by V. J. Banis
“Let me go,” she said, struggling in his embrace.
“Sí, señor,” a voice said from the darkness behind him. “You will please let the señora go.”
The cowboy let her go so suddenly that she nearly fell. She took a step backward, gasping with relief, and turned toward her rescuer. He was a stranger to her, an elegantly dressed vaquero in richly embroidered trousers, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. At the moment he held a six-shooter in one hand, a lighted cigarette in the other.
“Mind your own business,” the man with Claire said.
For an answer the vaquero cocked the hammer of his revolver. The cowboy hesitated for a moment. Then, with an angry growl, he stepped away from Claire.
“Wasn’t doing no harm,” he muttered, starting back toward the fiesta.
Claire watched him on his way. When he was all but out of sight in the semidarkness, she turned her attention to the vaquero, who had not moved except to follow the cowboy’s progress with his eyes.
“I must thank you for your assistance,” she said.
“You are free to go now, señora,” he said, speaking in a thick accent. “He will not trouble you further, I think.”
“But who are you? And why did you come to my rescue just now?”
He returned the six-shooter carefully to his gun belt and dropped his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under the heel of a splendid leather boot.
“I am paid to see that no harm comes to you,” he said. “Please, señora. This is no place for a woman alone. It will make my work much easier if you return to the fiesta.”
“Paid...? But I don’t understand, why would anyone pay you to see...?”
He tilted his head back, revealing a brutally scarred face to the moonlight. “I am in the employ of Don Hernando,” he said. “Now, por favor....” He made an impatient gesture with his hand in the direction of the distant lights.
She went past him. When she had gone a few yards she looked back, thinking to find the vaquero following her, but he had vanished somewhere among the shadows. Yet when she had stood for several minutes contemplating this new turn of events, a discreet cough from somewhere not far distant reminded her that she would be safer elsewhere, and she once again resumed her walk.
She was both flattered and surprised to know that Don Hernando had made arrangements for her safety. She was, as he had pointed out, in need of protection, and he had seen to it discreetly. In more ways than she had realized, she was in his debt. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the cowboy who had just tried to assault her had been right. This raw land was no place for a woman alone. On her own she would remain the prey of every lustful, lonely man who was without a woman. She could find herself the victim of another Morton, or worse. As Don Hernando’s mistress, she would be both cared for and protected. It would be so easy.
And yet there was the humiliation she had just suffered. She would know the same fate in a hundred different, often subtle, ways. Even those who accepted her position—and she was sophisticated enough to know that there would be those who would toady to the province’s governor, regardless of their private opinions—would find ways of reminding her who and what she was. In London she had seen other powerful, rich men and their kept women ostensibly accepted, but in fact slighted and spurned at every opportunity. She herself had laughed with the others behind the women’s backs.
Was she now to join their ranks?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After several days of making inquiries, Claire rose early one morning and without rousing the servants saddled one of Don Hernando’s horses. She did not want to be followed on this occasion by Don Hernando’s vaquero, and instead of riding out by the gate she led the animal around the stable and walked him some distance from the house before mounting up and beginning to ride.
It was a ride of two, perhaps three hours, through the low mountains that ringed the village and toward the ocean. Lone Feather had given her a pretty good idea of the relative locations of the pueblo and the Indians’ village, and at any rate, once she had reached the water’s edge, she had only to follow it until she found the camp.
At last she spotted a familiar-looking cluster of hills, beyond which she was sure the village lay. A few miles beyond she saw the village itself.
Her excitement was short lived, however; even as she drew near she was conscious of the lack of activity and noise. Always the first thing one heard on approaching, sometimes long before the village could be seen, was the pounding of the acorns. This silence was eerie and unnerving.
The village was empty. The tipis of mud and leaves still stood in their random pattern. Even the temescal looked unchanged, except that no smoke rose from its central opening. She rode among the structures, calling the names of those she remembered, but no greetings came in return, no children came to gaze in wonder, no dogs barked at the horse’s hooves.
Dismounting, she wandered disconsolately through the empty camp and finally to the beach, where the waves pawed restlessly at the sand.
The Indians had gone, as Lone Feather had promised. She stared out over the water at the distant horizon. He had spoken of islands that lay offshore, just far enough to be invisible from the beach—invisible to the dangerous eyes of the white man, the mission fathers. Had they gone there? Or had the mission come for them again, taking everyone this time?
She thought of her child, Shining Star, whom she would never see again. Her daughter would grow to womanhood unknown to her. And Lone Feather had been kind to her. Was he gone now forever from her life?
At last, seeing that there was nothing in this place for her, she mounted again and began the ride back to the pueblo of Los Angeles.
As she rode she thought of what lay before her. Don Hernando would be leaving soon for Monterey, to assume his post as provincial governor. She would be friendless without him if she stayed.
But there was nothing to stay for. Since arriving at the pueblo she had questioned those Californios who had come from other areas. There was no word of Peter, nor of Camden Summers. If either of them had reached California, they had not come to the town of Los Angeles.
To Monterey, perhaps? Or to Yerba Buena, which she had been told lay still farther to the north?
