Roy Bean's Gold

by W R. Garwood

  That hand beckoned to me, and, as I leaned in toward the carriage, hand upon my pistol, I could make out the face of a woman, all but hidden in the half light.

  “Roy, acercate, mi querido amigo.” And it was the voice of Rosita Almada, calling to me out of the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I got into the carriage, hand still near my pistol and then, at Rosita’s quiet laughter, settled myself beside her on the leather seat.

  She gave an order to the man on the box and we rolled on through the foggy night. For a spell neither of us spoke as the hazy yellow circles of the streetlamps drifted past, and then were gone in the darkness. We seemed to be heading down toward the waterfront, then our course changed and the horses began the long pull up toward Telegraph Hill.

  “Here!” she called to the coachman, and at last the vehicle rocked to a stop. I’d been content just to sit beside her and feel the soft warmth of her hip against mine. But Rosita Almada always knew just what she was about, always seemed in complete control of events, and I knew she’d not just suddenly appeared out of the fog to swoop me off for a secret buggy ride.

  After a polite word or two had been swapped about each other’s health, she got down to business. “Did you know that Carlos Hechavarría is here in the north. and it could be dangerous if he was aware that you are in the city?”

  “I saw him just tonight in a gambling hall. recognized him from that painting at his father’s rancho. But why dangerous to me?”

  She placed a firm little hand on my arm. “He’s sworn to kill your brother, or anyone connected with him. He’s determined to wipe out the dishonor of Joshua Bean’s lynching of his men. And as you know he’s made a start by getting that ugly deputy of the alcalde’s.”

  “And he’d get rid of me if he knew who I was?”

  “Yes, he’s had some plans go wrong lately, and now he lashes out at anyone he has la ojeriza. the grudge. against.” She leaned toward me, and I could sense her warmth and the sweetness of her breath. “I have a certain regard. no, more than just that, a certain afición for you.” She paused, then continued. “You, in your Americano way, have become quite dear to me. And, perhaps, I am bold and shameless as ever to say this.” She gave her husky laugh. “But I am Red Rosita.”

  In that moment, when she was so close to me, I was also mighty close to grabbing her—and kissing that sweet, laughing mouth; then there came a sudden thought of that little stiletto.

  “Josh had nothing to do with those lynchings,” I muttered, just to have something to say. “It was that shifty sidewinder of a Dick Powers.” Then I told her of the escapades at San Diego, my head-on clash with Diamond Dick, and my escape from jail. “Before I left, I found that my brother’s servant, Abraham, had been a part of your family’s rancho for years. and the pipeline to Murieta. your brother. Why didn’t Abraham let you know that Josh was innocent of those midnight raids?”

  “He did, from the start, though he’d not discovered who was guilty. But there was such suspicion and rumor among the gang members that Carlos refused to believe that anyone but a powerful man such as Joshua Bean could be directing the brutality.”

  She stopped suddenly and lifted her hand. The serape-clad driver had bent down and whispered something. Then I caught the thud of hoof beats.

  Rosita gave a hasty command, and our carriage wheeled into a side road, behind a clump of trees. There we waited until the strange riders had passed on into the darkness, then the carriage turned back toward the hazy dots of light marking the city.

  “Things have been dangerous . . . for some time. My brother and Carlos have exchanged many hot words, for Carlos is bound to carry out some sort of raid upon the Fort Smith Armory at Benicia, across the bay, and gain enough weapons to begin an uprising.”

  “Uprising?”

  “Sí, but you must promise not to inform the authorities . . . yet. My brother still recovers from his old illness in a secluded place, and he could find himself in much peril, with the officers swarming the hills.”

  “But you’re talking of a real double-barreled rebellion. That could raise holy hob hereabouts. Now, I know you and your brother are. . . .”

  “We do wish the return of our country and the vast lands that your so-called United States plundered from our people. Though there are many who might join Carlos, it would bring more trouble than it would ever be worth. blood and destruction. We’ve had enough of that.”

