"Water, please," Domingo croaked. "We have been here since dawn. I fear that Estanzio and Mariposa are very much hurt. They fought even when there was no hope."
"I'm goin' after a doc," said Van. "Estanzio and Mariposa need more help than we can give."
"Good idea," Gil said, "and have him bring a buck-board or wagon. We may have to send them back to town."
Carefully Gil cut the Indian riders loose from the sycamores to which they'd been bound and stretched them out on blankets. They looked as though they might have been unconscious since the beatings. Neither of them had spoken more than a dozen words to Rosa in her seven years with the outfit, but she thought of them as part of her family. She wept for them, even as she washed the dried blood from their battered faces. Of the three vaqueros, Juan Alamonte was the least battered about the mouth and more able to talk. It was he who told the story of their beating and the taking of the herd.
"Ten hombres," said Juan. "They ride in before first light. One of them whose name is Scanlon, he say they have bought the herd for a store in Coloma. He show us the bill of sale which has your name. Ayer tarde, Rosa tell us you are locked in the juzgado. We believe she would have told us if you sell the herd, so we do not believe these men. We say we will not give up the cows until we hear from you, but there are ten of them and but five of us, so we have not the chance. Mariposa and Estanzio, they fight with cuchillo. Some hombres cut bad."
That explained the savage beating of the Indian duo. They had been bound and made to pay for the hurt inflicted on the thieves. When Van returned, he brought with him Dr. Finch, who drove a buckboard. Finch was tall, thin, and three-quarters bald. He attended Mariposa and Estanzio first, for their condition was the most serious.
"For a certainty," said the doctor, "they have broken collarbones, and probably concussions. Some of their wounds need stitches, and they ought to have at least a week of bed rest."
"That's a problem," Gil said. "We have some hard ridin' ahead of us, and we need to leave them where they can get the care they need. But leave them among strangers, and they'll be like a pair of catamounts when they heal some."
"There's… ah, another problem," said Dr. Finch. "They're Indian, and Indians aren't well thought of in San Francisco."
"They're respected in Texas," Gil said grimly, "and this pair is mighty well thought of by my outfit. Now you make a place for 'em in a hospital, or wherever you have to, and see that they're treated like human beings."
"I can provide the beds and medical care," said the doctor, "but I can't promise nursing. San Francisco is short of women in general, nurses in particular, and all the men are looking for gold. You'll have to leave someone with them."
"I will stay with them," said Rosa. "They do not speak much English, and I do not wish them to be left among strangers."
"I'll feel a lot better about them if you do," Gil said. "I'm going to need every fighting man. We'll be gone maybe two weeks. Doctor. Do you need payment before we go?"
"No," said Dr. Finch. "You may settle with me when you return."
"Here," said Gil gruffly, and he handed Rosa five double eagles. "High as everything is around here, you'll need this, just to eat decent."
He turned away before she could speak, but he needn't have worried. Just having him speak kindly to her choked her up so that she couldn't have uttered a word. Quickly, Gil and Van carried Mariposa to the buckboard, while Ramon and Vicente brought Estanzio. Van helped Rosa up beside the doctor, and he flicked the reins, heading the horses for town. Gil looked around him. He had nine men, but only if his three badly beaten vaqueros could ride. They understood his dilemma.
"I hurt," said Domingo, "but my anger is greater than my hurt. Let us ride after the cows."
"Si," said Juan Alamonte and Manuel Chavez, in one voice.
"Bueno," said Gil. "Mount up, and let's show this bunch of pelados what Texans think of cattle rustlers."
The herd had been driven northeast, which would take them to the San Joaquin River, about thirty miles away. The rustlers could then follow the San Joaquin north another forty miles, until it forked into the Sacramento. Two days drive along the Sacramento should get them to the Coloma diggings, in the very heart of the goldfields.
"Accordin' to our map," said Van as they rode, "there'll be good water all the way, once they reach the San Joaquin. From where they took the herd, I'd say it's a little over a hundred miles to the goldfields. A seven-day drive."
