Roy Bean's Gold

by W R. Garwood

  Somewhere down there I’d find Dulcima sooner or later, maybe at one of the theaters—and Rosita, though I’d not thought of her much lately. But that fiery señorita was bound to be off there somewhere in the foothills, with her brother. And beyond those foothills, and the open country, there waited—Kirker’s gold!

  Thinking on such things, I lingered upon the hill, while all that distant sound of voices and the rattle of carriages and carts and footsteps, echoing up from the wooden-planked streets, blended with the shrilling of the winds through the grass and shrubs. At last, jolted from my reverie by the approach of hoof beats, I turned in my saddle to discover the dusty approach of one of the San Francisco-bound coaches.

  I lingered no longer but gave my horse his head and went pounding down the steep road, leaving the coach far in the rear. We shortly came to the outskirts of the city, loping past low, rambling warehouses and various sheds. As the road curved on toward the waterfront, I began to meet the traffic of a busy city. Here on Montgomery, a carelessly planked street that had taken over from the broad El Camino Real, I passed between crowded shops and stalls. Again and again I had to pull aside to keep from colliding with the many red-and-white hackney coaches. These conveyances, filled with miners on a spree, dashed past at full tilt, barely missing the swarms of sailors who came clambering up from the boat stairs, as well as men of every color and hue who hastened up and down the narrow street or leaped cursing from under a hackney’s wheels.

  White Lightning shook his head and jingled his bridle chains at the ungodly racket and confusion but kept on along a street that now climbed toward the city’s center. And as we clattered through the noisy throngs, I saw more than one stranger pause to watch us go by, though I knew that he was admiring the great white stallion and not the linen-duster-clad vagabond on his broad back.

  Crossing Jackson and heading toward the haven of Portsmouth Square, where, a passer-by at the waterfront had told me “everything happened in San Francisco,” I passed shops filled with mining implements that overflowed out upon the wooden sidewalks. Some stores displayed the newest in miner’s togs, while others were filled with the latest in tailor-made fashions from Paris and New York, everything seeming to have something to do with the acquiring of gold and the spending of the same.

  I had a view of San Francisco’s new wrinkle in transportation when I pulled up at Kearny Street to let one of the new Yellow Line’s canary-tinted omnibuses roll past on its way out to the Mission Plank Road on the city’s outskirts.

  When I rode into Portsmouth Square, I seemed to have arrived in the middle of a regular Arabian Nights masquerade. Reining in and looking around for some sort of inexpensive tavern or hotel, I could only stare at the noisy spectacle. Here transplanted Yankees were playing Spanish dons to the hilt as they strutted along in their sweeping sombreros and black velvet capes or, equipped with serapes and glittering spurs, walked some mighty passable horses around the square. Scores of red-shirted miners in town to celebrate a strike or forget their troubles strolled from building to building, each armed to the teeth with low-slung pistols and Bowie knives stuck in their boots within handy reach. And there was no mistaking the gambling fraternity in their tall, silky stovepipe hats, dapper suits of both somber and gay colors, all with snowy-white, fancy-frilled shirts set off with diamond studs or glittering gold breastpins—each fancy outfit topped by a knobby neck stock of flashy patterns.

  But the gamblers, miners, and plain citizens all beat a hasty retreat whenever one of the brightly painted carriages, lined with red silks and drawn by pairs of spirited horses, dashed out from one of the side streets to add to the noontime bedlam.

  Noticing a likely-looking hotel on the north side of the square, I dismounted, tugged off my duster, and handed the reins to a ragged bootblack while I went into the Parker House. I came back out almost at once and took the reins back, tossing the urchin a coin—$20 a day was just too rich for my blood.

  I was directed over to nearby Washington Street by a passer-by, where I landed a room on the third floor of the San Francisco House at the more reasonable rate of $10 a week.

  With White Lightning safely housed in Bryant’s Livery on Clay I took lunch at a nearby saloon-restaurant and went back out into the brilliant fall sunlight to enjoy the afternoon. Walking back down to the square, I stood outside the lavish Bella Union, looking over the parade.