  The coach rocked back down the incline of the hills, and before I could fetch Dulcima into our conversation, it had pulled up before the dim outline of my hotel.

  “You even know where I hang my hat?” I was surprised the driver had navigated right up to the front door of the San Francisco House.

  “I knew the hour you arrived in town. We have many friends in many places, you see. I even watched from a distance the first day you rode to the point on your magnificent horse.” She held out her hand. “Adiós, and I beg you to be most careful. Warn your brother, the alcalde, to stay away from San Francisco while Carlos Hechavarría is near.”

  I got out of the carriage and, taking her slender hand, raised it to my lips in my best caballero salute. I found myself wanting to see her again, in spite of Dulcima, which was downright confusing.

  “When will I see you again?”

  As the carriage rolled away into the night gloom, her voice drifted back: “We’ll meet again, when the time is right.”

  Next morning I got off a short note to Josh, telling him there was good reason to suspect that Joaquín Murieta was close to town, and that he’d been known to have made more threats against him. I advised my brother to remember what Murieta had done to his deputy. But, knowing Josh’s bull-headedness, I had my doubts that it would make him change any of his plans.

  Though I revisited the gambling hall, where I’d seen Hechavarría, I never got another glimpse of him, either there or upon the crowded streets. Rosita had also vanished again, and I found myself puzzling over her warning of the planned raid on the U.S. Armory at Benicia, and wondering just what should be done about it.

  For the next two weeks I had plenty of time to think, while I waited for Josh’s answering letter—and for the opening of the new Jenny Lind Theater. With little to do, I took my horse out for a canter each morning, and played some small-stake poker afternoons at the Águila de Oro, just off Portsmouth Square. The game there was run by a pleasant young gambler with sharp black eyes, recently arrived in town like myself. Charley Cora had worked many of the mining camps and already had himself a reputation for a feisty temper, but I had no trouble with him, and I usually managed to walk away from his table with as much cash as I had brought to the games. And, sometimes, a bit more.

  At last came the reopening of the Jenny Lind, and I joined the crowds filing into the theater and got a tingle up my backbone as I saw the name of Miss Lorette La Fonte on the showbills outside the large, handsome building.

  I had to hand it to Colonel McGuire, for the Jenny Lind’s interior was positively lavish. Carved pillars supported the first tier of boxes, while rich draperies of red and gold, along with dozens of bright lamps, turned the auditorium into a dazzling showplace. There was a pit, a parquet, and even a gallery—and, to top it off, a towering gilded dome at the ceiling beamed the glowing radiance back down upon its gawking audience.

  As I took my seat along with the noisy but orderly crowd of businessmen, gamblers, sailors, and miners—all in their best togs—I wondered if Dulcima knew I’d be out front waiting for her appearance. I also looked over the packed house on the off chance that I might spot Powers, for I knew that underhanded rascal had to be somewhere about, but I saw no one who looked like Diamond Dick.

  We hadn’t long to wait, for suddenly the little pit orchestra struck up a lively march, with its trumpets, fiddles, and drum; the big painted curtain, shimmering in the footlights, rippled, then slowly rose upward, helped along by a rousing burst of applause. and the show began.

  All That Glitt
ers Is Not Gold was a wonderful drama, at least I thought it was, with a detestable villain, a stunning heroine, played by curvesome, red-haired Caroline Chapman as Kitty LeRoy, and Junius Booth as Frank Sinclair, the stern but handsome young hero.

  Each scene won its share of applause, compounded with whistles and much stamping of boots, but it was Dulcima, as Lorette La Fonte, bursting out from the wings between acts, who completely bowled over the audience.

  She came dancing out at the end of the first act in a long-tailed green coat, knee breeches, and a tall green hat, to do first an Irish jig and a reel, then cut loose with her darky songs. She sang three minstrel tunes, one right after the other. I’d heard the first at the Castañedas but the other two were new to me, and each as funny and lively as the first.

