A Westward Love

by V. J. Banis

  He reined his horse about, but he paused to look eastward. “But mark my words, the winds will blow from that direction,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Though Claire found it difficult to agree with much of what Don Hernando had said of California and its future, it was certainly true that the life of the Californios was a lazy, indolent one. The gente de razón, or people of reason as they liked to style themselves, claimed to be aristocrats, but theirs was an aristocracy quite unlike what she had known in England. For one thing, in England the purity of one’s bloodline was an issue. Most of these people were unashamed to admit that theirs was mixed blood—some Spanish, some Negro, some Indian.

  For another, the California aristocrats defied most of the rules by which the upper classes of other countries such as England defined themselves. An Englishman’s place in society could be ruined by the knowledge that he had broken the law. The Californios blithely ignored laws and trade regulations, and dealt freely with any foreign vessel or traveler that happened their way. How else, they argued, were they to obtain the simple necessities of life, which the Spanish government, regulations notwithstanding, was unable to provide?

  Even their manners, which could be painfully elaborate, bowed to the necessities of the moment. Though a young maiden was not permitted to enjoy a gentleman’s company without the presence of a duenna, or chaperone, it was not at all unusual to see the same ladies pause in their progress along the streets to relieve themselves when the occasion demanded.

  Still it was an easy and gracious life, wedded to the horse of necessity. The Californios were proud people of almost innocent arrogance, even the men displaying an astonishing physical grace. Their hospitality was enormous, and if they thrived on gossip, as people will who are cut off from the mainstream of events, they were at least egalitarian in that practice, pricking big and little alike with their barbs, and as quickly forgiving those who gossiped about them. Though actual cash may have been in short supply, those things necessary for life’s enjoyment were not. The result was that amusement had become the real purpose of existence.

  It almost seemed at times as if every day was a holiday of some sort. Every Sunday was a fiesta, and feast days, weddings, and birthdays provided almost endless excuses for merrymaking. With virtually no industry but illegal trade, and with an army of Indians to attend to manual labor, with a climate that occasioned no hardships, and the bounty of ocean and earth at their fingertips, the Californios were able to devote themselves almost exclusively to the pursuit of pleasure.

  That pursuit sometimes took what Claire regarded as barbaric routes. The Californios engaged in a number of activities that Claire felt certain would have been banned in most civilized countries.

  For one, there was the bull tying. For this, a mounted vaquero took a position at either side of a gate in a stone corral near the plaza. A bull was driven from the enclosure, and when he had run a short distance along the street, the vaqueros galloped after him. The first one to reach the bull would seize his tail, turning it around the pommel of the saddle. In this manner, by guiding his horse a little to the side, the vaquero could throw the bull completely off his feet. In an instant the vaquero leaped to the ground and with a piece of rope, tied the bull’s legs together. The vaqueros were so skilled at this sport that the contest went as a rule to the one with the fastest horse, who could reach the bull first.

  Yet another pastime was the so-called cock race. A rooster was buried in the ground, with only his head showing, and the head was covered with grease. The vaqueros, perhaps half a dozen of them, would race toward the unfortunate creature, each man bending low from his saddle. The winner was the one who succeeded in pulling up the bird by the head, which sometimes separated from the body.

  To Claire’s mind, the cruelest of all these events was the fight between bear and bull. When she first heard that one of these was to be staged, an occasion for considerable excitement among the Californios of Monterey, she declined to attend. However, when Don Hernando took offense at her condemning something she had never even seen, she’d reluctantly agreed to accompany him to the event.

  “It’s not much different, after all, from a bull fight,” he assured her.

  Claire, who had never seen a bull fight, found little comfort in the comparison. As there was no arena as such, the fight was to be staged in the same corral used for the bull tying events. Don Hernando and the town’s leading citizens watched from the porch of the adobe hotel. The others found places where they could, on porches, roofs, and even fence tops.

  A cheer went up from the crowd when a huge grizzly was dragged into view by three vaqueros on horseback.

  “A fine specimen,” was Don Hernando’s verdict. Claire could not help a shudder as she saw the beast’s mammoth paws and long, menacing teeth.

  From one of the ranchos came a huge and powerful looking bull, his head set low on thick and powerful shoulders. The bull pawed the earth, straining against the ropes that held him.

  Finding themselves in the same pen, the two beasts might have avoided one another, but the vaqueros, anticipating this, fastened them together by a long chain before freeing them from the restraining ropes. The chain, fastened about the leg of each, meant that the animals must soon interfere with one another’s movements, assuring that a fight would ensue.

  Another cheer went up as the bull began the fight by charging the roaring grizzly. For a moment the two combatants vanished in a cloud of dust.

  The grizzly evaded the initial charge, but the chain held him to the bull. The grizzly’s efforts to escape brought the bull to his knees, bellowing loudly.

  On his feet again, the bull charged once more. This time, seeing escape was impossible, the grizzly met the charge with a great blow of his paw, which was not enough to stop his enemy’s advance.

  Bull and bear went to the ground together, rolling over and over in the dust. The spectators called out to one or the other of the animals, cheering them on.

