Roy Bean's Gold

by W R. Garwood

  “Oh, Sánchez was always too damned eager to heave his weight around, and I guess Diamond Dick got to him and made him feel a lot more important than he was. The whole thing had to be Powers’s doings. He knew that I was a hard-nosed law-and-order man. in fact, when he first showed up, I had to warn him about crooked moves with the cards and dice. Then we were rivals in business, so I guess he thought that if he could make out that I was unable to handle matters or control the midnight riders. and I’ve got to admit that I pulled out my hair more than once. it would smear my name worse than mud when the elections finally came around.” Josh tugged at his goatee with nervous fingers. “Yep, Diamond Dick’s one fellow who likes to plan ahead. Shouldn’t wonder, in spite of last night, or maybe because of it, that he announces his candidacy when the time comes.”

  “But I’d have thought that his plans had backfired for good.”

  “No, you don’t know that rattler, even now. He’ll claim to be a real public-spirited citizen, like Corporal Bates says. And it’ll be his word against mine. with you on the scout.”

  “That takes care of the question I had for you,” I said, fishing out Kirker’s gold eagle from my vest pocket and flipping it over to Josh. “Guess I owe you one in return.”

  “What’s this?” As my brother held the coin up to the sunlight, it flashed with a glinting fire all its own. “Thought you were stone broke.”

  “It’s the last of what took care of your tax money. but also the answer to where there’s a thundering lot more of the same. if I can figure out exactly where.”

  Then I proceeded to tell my brother the story of Jeff Kirker and his secret hoard, leaving out any mention of Rosita or Francisco Almada.

  Josh’s eyes took on some of the coin’s gleam as he inspected the little gold piece. “You know where?”

  I reached out and took the coin back, studying the cryptic, man-made inscriptions again for the thousandth time. “No, I don’t know. yet. But I surely intend to. Tell you what, when you fold your tent down here, come up to San Francisco and join me,” I enthused. “We’ll form an expedition to locate the cache. And split right down the middle, fifty-fifty.”

  “I’m not about to fold any tents yet.” Josh bristled and then stiffened in his saddle. “By gobs, there come some riders from town. Could be that fool of a Haraszthy or someone. You get along from here, and I’ve got to get myself out of sight in a hurry before they spot me.” He pushed out a hand and grabbed mine. “When you find a roost. Frisco, you say?. drop me a note from there, and then, just maybe, we can go out hunting your bullion later on. providing it’s still there. You’re not figuring that Murieta would be looking for his own gold, are you?”

  “I can chance that, I guess,” I said, shaking his hand as I took myself a fast look at the approaching dust. The horsemen were too far off yet to see us, but it was time to be on the fly.

  “¡Adiós!” I put the spurs to White Lightning and we leaped up the road, crested the hill, and started down toward the river ferry.

  “Get in touch with Salazar!” Josh called. “He’ll give you the lowdown on that place and the rest of the country up there.” Then he turned off into the woods and was out of sight.

  I rode down to the riverbank and looked around for the flatboat man, then saw there’d be no use waiting for him to go to work, for the old Mexican lay out under a tree with a pair of empties beside him, snoring the mosquitoes away. It looked like he’d also had himself a bad night.

  Behind me the riders were in plain sight now, loping down the sloping road and whipping up their horses. I caught their distant shouts, though I couldn’t yet make out the words.

  Before me the river stretched wide and jammed with sandbars, but it was down considerable from the lack of recent rains. So when I heard that first shot crack out, I didn’t waste a second.

  With the second slug already keening by my head, I kicked White Lightning into the river, and we lunged and thrashed our way across the stream, scrambling up over a shoal of gravel and sand, then back into deeper water on the far side, coming, at last, to the steep cutbank. Here the great horse really showed his mettle, for, though he was somewhat winded by the struggle, he only snorted, shook his head, and pawed his way up the treacherous incline onto solid ground, to unloose a triumphant neighing salute at both horses and riders across the river.

  “¡Alto! ¡Alto, Señor Bean!” And be damned if it wasn’t that long-faced Agostín Haraszthy and another Mexican named Chavez. Apparently they’d trailed me north instead of toward the border. Haraszthy was a sleepy sort of a fox after all.

