Roy Bean's Gold

by W R. Garwood

  “No dice again. I hear you’re a bearcat at fighting, but this is not worth going to war about.” I turned my back on him and started off, half expecting to hear him slap leather.

  “You Beans are all alike. crawfish cowards. Your fine brother plays hide-and-seek with those damned bandits instead of trying to run down such rascals as an alcalde’s sworn to do. Well, election is coming and we’ll see how he makes out then. But that’s got nothing to do with you trying to lollygag around with Red Rosita’s precious shirt-tail niece.”

  “The way you’ve been trying to do ever since she came to town.” I’d spun around and had my hand on the butt of the Navy Colt. “And while we’re trading insults, let me tell you there never was a Bean hatched that couldn’t take on half a dozen tinhorns like you at once.”

  Powers made a grab at his left-hand gun, but I had the pistol out and pointed straight at his mid-section before he could take a breath.

  “Bean, I haven’t taken to you since I first caught sight of you, and the same goes for your red-headed gasbag of a brother.” He shook his fist at me again. “Now let me tell you one thing. I knew Dulcy before you did. and knew her mighty well!” He gave a dirty laugh.

  “Where you knew her or when is none of my affair,” I snapped, while my neck began to burn to think of this slippery sport and Dulcima. “There’s just one thing for you to remember and paste in your fancy hat, and that’s to keep plumb away from that young lady from now on. It’s not just me talking, either. Señorita Almada orders you to stay in your own pasture. comprende?” And I kept the six-shooter pointed right at the middle button on his pretty vest.

  Powers stood stockstill, and then with a snort turned on his heel and stalked off toward his saloon. “Tomorrow we’ll finish this and you will hear from me. don’t forget it!” he shouted as I shrugged and went on to my brother’s casa.

  The moon overhead was drowning in a sea of dirty silver clouds. Well, I thought, here’s a devil of a way to end an almost perfect evening.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Got yourself into a hassle with that side-winding Dick Powers?” Josh held his head and managed to get down some black coffee, served up by a silent but watchful Abraham.

  I sat across the breakfast table from him in the alcalde’s low-beamed dining room and looked seriously at Diamond Dick’s personal Navy Colt as I polished it with a napkin and checked it over. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I took the liberty of mentioning it, Señor Roy.” Pokerfaced Abraham stepped up and poured some more Arbuckle’s for both of us. “It’s all about town this morning. It seems Señor Powers has already inquired of the Señor alcalde’s new deputy, Agostín Haraszthy, for permission to hold the duelo. Such has been allowed, from time to time, hereabouts as an ancient Spanish custom.”

  “Confounded blackleg should have come to me for any permission,” Josh grumbled, pecking at his flapjacks. “And that Haraszthy’s already got his eye on my job . . . if those damned elections come out the wrong way.”

  “Seems to me you’re more concerned with your job than my skin.”

  “Never mind that. I’ve already sent word to Agostín I wouldn’t allow any such fool thing in my town. So you needn’t get a chill about it, anyhow.”

  “We’ll see,” was all I said. I was thinking of Dulcima and her sweet lips, and last night. If I punctured Diamond Dick just a little, it would show her who was cock of the walk and make him sing small for a change. It would also be a way of keeping him away from Rosita’s ward—damaged. I recalled what Salazar had said about Dulcima, that she wasn’t like other girls, and never would be. Her performance at the Castañedas was some kind of proof of that, all right. She was certainly one amazing and talented young lady. But it bothered me that she had such strong, almost resentful feelings toward Rosita. It could be a family matter, I supposed—a young filly just balking at being saddled and bridled at a strict finishing school, when she really just wanted to kick up her heels a bit and run free. I also found myself wondering what she actually knew of Rosita and particularly Joaquín. Then finally I got to ciphering just what Diamond Dick Powers had been driving at when he bragged of knowing Dulcy before—and so blamed well.

  Josh, who’d seemed to have forgotten all about that thump on the jaw I’d given him, held out his hand as I got up and thrust the pistol back into my sash and pulled on my jacket. “Where are you going, now?”

  “Just up to the plaza.”