  At the end of the second act, while the audience was trying to decide if Junius Booth’s character, Frank Sinclair, would ante up enough money to save the old farm from the villain, Dulcima reappeared. Now dressed as a miner in ragged pantaloons, neat little boots, and the usual flaming red shirt, she outdid herself with a trio of parodies on the life of the miners.

  The song getting the most applause told of the escapades of McDougal, a well-known fellow notorious for getting himself into rows and coming out the worse for wear. It went in part:

  For shame, oh, fie!

  Maguire, oh, why

  Will you thus skyugle?

  And curse and swear

  And rip and tear

  The unfortunate McDougal?

  His wind’s bereft—

  About you’ve left

  Enough to blow a bugle!

  But now you’ve smashed

  And almost hashed

  The form of poor McDougal!

  And how the miners, in particular, whooped and howled about that song.

  At the play’s finale, with the old homestead won away from the villain, and Kitty LeRoy and Frank Sinclair all set to wed, the cast took their curtain calls. Then Dulcima returned for her own finale.

  Dressed in a plain white frock, she stood motionless at center stage, lifting her pure, strong young voice in a medley that began with “Lilly Dale” and ended with a brand-new song, “Woodman, Spare That Tree.”

  She received a regular standing ovation, and I could see many a rough customer wiping his eyes as the audience filed out into the foggy night.

  As soon as I could wriggle through the mob, I hustled around to the dark alley and knocked on the stage door. It was flung open immediately, and I was looking at Diamond Dick Powers.

  Before Powers could shut his mouth—or the door—he was staring into my pistol muzzle. I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Roy!” Dulcima darted to the doorway, still in her white frock. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you came tonight. I wondered if you were in town, and Dick . . . Mister Powers . . . said. . . .”

  “Put away that weapon, you hothead, that’s no way to come visiting my players!” a voice boomed from the shadows. Colonel McGuire stepped into the lamplight, shaking his walking stick. “So, you’ve seen our Miss Lorette? Now I recollect you from down near San Diego. And how’d you like the show?”

  “Forgot your passes, but it was money well spent.” I said, and holstered my Colt, seeing Powers kept his hands strictly away from his sides.

  Dulcima crowded in front of Diamond Dick and McGuire, holding out her hand. “Roy, I’m staying down the street at the old Oriental Hotel. There’s a rehearsal in the morning, but come by in the afternoon. We’ve a lot to talk about.”

  I shook her hand without another word but gave Powers a long look before turning back into the foggy alley, as McGuire hurriedly barred the door from any other stage-door Johnnies.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The very next morning I had an answer in the mail from Josh, short and right to the point:

  Brother Roy,

  Much thanks for your warning, but it’s somewhat too late. We’ve had a special election here on last Monday, rigged up by Dick Powers, who seems to know as many ward heelers at the capital as I do. But it didn’t do him one lick of good, for San Diego up and elected no one else but your old friend Haraszthy!

  My term is up anyway at the end of the month, and as I’ve roped in a buyer for the saloon, you can look for me shortly.

  Josh

  That certainly gave me something to chew on along with my dinner, until it was about time to go down to the Oriental Hotel and ask for Miss La Fonte. But before I could settle myself in the Oriental’s lobby to wait, Diamond Dick Powers came strolling down the staircase.

  “Hold on there, Bean!” Powers flipped back his expensive checkered coat to show me he was unarmed. “I know we haven’t had much use for each other in the past, what with all our run-ins, but I’m through with pistol fights. The odds are too tough.” He stood at the bottom of the steps, watching me. “I grant you that little hazing at the calabozo sort of got out of hand, but, after all, you wound up with my favorite horse. So I’d say we just about stand even.”

  The man’s brass dumbfounded me, and I just stared at him.

  “I’ve been up to see Miss Dulcima . . . on business. She’ll be down right shortly.” He lifted his sombrero, turned on his heel, and went out.

  While I was trying to decide what to do about that slippery thimblerigger, Dulcima herself came down the stairs. She was turned out in a dark blue gown, with a wine-red waterproof over her shoulders, and a chipper little black straw bonnet on her golden curls, looking every bit the young lady of quality.