  It seemed that the same crowd, or one like it, was continuing its march about the square. Dapper gamblers passed in and out of the various halls, along with rougher miners, well-to-do businessmen, and just plain folks of about every nationality, including fuzzy-headed Kanakas from the distant Sandwich Islands, raggedy Negroes and, by their lingo, Germans, Italians, French, and even British, along with scores of pigtailed Chinese. The Chinese women in particular were delicate of build but bold of eye, and all were coming and going upon their private errands—or just loafing around with the rest of us, watching the excitement of an average day in town.

  From the gaming houses’ open windows came the sound of flutes, fiddles, and banjos, as well as the shouts of laughter of the winners and the sharp outcries of the losers. From time to time, one of the women within, who dealt cards or turned a wheel, would lean from an upper window to smile down upon the crowds, drumming up some trade while the room behind her sleek head blazed with candles to rival the golden afternoon.

  Coming up to this three-ring circus from the easy, usually soft-going atmosphere of San Diego made me realize mighty shortly that all of this was going to take some sort of getting used to.

  It was a good thing, I thought, that I had plenty of time, for I needed to hole up for a spell and do some serious planning in laying out my campaign.

  I had to get in touch with Josh, tell him where I’d lit, then wait and see how his election prospects panned out. I also had to try to find Dulcima, then fit my projected hunt for the gold into our future. As for Rosita, she was always there, somewhere in the back of my mind, and vaguely bothering me, for some reason that I couldn’t quite pin down. Perhaps it was because she was Dulcima’s guardian, though only a few years older than the “niece” she’d threatened to deal with when she had the time—and perhaps it was because of her connection with the Kirker loot and Murieta.

  I returned to the hotel at sundown, having stayed out of the gambling halls all afternoon by a great effort of will power, and had myself a decent meal of steak and potatoes at a nearby restaurant. Then I picked up the latest copy of the Alta California and went up to room 303.

  After I’d shucked down to my underwear, lit the cracked spirit lamp, and piled into the creaking wooden bedstead, I took out the handbill with Dulcima’s picture and spent some time looking at it. It got me plumb fidgety thinking that she might come to town almost any day. And what if she showed up with that low-down Diamond Dick? That circumstance could be explosive to say the least. Well, Mr. Diamond Dick Powers was going to find himself playing some mighty poor hands—if I could deal them. And I was downright set on getting Dulcima, and keeping her—right along with his horse.

  But Dulcima was anything but a China doll. She certainly had a mind of her own. I’d seen that. So neither Diamond Dick, nor Rosita, or even Major McGuire himself was going to do any thinking for her, I was certain. At least I was pretty certain.

  Finally I put aside the handbill and, taking up the paper, read of the discovery of the largest nugget since 1848 out on the American River, and of the arrival of such flash clippers as the Sea Witch from Bristol and the Surprise from Boston.

  Reading along the columns I ran across a certain James King, who seemed to be having a run of bad luck. He advertised for the return of his prime riding horse, Bolivar, lost, strayed, or stolen from his barn out on Jackson. He also asked help in recovering a runaway house slave named Champ. He offered $100 reward for the mount and $50 for his black man, probably because Bolivar had four legs to Champ’s two.

  Jackstraw’s Pharmacy on Sacramento was proud to announce that
they’d just received the latest shipment from back East of Dr. Wheeler’s Universally Celebrated Balsam of Moscatello: The most valuable vegetable preparation discovered for the cure of cholera morbus and the dangerous effects of drinking cold water when overheated. They also stocked Phoenix Blue Bitters, claiming it as the most effectual remedy extant for the cure of each and every disease to which man is subject!

  That made some mighty compelling reading, but what really made me sit up and put my feet on the floor was an item at the bottom of the second page announcing the grand reopening, after previous fire damage, in just two weeks of the Celebrated Jenny Lind Theater, at the corner of Washington and Kearny on the Square.