  “I felt we should talk some about those gold eagles you’ve been spreading around the country.”

  “Later.”

  “Well, stay away from that tinhorn Powers . . . he’d do anything to put me in a bad light through you . . . and he’s rattler-mean.”

  “I’ll cut his rattles for him, but all in due time.” I grinned and went out the hall and slammed the front door.

  Twenty minutes later I had myself a private talk with the skinny, mournful-looking Agostín Haraszthy at the corner of Mason and Calhoun. Some folks were saying that as the successor to Sánchez, Agostín had enough to worry him, but he seemed to come by his gloomy air naturally.

  “Well, señor, I guess if the alcalde says he’s changed his mind, then you are at liberty to accept thees Diamond Deek’s challenge. He has given me this to make it legal.” And the deputy pulled out two folded slips of paper. “One is for you and the other for my records.”

  “Why didn’t he send one to the alcalde. or to me?”

  “He says that he is not on such good terms with either of you señores, and so delivered this to me to pass on to yourself.” Haraszthy stared sadly at me, while I read the note, which was short and sweet.

  I, Richard T. Powers, as the affronted party do hereby challenge one Roy Bean, known to be a hanger-on about San Diego, and a relative to that corrupt local official who calls himself Joshua Quincy Bean. The said duelo to be conducted with pistols on horseback at noon two days hence on the streets adjacent to the plaza of the Village of San Diego, California.

  There was also a pencil scribble at the bottom:

  Bean, I intend to take your hide in full view of the local populace, and a certain young lady, who shall remain nameless! Dick Powers

  Early in the afternoon I stopped by the Casa Castañeda to see if the girls were ready to take a horseback jaunt along with Dulcima, but the old señora sent word down to the gate that Estrellita was still under the weather and all three young ladies were at siesta.

  It looked as though she’d gotten wind of the upcoming fracas with Diamond Dick and had penned up the señoritas until things were over.

  When I walked away, I caught sight of one of the girls at an upstairs window, waving a handkerchief and dabbing it at her eyes. I lifted my sombrero, giving the house a low bow, as I thought to myself that the señora would have herself a high time keeping those headstrong fillies close herded, Dulcima included.

  I sauntered back to the casa and got out my horse, saddling her up without being noticed by Josh. Abraham came sidling out into the adobe barn.

  “Señor Roy rides out with the Señoritas Castañeda?”

  “They’re not riding out today. One of the señoritas is just a bit under the weather.”

  “Then the señor plans to ride toward Rancho de la Fuentes?” Abraham proved right there that he was a first-class mind-reader as far as I was concerned.

  “Think it’s dangerous over that way?” I asked as I led my roan out of the barn and swung up into the saddle.

  “No, Señor Roy. I believe the roads are safe enough, but. . . .”

  “Adiós, then.” I gave my mount her head and we loped up the alley leaving the little Indian, a white blur in the velvety blue shadows.

  When I racked past the plaza, turning the corner of Calhoun, I saw Diamond Dick Powers and a pair of his flunkies lounging in the shade by the Crossed Muskets. They only stared until Powers made some smart remark, then laughed with nasty expression. One, a big, overgrown ­plug-ugly, Hidalgo Montano, who was about the least like
ly Mexican in the whole of California to be confused with any genuine hidalgo, yanked a dirty thumb across his neck and lolled out his tongue; then I left them covered with dust and was gone.

  Outside of town the day was fine for late summer as great curdled white clouds drifted eastward from the ocean and hundreds of birds continued to sweep up out of the scrub and grass ahead of us. Over in the shimmering, lavender distance, where the Lagunas bulked, several pairs of dark wings hung motionlessly in the fleece-spangled blue, as if painted there, and I recalled Salazar cursing out the thoughtless selfishness of the prospectors who’d killed such monarchs of the heavens in order to get their wing-tip quills to tote their gold dust.

  If Rosita would really level with me about Kirker’s hoard and I could locate that huge pile of gold, then we’d need a lot more than a flock of California vultures’ wing tips to transport that treasure.