"Not for this bunch of thieves," Gil said. "They've got maybe six or seven hours' start on us, but they're not used to trailin' Texas longhorns. They won't make ten miles today, and I don't see any water on our map between here and the San Joaquin. With ten riders, they'll have one hell of a day, and unless they find a spring, a dry camp tonight."
"They are well-armed," said Domingo.
"So are we," Gil said, "and I don't aim for us to catch up to them in daylight. We'll let them wrestle with the longhorns all day and all night, and then we'll make our play at first light tomorrow."
By early afternoon Gil and his riders were near enough to the herd to see and smell the dust of its passing.
"We'll back off until after dark," Gil said. "Better for us if they think there's no pursuit."
But there were other factors—dangerous elements of which Gil was unaware. Scanlon, the speculator to whom Donnegan had fraudulently sold the herd, had been on his way to Los Angeles. He and nine men had ridden to San Francisco for supplies, and in a saloon, the speculator had heard Donnegan asking for offers. Scanlon, seeing the windfall for what it was, had made Donnegan an offer, and it had been accepted. Scanlon had put aside his other plans and was taking the newly acquired herd back to his store at Coloma. When darkness caught up with them, their first hard day's drive had covered less than ten miles. Scanlon sent a rider ahead to the San Joaquin River, to fetch the dozen men he'd left there. At dawn the herd of Texas longhorns would take the trail with twenty-two riders…
* * *
July 13, 1850. Twenty miles west of the San Joaquin River
"Let's ride," said Gil an hour before first light. "If they're lookin' for pursuit, they'll expect it from the west, so we'll circle around and take them from the east."
They crossed a stream, evidence that the herd had reached water before dark. They smelled smoke, and they rode into the camp during breakfast, with their guns drawn. Three men went for their guns. Gil shot one, Van the second, and Juan Padillo the third.
"Which of you coyotes is Scanlon?" Gil demanded.
"I'm Scanlon," said a tall man in black hat, store-bought suit, and black polished boots. He wore a tied-down pistol on his right hip.
"These are my steers," said Gil, "and we've come for them."
"I paid eight thousand for them, and T have a bill of sale, so I consider them mine."
"You thieving bastard," Van shouted, "that's just two dollars a head!"
"Once I pay for something," said Scanlon, "it's mine, and when you gun down some of my men, you have to answer to me. Now three of you are going to hang. A miner's court will see to that."
"I reckon not," Gil said. "We've got the drop, and there's only seven of you. That's five short of a jury."
"The jury's behind you," said Scanlon with a smirk.
"Nobody move, an' nobody turn around," said a voice behind Gil and his men. "There's twelve of us. Drop them guns, or we'll drop you."
One false move and the Texans would die in a hail of lead.
"Drop your guns," Gil said as he released his own.
"Boys," Scanlon said, "I bought these steers, paid for them, and have a bill of sale. These hombres rode in, called me a thief, and killed three men. Now as I see it, we got no choice but to hold miner's court and try these killers before we hang 'em."
"They're all ridin' in the same pack," somebody shouted. "I say we hang the whole damn bunch!"
There were shouts of approval. The Texans were forced to mount their horses and ride ahead of their captors. Van looke
d at Gil, and Gil shook his head. A break was out of the question; they'd be blasted out of their saddles before they'd ridden twenty yards. Their captors had in mind a secluded place for the hangings. It was a box canyon, and toward the far end there were huge oaks with sturdy limbs.
"Ride to the trees and rein up," Scanlon ordered.
There was nothing else to do. The Texans waited beneath the oaks as Scanlon's men began knotting the nooses.
"This miner's court's in session," said Scanlon. "These gents knows what they're bein' accused of, and the jury knows what they're guilty of. Has the jury reached a verdict?"
"Hang the bastards," somebody shouted, and his comrades sided him with their own shouts of approval.
"Drop them ropes," said a voice from the canyon rim, "an' then yer irons. I'll kill the firs' man what even looks like he aims't' do otherwise."
Long John Coons stood on the canyon rim, a Colt rock steady in each hand, and he wasn't alone. Other men sided him, every one armed, and there were more on the opposite canyon rim.