  “Roy! There you are.” She handed me the day’s copy of the Alta California. “Now just see what they’re saying about our show . . . and me!”

  Standing there in the lobby, watched with envy by all the lobby loungers, with Dulcima holding onto my arm, I glanced over the article:

  Lorette La Fonte has proven to be a very comet of dynamic talent; and we plan to watch her course with the same emotions that we would follow the brilliant movements of a shooting star, flying through space, alone, reckless, and still undestined!

  “Well, they seem to think you’re a regular theatrical comet,” I said, folding up the paper, and turning with her to the door.

  “Oh, isn’t it just wonderful? You know, they hardly said a thing about the play itself, not that young Juney Booth isn’t a dream, but now I think that Colonel McGuire, and. others were right in wanting me to kick over the traces and come into the theater on my own.”

  “Others, like Powers? I guess that reporter hasn’t guessed that you’re not quite as unguided as he thinks.” I didn’t feel it was the place to mention what Aunt Rosita would have to say.

  By now we were outside in the watery half light of a gloomy day, watching the busy street traffic of drays, hacks, and dodging humans.

  “Oh no, it’s mainly the colonel. He could see Caroline Chapman isn’t up to holding onto her audiences any more, even in a brand-new play from back East. And that’s why he wanted me in the company. to liven up the shows.” She pulled the waterproof over her slim shoulders and turned toward an oncoming group of people. “There comes old lady Chapman now,” and she pointed out a tall, dark-haired woman approaching. “We’ve another rehearsal this afternoon, but say you’ll come back tonight.” She stepped close and lowered her voice: “And if you want to . . . talk, when we’ve time of our own, leave a key for me at your desk, and I’ll come visiting, sometime after midnight.”

  All I could do was to keep my jaw clamped and nod my head, then the black-eyed, well-rouged Miss Chapman was upon us. There were introductions and the two were soon on their way down Kearny toward Washington and the theater.

  Looking after them, I noticed that before they reached the next corner and were lost in the swirl of traffic that a pair of gentlemen joined them. The shorter of the figures was one of the actors and the other, Diamond Dick.

  * * * * *

  That evening was a repeat of the performance of the night before. The Jenny Lind was positively jammed, with scores standing at the b
ack of the house, but I’d purchased my ticket early and was well down front where I could view the whole show. And Dulcima was just about the whole show as far as the audience was concerned. They gave each act of the play a sufficiency of applause, but kept the majority of its boisterous enthusiasm for Miss Lorette La Fonte.

  Never repeating a single number from her past performance, Dulcima romped through a dazzling series of minstrel songs, banjo numbers, breakdowns, jigs and reels, winding up with a tearful little ballad that threatened to bring a wave of sorrow throughout the audience, but ended her sparkling routine with a song that fetched a roar of laughter and waves of applause:

  I’ve been out to Califony,

  And haven’t found one dime!

  I’ve lost my bloomin’ health

  And a powerful lot of time!

  All I’ve left is spade and pick

  And if I felt quite brave,

  I’d surely use them there things

  To dig myself a grave!

  And each moment, as she was swirling around the stage, I sat there, positively glowing to think that before the night was done Dulcima could be mine.

  As soon as the show ended, I made tracks for the San Francisco House. Leaving a key for a “lady visitor,” I went up to my room and waited, and read the paper, and waited. At last it was past midnight, and still I waited.

  Finally, as I’d often done, when time crawled along, I put my mind to work on some problem. I got out Kirker’s gold piece and studied it over and over. By holding it at an exact angle to my lamp flame, I found that I could make some sort of sense out of those scratches on the coin.

  After looking long at the inscriptions, I took a stub of a pencil and the back of Josh’s letter, and sketched what seemed to be a crude Roman numeral. Turning the gold eagle over, I traced down the other marks, a sort of lop-sided circle balanced between the points of the letter M. Under the letter M were three tiny half circles, cut off at the middle and sitting on a line with the round parts facing upward. The middle circle, or hump, was marked with a tiny cross.