  “You want something?” I yanked out Josh’s pistol and held it where both lawmen couldn’t miss the weapon glittering in my hand. “I leave something at the calabozo, when you so kindly let in those murdering coyotes to lynch me? I’m sorry but I just don’t have time to sit around parlaying right now.”

  “No, señor, you didn’t leave anything, even yourself. You know, you still got to stand court for shooting Hidalgo Montano. We just got to be all law-abiding about thees sort of business.” He started to hoist his six-gun, then thought better of it, as I threw down on him and his pardner. “An’ it won’t do much good to resist, señor. You only make it bad . . . for yourselfs and your honorable brother, the alcalde.”

  “Hey there, you sure got yourselfs a hell of a horse all right!” Chavez yelled with a big grin, as he tried to stay in my good graces, in spite of the fact that he was more ready and willing than able to get the drop on me.

  “That reminds me,” I shouted back, “where’s that slippery low-life who used to own this poor horse?”

  “Back at town, señor!” the deputy bellowed. “An’ he’s swearing out the warrant for taking off his horse there, so there’s gonna be two charges now. You better come back and straighten them out.”

  “Haraszthy, you’re even dumber than you look. I don’t know what Diamond Dick pulled to wiggle out of his law-abiding raid on the jail, but I’m not about to come back to your flea bite of a town. . . .” And I was about to add more when someone opened up on the pair from the woods. Three bullets clipped through the sunlight, shrilling away with screaming ricochets. The bay and black reared and plunged with alarm, almost throwing Chavez, while Haraszthy only stayed aboard by dropping his pistol and grabbing leather to his bosom in a desperate clutch.

  “Too bad!” I yelled across at the deputy and the deputized. “Looks like Murieta’s right on your tracks! Guess you’re next to decorate that tree back there!”

  They gave their frantic horses their heads and plunged off, out of sight and gone for good.

  I gentled the big stallion, looking back up the hill toward the woods. There rode out both Josh and Abraham, the latter lifting a long rifle in a last salute while Josh waved his sombrero.

  I threw up my hand, then turned White Lightning and headed up the Camino Real through the brilliant sunlit morning.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Heading north along the Camino Real, I stared back toward San Diego, but there wasn’t a single soul on the empty roadway. The river willows had dwindled from sight below the gently rolling land, and far beyond them the storm, so threatening in the early morning, was just a dirty-gray patch upon the sunny blue stretching over Mexico. And once again gawking backward, I saw a faint flash of lightning, no more than a flying spark struck from a distant cloud, its thunder less than a rusty whisper.

  So that was the way my troubles were fading, I figured. Plumb fizzling away. And here, at last, I was on my way toward that hidden bonanza. Riding onward, I dwelt on that golden hoard with all the downright pleasure of some skinflint miser, counting it and fondling it around in my mind until I lost all thought of just how that sort of gold came to be out there in the northern wilds. I completely forgot those dead men who’d perished because of that gold—the six unlucky troopers, and even that likable but treacherous Jeff Kirker himself.

  Sometime later, when my road bent toward the coast, I came out of my daydreams and took a
last look in the direction of San Diego—and my brother Joshua. Well, I told the sea breezes, that would be the very last town they’d run me from, for there’d be a new sort of Roy Bean around shortly—a young man of very ample means. Just as soon as I could discover those means.

  Then I gave up all woolgathering and, putting the spur to White Lightning, rode on so briskly, even loping right past El Ruiseñor, the roadside groggery, that I arrived in time for dinner at the Santa Anna.

  After the meal, while I waited out front for my horse, a nattily dressed, middle-aged fellow in a hard-boiled hat sauntered out from somewhere in the tavern just about the time the hostler fetched up the great stallion.

  “Magnificent animal, sir.” This gent, who spoke with an Irish brogue, took off his hat, lifting it in a sort of salute to the horse. He replaced the lid and leaned back on his gold-headed walking stick.

  I allowed that I certainly was aware of my good choice in horseflesh and put a foot into my stirrup, when the stranger’s next comment kept my feet planted on the ground.