"We're within the law," Scanlon bawled. "These bastards rode into my camp, shot three of my men—"
"They had cause," Long John said. "The tale's all over town, how you bought the herd, knowin' it was a crooked deal. You Tejanos, take up their irons an' cover them coyotes till we git down there."
When they rode into the canyon, Long John had twenty-five men with him.
"Long John," Juan Padillo shouted, "I kiss you, if you not so damn ugly."
"Now," said Long John, as he and his companions dismounted, "we're gonna have us a little talk. I rid into San Francisco, an' the firs' thing I see is Rosa in a buck-board with a gent that turns out't' be a doc. Estanzio an' Mariposa looks near daid, an' I begin't' fin' out what's took place. 'Fore Rosa's done talkin', these boys I got wi' me has gathered 'round. I reckon they got somethin''t' say about this Scanlon coyote."
"Damn right we have," said one of the men who had accompanied Long John. "We're from the diggings, and we don't aim to let Scanlon do what he's done b'fore. There was a herd come in from Oregon, and 'fore we knowed it was here, Scanlon and others like him had grabbed it. They robbed us, chargin' us seventy-five cents a pound for beef. It's wrong to take advantage of a man when he's hungry, bleedin' him dry, and that's what's been done to us. Right, boys?"
There was a thundering chorus of agreement from his companions.
"I reckoned I'd need some help," Long John said, "an' I made these boys a promise. I tol' 'em we wouldn't sell them steers't' nobody that was goin''t' resell 'em by the pound. I said we'd sell't' the miners, not't' the greedy coyotes like Scanlon."
"We ain't expectin' nothin' fer free," said one of the miners. "All we're lookin' fer is a fair price, so's it don't take all our dust just't' keep us fed."
"What's your idea of a fair price?" Gil asked.
"Four ounces of gold for a cow. That's sixty-four dollars."
"You got a deal," said Gil, "on two conditions. First, that you send somebody ahead and spread the word that we're comin', and second, that some of you will throw in with us for the rest of the drive. We're just a mite short-handed, and I don't trust Scanlon and his coyotes not to do a little back-shootin, given the chance. Every man ridin' the rest of the way with us gets a steer at the end of the drive."
When the shouting, cheering, and backslapping was over, Gil had a question for them.
"You gents know Mr. Scanlon, what he's done in the past, and what he's tried to do today. What do you reckon we ought to do with him?"
"We ought't' hang the greedy son," said a miner, "but that'd be too quick. Turn him an' his coyotes loose, an' we'll spread the word from one end of the diggings to the other about his thievery."
"I'll go along with that," Gil said, "on one condition. That we shoot this bunch on sight if they get within hollerin' distance of the herd."
When all the shouting was done, Gil turned to Scanlon.
"I reckon you heard," Gil said. "Send one man back to get the riders you left with the herd, and then the lot of you get the hell out of here."
"I won't forget this," Scanlon snarled. "You cost me eight thousand dollars!"
"Take it out of your profits on that seventy-five-cent beef sale." Gil said. "Now mount up and ride. Any of your men we find with the herd will leave here tied over their saddles."
Two of the miners rode out for the goldfields to spread the word, and Gil promised each of them a steer for their help.
"Those two, and the twenty-three ridin' with us," Van said, "that's twenty-five steers. At sixty-four dollars apiece, that's sixteen hundred dollars."
"If Long John hadn't brought these hombres, and showed up when he did, we'd be buzzard and coyote bait. Don't you think your Tejano hide's worth sixteen hundred dollars?"
Van grinned. "Ten seconds before Long John and his boys showed up, I'd have swapped the whole damn herd for a fast horse and a fifty-yard start."
* * *
July 20, 1850. In the diggings
Gil's final tally of the herd was 3850 steers. First they cut out the twenty-five steers he had promised the miners who had assisted them. The rest were sold, one or two at a time, to individual miners or groups of miners. One of the miners brought a scale to weigh the dust, and Gil was confronted with a problem none of them had considered. When they were done, there would be 956 pounds of gold dust, and they had no containers. Again the miners came to their aid, supplying old tobacco sacks, leather pouches, envelopes of letters from home, and a variety of other containers. They had the horse remuda, so they had packhorses, but no pack saddles or saddlebags. Gil went to one of the stores and paid $150 apiece for two tents, and from them fashioned ten huge double bags. A strap from each of the bags met under the horse's belly, and an equal amount of gold rode in each of the bags. Five months and six days after leaving Bandera Range, they rode away from the goldfieids, bound for San Francisco.