  And wouldn’t all that glittering gold open up Dulcima’s pretty eyes about as wide as they could be? There were a couple of flies in the ointment, of course, such as Francisco Almada and his murderous sidekick—that other half of Joaquín Murieta, Incorporated! I’d have to make some sort of deal with them, if it came to that, or keep as far away from them as possible. I knew one thing, though—it wouldn’t be with that loco Carlos Hechavarría if I could help it.

  So on I rode at a brisk clip, keeping my eyes open for any sort of trouble, but I had a mighty good idea that Abraham had his own way of knowing if there were any outlaws in the area. He seemed to know just about everything that went on, in and out of the Almada rancho.

  The countryside was peaceful and lonesome, but I did see a column of dust coming up from the south around 2:00 p.m., and finally a party of men, some on mules and a few on horseback, but kept my distance. From the racket they were making, I guessed them to be another bunch of half-drunken miners on their way back up to the northern diggings. I noticed they were traveling on one of the wagon roads that by-passed town, and guessed they’d heard of the San Diego alcalde’s hard-nosed attitude toward rowdy mobs passing through his bailiwick.

  They were bawling the ditty about Joaquín running off with the mules when they ambled out of sight beyond La Cañada de los Coches, and I wondered what they’d really do if they should come headfirst onto Joaquín himself.

  Racking on between the brush-covered Lagunas, and then wending through the Valley of the Old Women, I still kept an eye peeled for any sort of ambush, for I was certainly right spang in the middle of Murieta country, if ever there was such a place. All remained calm as cream, with the breeze riffling the scattered willows and black oak into green-and-yellow shimmers of colored light and sending little golden dust devils dancing along in front of us.

  Once, rounding a blind curve, a beautiful mountain lion burst out of the roadside brush on the lope, hard on the heels of a scrambling wild hog. My mount reared and plunged, but the big cat gave us just one quick, green-eyed stare and was gone into the scrub after his squealing dinner.

  I fought the mare to a standstill, wiped the sweat from my face, then really put the steel to her and left that place in a hurry.

  Within the hour I was passing little scattered farms with their small flocks of sheep, and skirting the humpbacked bulk of Mount Selix, now beginning to flame with masses of Indian paintbrush and the last of the season’s poppies. Another hour and I came out on the Allison’s Springs road, turning to the northeast at the tavern where I’d waited for Rosita Almada and wound up spending part of the night with Joaquín Murieta.

  Riding on, I soon crested the last hill and sat breathing my mount, and looking over toward Rancho de la Fuentes. The long yellow wall fronting the buildings was still spangled with vines but the roses of summer were withered and gone, while the woods behind the place seemed lonelier than ever. The surrounding orchards were now brave with the fruit of peach, pear, and apple, yet somehow the entire establishment had an oddly deserted look.

  I kicked up the mare and rode across the mesa to the rancho, and dismounted before the wall. Standing at the arched gate, I tugged the bell rope. The chiming of the bell inside mingled with the lacy whisperings of the fountains, yet it also seemed muffled and subdued. Tying up the roan at the hitch rail, I heard the groaning creak of the gate and turned to find the same ancient little serving man, José, standing in the archway.

  “Señor Bean. . . .”

  “Would you tell Señorita Almada that I’ve come out to talk with her.”

  “She has gone, señor.” The old man bowed crabwise as he motioned me onto the flagstone path. “Please to come up to the ranch house. I have a message from the Señorita.”

  I sat in the big armchair on the porch and read and reread the letter that José had fetched, while the splash of the fountains echoed through the empty courtyard.

  Señor,

  Pardona for this hasty note, but circumstance has so dictated. I am forced to close up the rancho again, and travel to San Francisco.

  My brother suffers, from time to time, the effects of a wound taken in the war against the Yankees. This now demands an immediate visit to a proficient physician at Yerba Buena. I shall accompany him, along with some of his retainers.

  Dulcima has been sent funds and instructed to proceed back to her school by the first of the month. Now, I beg of you, see that fellow Powers stays away from her. I’ve recently learned some unsettling facts—and shall deal with her when I am able.

  Again, pardona for such a greeting, and believe me when I assure you that I planned to visit Casa de Oro that night but Francisco preceded me—and I was then forced, at the last moment, to bring him a most urgent message.