  “The bear’s got the best of it now,” Don Hernando said. “On his feet, the bull’s a menace, but he’s not built for wrestling in the dirt like this.”

  Claire, holding a lace handkerchief to her nose to prevent sneezing on the rising dust, watched the battle with morbid fascination.

  As Don Hernando had said, the advantage had now gone to the grizzly. Despite his sheer bulk and the fact that he was badly gored, he twisted and writhed about with the agility of a cat. In a moment he was on his hind legs, and had managed to get his teeth into the bull’s neck, forcing the hapless creature once again to his knees.

  The bull gave a bellow of pain and by sheer brute force managed to get to his feet, throwing the grizzly off, but the bull was so weakened and terrified that instead of continuing to fight, he struggled desperately to escape. In his efforts, he actually dragged the enraged grizzly for several feet before that animal was able to right himself, and leap upon the bull’s back, bringing him to the ground once again.

  The bull now kicked and thrashed in sheer panic, to the disappointment of the crowd. The small boys atop their fences shouted disparaging remarks, and some began to hurl stones and debris at the beasts.

  At last the bull, numb with terror, ceased to fight at all, though his sides could be seen heaving in and out with the effort of his breathing.

  With disgusted expressions and loud oaths, the vaqueros entered the corral and dispatched both beasts with their guns. It had been, judging from the reactions of the onlookers, a disappointing bout.

  Claire could not help a sickish feeling in her stomach as Don Hernando escorted her to his carriage. As he was handing her in, one of the rancheros spoke to him. Don Hernando stepped aside to talk with him for a moment.

  A minor commotion broke out nearby as someone pushed his way through the crowd toward the governor, and a voice called out, “Is this our noble governor?”

  Claire, still queasy from the spectacle she had just witnessed, sank back against the cushions, onl
y half-listening to the conversations outside.

  “I am Don Hernando,” she heard. “What can I do for you? And who are you, might I ask?”

  “Friar Hidalgo, at your service.”

  At once Claire sat forward, peering through the windows. The friar had managed to position himself so that his back was to her. Even so, he looked like some Biblical prophet, dressed in a toga-like robe fashioned of some animal skin. His hair was long and filthy, and a bushy beard moved as he talked. Like a prophet, too, he carried a long, rough-hewn staff.

  Don Hernando came toward the stranger. “Well, we’ve heard a great deal of you,” he said.

  “And I of you,” Friar Hidalgo replied, laughing coarsely. The voice, with its peculiarly accented Spanish, had a familiar ring to it. “And your whore, whom I’m told is beautiful. I only regret arriving too late to see her before she hid herself in your carriage.”

  “Sir,” Don Hernando said indignantly.

  “That’s all right,” Claire said, more curious than angry. “If the good friar wants to see me, I don’t mind.”

  She stepped down from the carriage without waiting for assistance. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, señor,” she said. “I have nothing to hide.”

  Friar Hidalgo turned slowly toward her. For a moment she did not recognize him. The elements, or perhaps some great trauma, had aged him incredibly, making him look ancient though he was but a year or two older than herself. The matted hair and beard concealed part of his face, too. Only the eyes, burning with a feverish intensity that had merely been hinted at before, told her who he was.

  “Claire,” he said, so softly that she barely heard her name.

  She tried to speak his, but no sound would issue from her throat. Shaking her head to and fro in disbelief, she took a faltering step toward him, then another.

  The shock was too great for her, however.

  The heat, the blinding sun, the squeamish stomach—all combined against her.

  She heard Don Hernando cry, as if from far away, “Catch her, someone!”

  The earth tilted and slipped beneath her feet, and the next moment she had succumbed to an enveloping darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  She woke in the familiar surroundings of her own bedroom. Two of the local women were bathing her forehead with cool, damp cloths.

  “In a moment, señora,” one of them said when she tried to sit up. Firm but gentle hands restrained her. “Rest now, por favor.”

  She sank gratefully into the pillows, glad for a moment to collect her scattered thoughts. She had a vivid memory of the stone corral, of a bear and a bull fighting viciously, the smell of blood sickening the air.

  One of the women went out. There was a commotion at the door; she could hear whispered voices arguing inaudibly.

  Suddenly she was aware of someone else in the room. She turned to watch him cross toward her. The shutters had been closed against the glaring sun so that the room was in shadow, but it was not hard to distinguish the animal-skin robe, or the immense beard.

  He paused by the side of the bed, familiar ice blue eyes staring down at her.

  “Peter,” she said, staring back. “It is you, then. I thought perhaps I’d only dreamed that.” She struggled to a sitting position. Both the women who had been with her had disappeared. She heard the bedroom door close softly, but she was too occupied with her long vanished husband to spare attention for anyone or anything else.

  “I wish I’d only dreamed this,” he said with a toss of his head that took in not only the room but the entire house as well. “If you only knew how often I’ve prayed for your safety, your well-being. Only to find you here, like this—the governor’s whore.”

  “Stop it.” She swung her feet to the floor and got up. He made no move to help her. His eyes followed her, accusing her.

