be butchered on the spot. One was brought in upon a cart after the meat was dressed and hung up in the shade. Two were to be roasted upon spits.
The Californios Page 13