  “If I mistake not, I’ve beheld that noble brute before.” He tugged at his drooping red mustaches and leaned over for a closer look at the flank of the animal. “Ah, Diamond-A. Why, sir, I’ve seen that steed many times upon the very streets of San Francisco. A well-known sporting man, the owner. . . .”

  “Diamond Dick Powers?” I eased my hand down near the butt of my Navy Colt. I didn’t know what this gabby jasper was up to—and I wanted to be on my way, but not with a horse thief posse behind me.

  “Ah, yes! A strong patron of the arts, Mister Richard Powers. And the very person who fetched that dazzling young Lorette La Fonte to our establishment.” He waved an ­appreciative hand at the sky. “You see me here, awaiting the next down stage to San Diego. Stopped off here at San Juan Capistrano yesterday to break the journey and conduct a bit of business.” He pointed to several gaudy posters affixed upon some of the tree trunks and stuck on the sides of the building:

  The McGuire Traveling

  Opera and Theatrical Company

  Featuring

  The Famous Julia Deane

  The Incomparable Caroline Chapman

  Will Soon Be Appearing

  In Your City

  Along with That Dynamic Talent

  Lorette La Fonte!

  “This Miss La Fonte wouldn’t be known as Señorita Dulcima Almada?”

  “Exactly!” The man lifted his hat again. “Permit me? I’m Major Thomas Mulcahey McGuire, sole proprietor of the world-renowned Jenny Lind Opera Theater at San Francisco. and San Diego is where I expect to meet with Mister Richard Powers in an attempt to gain the full services of his protégée, Señorita Dulcima, otherwise Mademoiselle La Fonte.”

  “Roy Bean.” I lifted my sombrero to the fellow. “When you meet Mister Powers, you might mention that I thank him kindly for the loan of his horse. But this La Fonte business, how’d that come about?” I still couldn’t see how this Irish showman and Diamond Dick were about to get Dulcima away from her legal guardian, Rosita.

  “Really quite simple.” McGuire proudly pointed his cane at one of the gaudy green-and-orange posters. “Powers had heard that our young Lotta Crabtree was down sick and fetched Mistress Dulcima around to try out for her part.” The showman smiled and wagged his head at the recollection. “The girl was nothing short of a smashing success. Took to the songs and patter like a duck to a puddle. I had a short talk with Powers right after that weekend at my theater on the outskirts of the city, the McGuire Palazzo.”

  “But?”

  “But she vanished, and after Powers had told me his young thespian had wanted to work at the theater full-time. But I went ahead with plans for a road company. traveling shows to the hinterlands and the camps.”

  “And you included this Miss. La Fonte on your handbills, along with the other ladies?”

  “Exactly. I took a flyer, you might say. But she’ll make a champion turn if I can get her. The girl’s so versatile. She sings, dances, and can act with the very best of them.”

  “I know.”

  “Ah, you’ve caught her at another theater?”

  “More or less.”

  “Well, it’s worrisome, for I’ve built up a good reputation in the past couple of years, but I think I can track her down through Powers, and then you’ll see if she doesn’t become a great favorite. Even better than flashy Lola Montez or that fancy Red Rosita. Ah, there’s a pair of fiery fillies for you. . . .” He was about to rattle on, when the down stage from Los Angeles heaved into sight and I got aboard White Lightning.

  “Come by the Jenny Lind when you’re in Frisco and you’ll see a great show.” McGuire handed me a couple of passes before hustling back into the tavern for his luggage.

  “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. especially if this Miss La Fonte is on hand!” I called after the Irishman, and, giving White Lightning his head, I went racking up the road toward Los Angeles.

  An hour or so later, with the tang of the ocean filtering through the wind, I came to the same point where Salazar and I had sat our horses and stared out across the limitless Pacific. I turned off the main road, guiding my mount down the same little sandy lane, past the clump of cypress and over the hill. And there it was, somehow different from the stretch of water at San Diego. Here the wild sweep of emptiness again brought to mind all that lonely vastness of the great grass ocean I’d wandered over not so long ago, blown along by the never-ceasing winds.