  The story went on to state that Colonel—he’d promoted himself—Thomas Mulcahey McGuire, proprietor of the theater, in addition to sending out several companies to entertain the outlying camps and districts, also planned opening the local season with the appearance of several outstanding thespians. These included the great Junius Booth, as well as the brilliant Caroline Chapman. They were to be featured in the opening production of All That Glitters Is Not Gold, which had its first showing in New York just six months earlier.

  But that was not the least, for Colonel McGuire also promised to make the evening absolutely tip-top, that newest young sensation of the stage, Miss Lorette La Fonte will also appear in several delightful songs and sketches!

  All this made my mind a bit tipsy, so, as I often did, I got out Jeff Kirker’s $10 gold piece from my money belt and inspected it again for the hundredth time. Again I wondered at the odd markings on the coin. They had to mean something, but, cipher as I might, I still couldn’t puzzle it out. Well, as the Spanish had it, there were always plenty of mañanas around. And in just about a dozen mañanas Dulcima should be right here in San Francisco. I put away the coin, blew out the lamp, and lay in the dark. Just as I was drifting off, there came the rumble of thunder, another racketing clap much nearer, then more rolling out over the hills beyond town. I was nearly asleep by then, but was still aware of a velvety rushing downpour. The first of the fall-time rains had begun.

  The rains slackened next morning and up and quit by 9:00, so I got White Lightning from the livery and rode up Stockton and out Columbus to get away from the noisy bustle of the city and do some thinking.

  North San Francisco had the same hilly make-up as the southern section, but it seemed to have more sandy beaches and sheltered coves. There were also fewer houses out past the sand hills, and I soon came to an elevation overlooking the shining stretch of water between the two peninsulas they called the Golden Gate.

  There seemed to be a couple of miles of open water across to the steep reaches of the Marin Hills to the northwest. Several small sailing ships were moving out through the gate, and, as I sat White Lightning, I saw the new propeller steamer Kangaroo on its way eastward across the great Bay to San Antonio Landing, which was getting to be called Oakland. The Marin Hills themselves cradled a small fishing village, Sausalito, which in the distance looked about like a pinch of white gravel tossed onto a green pillow.

  I’d heard there were several wide-open gambling dens and cathouses at Sausalito, but San Francisco had plenty for me—and the whole of California, for that matter.

  I had counted my money that morning and found the cash Josh had stowed in my blanket roll was now $198. It was plain to see that I’d best keep my nose out of any games, unless I felt mighty lucky.

  Though I gave myself plenty of time to think things over, about all I came to decide was that I’d walk mighty easy around Powers when he showed up. I didn’t want to get into any more shooting scrapes when I was this close to the gold—wherever it might be—and even closer to Dulcima. But if Diamond Dick showed fight, I’d not back down one iota.

  On the ride out to the point and back, I did manage to draft up a short letter to Josh in my head. When I returned to my room after dinner I got pen and paper and wrote it down:

  Brother Josh,

  I’m here at the San Francisco House, having arrived in one piece yesterday.

  I’ve not run across Salazar yet, but most talk has him and a tinhorn vigilante, named Love, out beating the brush for Murieta. But not together.

  This is one jim-dandy city, over forty thousand, and growing by leaps and bounds. If your election doesn’t pan out, you ought to come up here. Tell Abraham, Bates, and Flea mucho thanks for their help. It goes without saying that I surely thank you most of all!

  Hope to hear from you shortly. Be sure and give the Castañeda family my best.

  Your brother Roy

  There was no use in sending greetings to Dulcima. She’d get them in person, mighty shortly.

  * * * * *

  Though the next day was Sunday, no one without a calendar would have guessed it, except for the fact that the visiting miners seemed to be wearing their best red shirts. While there were more miners in town than ever, the supply of professional gamblers seemed to be equal to the red-shirted invasion.