Don Hernando himself, hearing her approach, came out to meet her as she rode up. “We were worried about you,” he said, helping her down from the horse. “My man said you had simply vanished. I didn’t know what to think.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “There were things I needed to do. Don Hernando, there’s something I want to say.”
“Yes?” He prompted her.
“I’ve made up my mind, I will come to Monterey with you, if you still desire it.”
He smiled, the leathery skin about his eyes crinkling into myriad tiny creases. “I would be delighted,” he said. “Delighted indeed.”
PART III
THE CALIFORNIOS
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Señora, your horse is ready.”
“Thank you, Redwing.” Claire stepped from the shade of her open doorway into the morning sunlight. Don Hernando was already mounted, waiting patiently for her. He turned to smile down at her as she came out.
“Sorry to be late,” she apologized, checking the girth herself although the Indian servant had already done so.
“I’m afraid there’s going to be more delay yet,” said the Don, now the provincial governor.
She followed his glance. Though his own impressive house was in the center of the town of Monterey, he had provided Claire with a rather simpler one on the outskirts at the end of the main street. Just now a cart was traveling the street in their direction, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
“Doña Magdalena,” Claire said with a grimace, recognizing the cart’s driver. “What do you suppose that old hen’s come to gossip about this time?”
“Nothing flattering to us, you can be certain of that,” Don Hernando replied.
They waited for the cart to pull up along
side them. Doña Magdalena, who thrived on keeping the small community’s gossip circulating, did not attempt to climb down, a task made difficult by the combination of excessive weight and voluminous petticoats. Instead she greeted them from the driver’s seat with a kittenish grin.
“Buenos días—I’ve picked a bad time to call, it appears.”
“We were just going for a ride,” Don Hernando replied.
“I’ve been wanting to explore those hills,” Claire added. “Of course, if I’d known you were coming—”
“Now, no need to trouble yourself over me,” Doña Magdalena said. She paused, and with an innocent lift of her eyebrows, asked of Don Hernando, “And how is your wife these days? We’ve hardly seen her since she arrived.”
“My wife, as I thought everyone knew, rarely leaves her room,” Don Hernando said. “Her health, you understand.”
“Indeed I do.” Doña Magdalena dropped her lashes discreetly, but only for a moment. “I suppose you’ve heard all about the new man over to the mission? Friar Hidalgo, I believe he calls himself.”
“Something of a firebrand, from what I’ve heard,” Don Hernando said.
“Fire and brimstone,” Doña Magdalena agreed. “He’s simply got no use for the lifestyle of us Californios. Wicked and indolent, he calls us. And of course it’s all too true.” She paused again, grinning slyly, and said to Claire, “He’s had a bit to say about you, but I suppose you’ve heard all about that.”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” Claire said.
“I think we should go now,” the Don suggested.
Ignoring that, Claire said, “Tell me, what has this Friar—Hidalgo, is that the name?—what has he said about me?”
“Well, I don’t want to carry tales,” Doña Magdalena said. She waited for someone to insist, but the other two regarded her in cool silence. Undeterred, she went on. “Mind, he hasn’t mentioned you by name, though he might not even know that. He’s just made mention several times of the new governor’s whore.”
“That will do,” Don Hernando snapped.
“I’m only repeating what people have told me,” Doña Magdalena protested innocently. “That’s why I drove out, if you want to know. I thought you’d be grateful to hear it from a friend.”
“As indeed we are,” Claire said, mounting with the ease of an experienced rider. “And we thank you for your trouble.”
“But I haven’t.... There’s more, you know,” Doña Magdalena cried, seeing that the two were reining their horses about, preparatory to riding off.
“I think we get the general drift,” Don Hernando said. “And now, if you will excuse us.” Without waiting for a reply, he rode off, Claire close at his side. Doña Magdalena, feeling cheated out of half the satisfaction she had anticipated, glowered after them until the dust from the horses’ hooves settled over the cart.
* * * * * * *
They rode out of town to the southwest, climbing the hill through pine woods. Don Hernando rode ahead, following a sandy track that seemed to lead them nowhere in particular. The sound of the sea followed them upward, not so much breaking the silence as haunting it.
She had fallen in love with the California capital from the first day of their arrival. The houses were the same whitewashed adobe that had been common in the pueblo of Los Angeles, though here many were green with moss, or hung with bougainvillea, evidence of the town’s greater age. The better houses had outside stairs that rose to second-story balconies and roofs of red tile.
It was the ocean that she loved most, though, reminding her of the Malibu. It was grander here, with rocky lagoons and the amethyst-tinted bay itself. The town was virtually built on the white sand of the beach.
Some days the wind blew down from the forests that were green splashes on the ochre-colored hills, and then the air was redolent of pine resin. More often it came in from the sea, with its almost magical tang that seemed to quicken the senses. Throngs of ducks and seagulls hovered, and troops of sandpipers ran to and fro after the retreating waves, crying in chorus.
One was never away from the sound of those waves. It roared in the rooms of her house as in a seashell.