  “I left you in Virginia.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly. You left me in Virginia,” she snapped. “Nothing to do but wait and worry. You stopped writing. I had no way of knowing what had happened, whether you were alive or dead.”

  “There’s no way to write from out there.” He made a gesture toward the great plains. “If you’d ever been there, you’d know.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ve been there too.”

  “You?” He stared, aghast. “What do you mean?”

  “I came looking for you,” she said. “I thought, I don’t know what I thought now. It’s all so long ago and far away. I felt that I’d driven you away, I was guilty. And I suppose, if I’m to be honest, I was bored too, and restless. Maybe I’d heard the same siren’s call you heard, only I didn’t recognize it.”

  She paused. There was a bottle of sherry on the table by the window. She went, silently offering him some, and pouring herself a glass when he declined with a shake of his head. He waited for her to go on.

  “I journeyed to St. Louis,” she said, the sherry helping to clear her head. “I found some men there, trappers, who told me they’d taken you west.”

  “Morton and that scummy sidekick of his,” Peter said with a disgusted grimace. “They’re swine. I hope you steered clear of them.”

  “I hired them to take me where you’d gone.”

  “I can’t believe you escaped Morton unstained,” he said. His eyes narrowed sharply. “Or, more likely, you didn’t, I suppose?”

  She sighed. “Whatever crimes they committed, they’ve paid for them,” she said.

  “They’re dead?”

  “Leblanc was scalped by the Pawnee,” she said. “Morton almost made it here. He died in a cave-in in the desert east of the pueblo of Los Angeles.”

  “East of—you and Morton crossed the plains, the mountains?”

  “There was another man with us, he drowned in a river. Morton and I managed to survive. After the desert we met up with some Indians. They brought me to the ocean. From there I made it to Los Angeles.”

  “It’s incredible. I can hardly believe your surviving out there,” he said. He came closer to her, his eyes glittering with what might almost have been sexual arousal. “That wilderness.”

  “You survived it too,” she said.

  “That’s different. But a woman.” He came still closer. The ice blue eyes looked her up and down. She felt other memories stirring within her, ugly, hateful memories. She thrust them aside.

  “How did you manage?” she asked.

  “The Indians,” he said.

  “They helped you?”

  He turned from her, seeming to force his eyes from the pale expanse of her bosom. “I prayed with them,” he said. “They saw that I was a holy man. I told them I was seeking a sort of paradise. In the desert, I....” He paused, looking for the first time embarrassed. “You know about Christ, and his ordeal in the wilderness. It was the same. I was alone, it must have been a month, maybe two. I had visions. He appeared to me.”

  Remembering the desert, the burning, merciless sun, she realized that he must have suffered hallucinations as she had. With his religious bent, his would undoubtedly have been of that nature.

  “You might have died,” she said.

  He had been gazing into the distance, but now he looked back at her. He was smiling, as if in the throes of some remembered ecstasy.

  “Maybe I did,” he said. “I thought I was going to, I remember fainting, and when I woke, he was there.”

  “You saw someone?”

  “Not exactly.” He frowned suddenly. His eyes darted to and fro, as if seeking something. “There were voices. Many voices, and then one voice.” He shook his head, passing a hand before his face as though a curtain hung in his way.

  “Some more Indians found me,” he said. “I lived with them. I don’t know, a long time. They said I performed miracles, I can’t remember. The voices, they were there all the time, no one else seemed to hear them, they told me things.”

  He stopped, silent for so long that she thought he had forgotten her and his story both. Finally he said, “They brought me to on
e of the missions, in San Diego. I don’t remember much. I was in a fever, they thought I was dead for sure. Suddenly the fever was gone. Since then I’ve traveled from mission to mission. I came here because—” Again he paused. When he looked at her, it was accusingly. “I came here because of you. When they spoke of you, they gave your name the Spanish pronunciation, Clara.”

  “But they must have said I was from the east, that I was searching for my husband. Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve asked about you. Surely you must have suspected it was I.”

  “Not in the least,” he said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Who would have dreamed you’d be here? When I’d remembered you, it was, I don’t know how to say it, it was like remembering someone I’d dreamed of a long time ago. I’d forgotten that you were flesh and blood. When I was in the desert, when the voices came to me—you won’t understand this—I cleansed myself of all that. Of you, and of the old fires that used to burn in me. They were consumed in a greater fire. I scarcely remembered you at all.”

  After a moment, to his surprise, she laughed. The sound annoyed him in some way he couldn’t define. “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “Us. Everything,” she said, still laughing. “You crossed a wilderness, an entire continent, looking for treasure. I crossed it looking for—I don’t know, absolution, I suppose. And here we are. You in animal skins, looking like Elijah, and I...?” She shrugged.

  “Seeking absolution? In a man’s bed? A married man’s bed? You find that amusing?”

  For a moment she looked at him as if seeing through him. “And yet,” she said, speaking slowly as if searching for words to express her thoughts, “and yet, we found what we were looking for, didn’t we? We found California.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The blue eyes blazed angrily.