  Another time, perhaps?

  P.S. Have no fear of J.M. All have gone northward.

  I lounged back, looking at the courtyard. Here and there a stray windblown leaf scuttled and scratched along the flagstones, a solitary butterfly hovered near a tattered rosebush, and a bird or two called from the neighboring trees. But it was all so different from that merry moonlit night of not so long ago. For another moment I watched Rosita’s empty hammock swing gently in the shadows, then got up and bade good bye to old José.

  There was a long, lonely ride ahead back to San Diego, and a noonday meeting mañana with a gent called Diamond Dick.

  I had a hard time settling down that night, though I tried to read a new yellowback, The Prisoners of the Aztecs. Josh was out until way past midnight, meeting with the Castañedas, the Torreses, and other influential Spanish-Americans, plotting out his campaign for the upcoming elections.

  When he did get home and opened my door to stand staring at me and pulling his chin whiskers, he growled like a sore-tailed bear. “So! You confounded lunkhead. you went and let that tinhorn Powers finagle you into a crazy duel after all. And I hear tell you’ve told my feather-brained deputy Agostín that I said it was all OK. Well, just one thing”—he gave his whiskers a violent tug—”you’d best shoot danged straight, because that jasper is known to be black death with a pistol.”

  “I thought you’d kibosh things if you heard.”

  “No, it’s gone too far now. It can’t be said that I’ve got myself a blamed coward for a relation!”

  “Might hurt your election hopes, eh?”

  “No such damned thing! Just you see that you don’t do more than wing him good, though. If anybody’s killed, I’d have to put the other in the calabozo sure as sin.” Josh glared at me, and then slammed the door behind him, only to reopen it again. “Now, you know full well, Roy, that I’m behind you all the way. Hell, you’re my kid brother. But for the love of Lazarus, watch yourself tomorrow.” He shut the door easy that time.

  I blew out the lamp and rolled over. For a while I kept seeing Dulcima’s face in the dark, but it kept changing into that of the wistful little girl of the tintype who had been Dulcima. Presently, for some reason, Rosita swept into my drowsy half dreams, with her curves, brilliant eyes, and masses of flame-tinted hair blowing in a cloud about her sensuous features. Then hard-ey
ed Dick Powers crowded before both girls, swaggering through the darkness with a big deadly pistol in each hand. For a long moment a strange chill crept in waves over me, and then I seemed to loose my clutch on existence and dropped away into empty nothingness, and slept without another dream to my name.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I got up late next morning cursing out Abraham for not waking me earlier. Scrambling from my rumpled bed, I washed and shaved carefully, then dressed in the very best duds I owned. The black velvet trousers and silk shirt I bought up at Los Angeles were topped off with a gold-embroidered vest set with a swarm of small shining pearl buttons in several different patterns, including that of an eagle, or perhaps a California vulture, in full flight across the back of the garment.

  Looking myself over in my washstand mirror, I decided that maybe I wasn’t the caballero to end all such dudes, but I still came pretty close after all.

  Strange to remark, I wasn’t one bit edgy, but, when I sat down to a late breakfast and heard the old hall clock boom out eleven times, my cup of coffee began to try to hop from my hands. I attempted another sip, then gave it up as poor business.

  “Where’s the alcalde?” I asked Abraham, waving off the little Indian and his coffee pot. “And by the way, why didn’t you tell me Señorita Almada had closed the rancho and left the territory?”

  “I’m right here.” Josh came into the room, dressed to the nines in his very best alcalde get-up: gold-encrusted jacket, green waist sash, and flaming orange pantaloons, with his largest golden ring in his ear.

  “Where’d you come from? You look like you’re just in from some fandango, or been selling snake oil.”

  “Never you mind about that. And I think somebody’s said to beware of the sort of enterprises that demand new clothes,” snapped Josh, “so it looks as though we’re both mighty stylish for a funeral. I hope to high heaven that it won’t be yours. But you remember what I told you about any actual killing.” He tugged at his goatee, a sure sign he was on the prod. “And what’s this about that hellcat of an Almada gal? She’s gone and cleared off?”