It was an easy place with which to fall in love, an easy place in which to be happy. Certainly her life was far more comfortable than it had been for a long time, free of the sort of danger and hardship to which she had become all too accustomed.
She could not, however, forget Doña María. Since the day of the fiesta at the Ramiérez rancho, the señora’s condition had worsened steadily. Sharing their home in Los Angeles, Claire had been an unwilling eavesdropper to the quarrels between the Don and his wife.
From Los Angeles they had journeyed northward along El Camino Real, the so-called King’s road. Little more than a trail worn by the agents of the hide and tallow trade, it was at least well marked by the pale yellow of mustard plants. The plant’s seeds had been carried in the wool of the sheep driven by the Franciscans in their journeys to establish the missions.
Here too husband and wife had clashed. Doña María had threatened, pleaded, connived, and even asked for a divorce to get her husband to let her return to Spain, to no avail.
At length, having arrived in Monterey, the Doña had given up the fight. On their first day there she had withdrawn to her own room, from which she had scarcely emerged since.
Had Claire been able to disregard the needling of her conscience, this might have been a blessing. There was little question that it made her role as the governor’s mistress easier. Though many of the Californios might turn their noses up at her in private, Don Hernando had rightly predicted that they would not risk snubbing her openly. With Doña María living in nearly total seclusion, Claire functioned openly as the Don’s hostess and companion, performing most, if not all, of the wifely duties.
Still she was never totally forgetful of her place, nor of the woman living her drink-blurred life behind the closed doors of her bedroom.
Which was why Doña Magdalena’s remarks rankled so much. “Who is this friar Doña Magdalena mentioned?” she asked aloud.
“Friar Hidalgo?” Don Hernando grimaced. “Something of a fanatic, from what I’ve been told. I’ve heard of him since I’ve been in the province, though I’ve not yet met him. Spends his time wandering from mission to mission, scourging the locals.”
“Do you think he really said that about me?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s a natural for him. Oh, don’t look so unhappy, my dear. I doubt if he truly cares who you are or what you do. It’s me he’s after. Me and the entire government. They’ve got a great deal of the wealth of the province firmly in their hands—the best lands, the most cattle, the most servants. While we try to establish a handful of outposts such as Los Angeles, they’ve already got a string of them, running from south to north, already firmly established. The crown wants to share in their wealth. They want to keep what they’ve got. I represent the crown. So....” He shrugged.
“But the crown, with its vast resources....”
Don Hernando gave a coarse bark of a laugh. “Spain is bankrupt, its coffers empty, its notes worthless. They came here looking for treasure. All those legends of gold. Cities made of it, streets paved with it. They wanted that gold. They needed it.”
Claire, who had herself seen the gold of Lone Feather’s tribe, asked, “Have they never found it?”
“Not a scrap. The fools. While they’ve scrabbled for nonexistent gold, they’ve ignored the real treasures.”
“I don’t understand.”
They had ridden to the crest of a hill and suddenly before them lay a dazzling vista that stretched from wooded hills to the great white plain that was the beach, and beyond that the vast imponderable ocean.
“There,” Don Hernando said, gesturing with a free hand. “And there. And there. How long have you been here in California? Surely you’ve looked about you? Surely you’ve seen for yourself the great diversity? The soil is rich, far richer than the soil of Spain. Anythi
ng would grow in this soil. The climate has sun the year round, and gentle rains, and ocean breezes to keep it all pleasant, never too hot, never too cold. The forests. The streams, the oceans. The wildlife. The mountains, what might lie in their valleys, on their peaks? It’s California that’s the treasure, and they’ve ignored it while they prattled about their cities of gold. Someday California will be a colony to rival all of Spain, to surpass her even. But she’ll be someone else’s colony.”
“Do you think England has designs on California? So many of the local people talk that way, but I’d never even heard of California when I was in England,” Claire said.
“England?” Don Hernando gave a disdainful snort. “The English are like those birds that steal nests from others instead of building their own. They’re no good at starting from scratch.”
“But there’s scarcely anyone else here. An occasional Frenchman. Some Russians up north.”
“The Americans,” Don Hernando said.
“The Americans?” Claire repeated, astonished. “But they’re barely able to manage their own affairs, let alone deal with distant colonies. They’re like children.”
“Very rambunctious ones. A few years ago—well within the lifetimes of men living—that was a wilderness much as this. Look what they’ve done with it in no time at all. They’ve defeated the greatest military machine in the history of man. They’ve got their independence now. They’re feeling their muscles, looking around for new conquests. That’s a powerfully addictive drug, conquest. And California is here, at their back gate, so to speak.”
“But it’s not. It’s so very far. It’s impossible to journey from there to here.”
He smiled patiently at her. “You made the journey. And you’re but a woman.”
“I survived a journey in which two men perished, but that only means that I of all people know how arduous an undertaking it is.”
“It is always hardest for the first. A worn trail is easier to follow. But come, let us return. For the present, it is Spanish California that we must deal with, and the lazy, unproductive Californios living in their grand ranchos, self-satisfied, waited on hand and foot by Indian slaves. It will all go soon enough, swept away by winds of change.”