  Reminding myself that I was out to spend some time and little money, I visited a good half dozen of the most fancy halls with their great glass chandeliers and wall-to-ceiling mirrors. There in the Empire, the Arcade, and the Mazurka I found most of the dealers to be Frenchwomen in mighty low-cut gowns. These handled the faro banks and roulette layouts, while their slick-looking male partners sat around in boiled dickies and fancy frock coats, dealing blackjack and poker. These gents seemed to be mainly French and Italian, with a scattering of Yankee gamblers.

  Most of the places stuck to a pair of squeaky violins, an out-of-tune guitar, and an asthmatic flute, but the Bella Union offered a Mexican string quartet with two harps, two guitars, and a handsomely played flute.

  Sabbath or not, the halls kept up to twenty tables running full blast. Mexicans sat absolutely motionless, except for eyes and hands, winning or losing $1,000 on the turn of a card. Sober-faced Chinese played at low-stake craps with scarcely a sound, except for the rattle and snap of the bones. But most of the assembled Americans, miners, stage drivers, and sailors, whooped, bawled, and cussed at the top of their lungs—and seemed to have the very time of their lives.

  Finally I left the last hall with its pretty but cold-eyed Frenchwomen dealers and walked down to the Fontine House, a small but tidy restaurant at the corner of Kearny and Sacramento. There I blew myself to a Sunday dinner of grizzly bear steak, which tasted right close to good lean pork. Like other better eating houses around town, this spot offered a whopping bill of fare at all seasons. There were such items on the menu to make any back-East swell hold a debate with himself before ordering: elk, deer, antelope, turtle, hare, partridge, quail, wild geese, brant, all sorts of ducks, snipe, plover, curlew, cranes, salmon, trout, and other fish, along with oysters.

  The meals ran around $2 and only $3 with a good bottle of wine thrown in—and that wine straight from Paris.

  As I sat there in the small group of diners, men of all sorts and trades, who kept their mouths shut except to tie into the vittles, I got to thinking of my recent troubles and retreat up the territory when a face began drifting through my thoughts. It wasn’t Dulcima, Corporal Bates, or one of the Castañeda girls; then I remembered it was a face I’d seen in San Francisco, the face of one of the Mexican gamblers who’d sat at monte in a corner of the Alhambra.

  As I thought over the last hour or two, I recalled how my eyes had met those of a handsome, quietly dressed young Mexican. The fellow had been coldly polite. Though he hadn’t known me, I was certain, as I’d walked through the crowd, he’d bowed his head an instant and then turned back to his game of monte.

  It was Hechavarría!—the man who’d killed Sánchez and vowed to kill Josh. Hechavarría, alias Joaquín Murieta, or one of the two Joaquíns. And here he was in San Francisco.

  I was positive as I thought back on it, and I’d have bet all of Kirker’s gold that I’d seen his portrait as a young officer on old Señor Hechavarría’s dining room wall not two months back. Carlos Hechavarr
ía!

  Still mulling over Hechavarría’s appearance, I paid my bill and stepped out into a foggy evening. As I slowly eased down the wooden sidewalk toward my hotel, I got to wondering if, somehow, I could reveal myself to the bandit, without a fight, and square Josh, explaining that my brother was innocent of the midnight lynchings at San Diego.

  Thinking about it, I stopped on the corner of the next street, trying to get my bearings in the hazy light cast by streetlamps where they glowed through the chilly fog in a palely fading chain that seemed to vanish into nothingness half a block ahead. Everything was subdued by the drifting fog. Even sounds drifting down from the roistering gambling houses were muffled and subdued.

  Suddenly through the distant shouts and wavering twang of guitars and whining chirp of fiddles came the clop-clop-clop of horses pulling an approaching vehicle.

  For an instant I couldn’t see the oncoming carriage, then it floated out of the swirling silver, a dark blur carried toward me by a ghostly team, whose heads bobbed in and out of the mists, horses without bodies or legs.

  I stepped back against the front of a building, waiting for it to pass, but the carriage halted under one of the streetlamps and I could see the motionless driver upon his box, swathed in serape and slouch hat.

  The vehicle’s curtains were closed, but as I watched, ready to move, a woman’s pale hand appeared at the near window and slowly pulled aside the blind.