  For a spell I watched the tall white clouds lofting along the glittering horizon like towering mountains of snow and wondered if they had sailed from as far as China or those distant Sandwich Islands. It would be fine to visit such places, I thought, and made up my mind to do such traveling. And I planned to do that just as soon as I got my hands on that secret hoard. I’d be doing the jaunting to such places with Dulcima, of course, I had not the slightest doubt.

  The slanting sun was already tinting those cloud peaks with glints of gold and flaming orange as it began its downward surge toward the Pacific. It was high time to get under way, and I turned White Lightning back onto the Camino Real, settling down to the serious business of making time.

  There were few people abroad as I neared Los Angeles in the purple haze of the twilight. A train of woodcutters followed a small herd of beef cattle, the patient little mouse-colored mules ambling along in the dusty wake of the bawling steers. I passed all such travelers with the rush of the wind, as my horse seemed to take a pleasure in leaving everyone, animal and human, far to the rear of our dust. Now I could see how Diamond Dick had gained such a reputation for his long riding. With such animals he was a match for even Joaquín himself.

  A big fall moon was drifting over the eastward mountains as I rode past the first of the haciendas fringing the pueblo of Los Angeles. For a long minute, as it hung in the silvery blue of early evening, it looked for all the world like a huge, glowing Chinese lantern and I thought of the night I’d first met the Castañedas and the last time I’d sat out on their tree-bowered patio under such Chinese lanterns. That had been the night the tintype girl had become the dashing and delightful Dulcima herself.

  I turned down a side road toward the town’s center and found myself riding through the shabby Calle de los Negros, with its roughs and low-lifes who still lounged in front of the lantern-lit gambling dens in their battered sombreros and tattered serapes. Most of these folks seemed in low enough spirits or were too drunk to bother taking note of my passage, except for one down-at-the-heels fellow who howled out in Spanish that if I was looking for a proper thrashing, he was just the rooster to do the job. I’d had enough scrapping to last me for a good long spell and kicked up my horse and rode on through the alley.

  Dismounting in front of Wagner’s Saloon, I stood looking about myself. It was now quite dark and the sperm-oil lanterns, mounted upon posts in front of every other place, flickered away like little yellow moons, while the moon itself, now high over the hills, was pouring its light down into
the dusty streets of town and silvering the hulking ramparts and outbuildings of old Fort Gillespie on its pine-strewn mountain west of Los Angeles. In the pale light, the cathedral’s twin towers quietly lofted into the gently shining sky like two translucent hands reaching toward the heavens.

  Los Angeles seemed just then about as peaceable as its jaw-breaking name: El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles de Porciúncula—or in plain Yankee lingo, the Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels of Porciúncula.

  I tied up my horse in front of the saloon where Salazar and I had stopped when first we got to Los Angeles, and went in for a dust-cutter before supper. Pushing through the batwings, who should I meet coming out but old Sheriff Persifer? He looked me over, and then caught sight of White Lightning.

  “Well, now, Mister Bean, ain’t it?” He stood in the doorway, shook my hand, and then took another gander at the hitching rack. “And, if I don’t mistake, that’d be one of Dick Powers’s animals. Am I right?”

  “Right. Powers insisted that I borrow one of his horses so I wouldn’t need to travel by stage. I’m on my way up to San Francisco on business for my brother, the alcalde.” It was a mite thin but it was all I could come up with in a hurry, and the old lawman seemed to swallow it down.

  He clapped me on the back and went on down the steps without seeming to give White Lightning another thought.

  I changed my mind about that drink, unhitched the horse as soon as the sheriff turned the corner, and rode over to the National Hotel on Los Angeles Street. There I took my meal in the bar, and then stayed put in my room for the rest of the night.

  It was scarce sunup when I checked out, got my horse from the stables, and was on my way from town—without breakfast. I didn’t intend on running into any more folks who seemed to take pleasure in small talk about Diamond Dick’s horse—and lawmen in particular.

  Threading our way through the crooked, ungraded streets in the growing light, I saw that Major Thomas Mulcahey McGuire was a man who believed in backing his spoken word with the printed variety, for I counted nearly a dozen bills pasted on adobe walls and tree trunks, proclaiming the approach of McGuire’s Traveling Opera and Theatrical Company.