"We have $244,000 in gold," Van said. "Once we get to San Francisco, we'd better find a bank and convert it to something easier and less obvious to carry."
"I aim to," Gil said, "but it won't be the Bank of San Francisco Bay."
* * *
July 23, 1850. San Francisco
Gil and the riders found Rosa, Estanzio, and Mari-posa lodged in a six-bed hospital. Rosa had slept on one of the beds, while the Indian duo had preferred the floor, without even a pillow. They were as restless as a pair of caged cougars, and had remained there only because Rosa had managed to talk them into it. Once Gil had deposited the gold in the Miner's Bank of San Francisco, he allowed Mariposa and Estanzio to take the entire horse remuda back to the lake where the herd had been bedded down.
"I reckon we gon' be here a day er two, ain't we?" Long John asked. "I got me some business to 'tend to."
'"I think so," Gil said. "Do you need some money?"
"Not fer a while," said the Cajun. "The cap'n at Fort Yuma got word't' the law in San Diego, got me the reeward fer them outlaws, six thousand dollars worth."
Gil avoided the Palace Hotel, taking rooms for them all in the Mariner's Inn, a less elegant place, where they could see the Pacific Ocean. Exhausted after holding Mariposa and Estanzio at bay for two weeks, Rosa was in her room resting. She answered a knock on her door, and found Long John standing there. On his lean face there was a grin, and under his arm, a parcel that was wrapped in brown paper.
"I got somethin''t' show ye," he said.
Rosa stepped aside and he came in. He placed the package on the bed and untied the string. It was a granite slab, two inches thick and a foot square. In the very center was a perfect star, and within the star, a single word: Bo.
"It is beautiful," said Rosa. "He would be pleased to know that you have remembered him in this way.'"
"But fer you," Long John said, "I wouldn't of been here't' do this. I want you't' put it on his grave."
"I am not sure I will be returning to Texas."
"Van tole me 'bout that redheaded wh—woman," Long John said. "Don
't you reckon Gil's learnt his lesson? Ye cain't hold it agin a man ferever, jist 'cause he's made a fool of hisself."
"It is not that, Long John. Just because he no longer wants her does not mean he wants me, and if he is to become a lawyer, I do not want him."
Long John took the package from the bed and put on his hat, but he paused at the door.
"My mama's a conjurin' woman," he said, "an' she tells waht's goin''t' happen. I git a notion m'sef, some-times, an' this ye can be sure of. I aimed fer ye't' lay this slab on ol' Bo's grave at Fort Yuma, an' ye will."
Rosa closed the door and sat down on the bed. It was late afternoon, and the uncertainty was getting to her. Long John meant well, but he had no control over Gil Austin or his pride.
Long John had been out all day, so he didn't know whether Gil was in or not, but he knocked on the door. To his surprise, Gil was there.
"Got somethin''t' show ye," he said, stepping in without an invitation.
Long John placed his parcel on the bed and again opened it.
"It's nice, Long John," Gil said. His words had an air of finality, and sounded like an invitation to leave, but Long John didn't go.
"I aimed fer Rosa't' put this on Bo's grave," said the Cajun, "but she says she ain't goin' back wi' us f Texas."
"Oh, hell," Gil groaned, "I heard that all the way from El Paso, Does she want me to whine and beg?"
"I reckon she don't like bein' took fer granted," said Long John. "If she felt fer me like she does fer you, I'd whine an' beg, if that's what it took."
"How in hell do you know what she feels for me?" Gil demanded.
"I asked her," Long John lied.
The Cajun stood looking out the window into the twilight. Gil grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around until they were facing.
"You lanky, meddling bastard." Gil grinned. "Thanks."
Long John stood there until he heard a knocking on the door down the hall. Carefully, he rewrapped the granite marker, tied the string, and stepped out into the gathering darkness.
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