by Win Blevins
The officer marched to the bar, bought a bottle of a special brandy kept for certain customers, and took it back to Abby’s table. She poured for him generously, herself delicately.
They passed the time in animated talk, the language of the tongues meaningless, the language of the bodies sensual.
At last Sumner ambled in. He was turned out smartly. This was no slave certainly, but a free black and a man of means, even wearing a splendid ruby ring on one finger. He looked around the room, his eyes glowing with anticipation. They came to rest on Abby. He approached the table.
Sam couldn’t hear the words. The officer at first stiffened at the black man’s presence. Abby said something gaily—Sam caught the word “fun.” The officer’s back relented. Then Sumner stepped to the bar, and Abby leaned over to whisper in the officer’s ear. Though Sam couldn’t hear the words, he knew exactly what they were.
“Let’s have some sport with him. We’ll propose a game …”
Sumner didn’t seem to notice that the man and woman never bet the same side of the coin. If Abby put her peso on the table heads up, the officer slapped his down with tails showing. Whooping it up, Sumner tossed his and let it turn heads or tails by chance.
The rule was that the odd man out won. So if Abby said heads, the officer said tails, or vice versa, and it didn’t matter what Sumner said. Whichever one he matched, the other one swept the pot away.
A simple collusion. “No matter what the black man calls,” she’d told the officer, “we win.”
Sumner smiled at Abby too much, drank his brandy too fast, and generally had a very good time. He lost a peso on every flip, but he didn’t seem to mind, and his leather pouch bulged with coins.
Abby encouraged Sumner’s flirtation. She complimented him on the large ruby ring on his finger, and the gold ring in his ear. Sam heard her say, “Cedric”—that was the false name Sumner had chosen—“you are so …” So this and so that. Her eyes lingered on his muscular arms, and she held his glance a little too long. She laughed too loudly at his witticisms, whatever they were.
Occasionally she tossed a knowing smile at Officer.
Officer was trying not to gloat. Never had he been in on a simpler ruse, or a more effective one. Nothing more fun than encouraging a man to make a fool of himself and pay for the privilege.
Meadowlark whispered to Sam, “All because Sumner isn’t white.”
At last Abby protested. “Cedric,” she said loudly, as though to a child, “you’re having a terrible run of luck. Time to stop.”
“Ah’m havin’ fun,” said Sumner. Whenever he played dumb or drunk, his English deteriorated.
She gave him an appraising glance, shrugged, and smiled merrily. “Well, a few more flips then, to see if your luck changes.” She fished in the embroidered pouch that hung from her wrist and pulled out a silver coin dangling on a silver chain. She slipped it off and held it out. “Here, borrow this. My grandmother gave it to me for good luck. Use it to flip.”
Cedric grinned and rubbed the coin. “Luck, you my gal. Luck, you my lover.”
They each put a peso in the pot, then flipped, Cedric using the lucky coin.
Somehow he lost again. And again, and again, and again.
“That’s really enough,” said Abby. She looked at her timepiece, turned her face away from Sumner, and winked at Officer. “It’s past time for me to go.” She collected her lucky coin, spoke a few words of commiseration, and glided out.
Sticking to the plan, Officer stayed with Cedric. He did offer sympathy, unconvincingly. After one more drink, Officer excused himself and stepped into the night.
Abby was waiting, as promised, at a cantina around the corner. They laughed together and spoke gay words. Officer was getting confident of a kiss, and more. Carefully, they pooled their winnings and started counting the pesos out onto the table, one for the lady, one for the officer …
“What in hell!” came the booming voice.
Sumner stood over them. “Putting your heads together. You two done cheated me. You are flimflam artists.”
Suddenly a lady gun was in his hand.
Abby gasped and put a hand to her mouth. Officer blanched.
“There’s nothing crooked here,” said Abby. “We were just … attracted to each other and decided to share a drink afterward.”
“Exactly so,” protested Officer.
“And split the take,” said Sumner.
He pointed the barrel at the pile of pesos in the middle of the table. “Believe I’ll just take that pile myself,” growled Sumner.
“That would be robbery,” said Officer quickly. “Armed robbery. The local officials will have you flogged.”
Sumner hesitated. Then he nodded. “Black man don’t like no law.” He thought a little more. “Tell you what. You, missy, pick up that pile. We three will walk us back to the cantina.”
“What … ?”
“Let’s git,” Sumner said sharply, the pistol pointed at Officer’s chest.
They got.
Sam was hugely relieved to see them come in.
Sumner gave a huge, fake smile in the direction of their table. “Now look there. Them fellows, that Indian woman too, they saw us. We’ll done ask them.”
He put the pistol away, and Sam breathed easier. Meadowlark carefully kept her face straight.
Sumner told his story mostly to Grumble, ending with, “So what you think’s going on here?”
“I know exactly,” said Grumble. “It’s one of the oldest ruses in the world.” Then he explained to Sumner, a little slowly, just how it worked.
“I’ll be damn,” said the eggplant-colored man. “Whose idea was this?”
Abby said nothing.
“It was her idea,” said Officer. “She did it. I never had such a thought in my life.”
Sumner grinned at Abby. “That true, ma’am?” The “ma’am” rolled with fine irony.
“Certainly not. I know nothing of … chicanery.”
“Which of ’em you think done it?” Sumner asked Grumble.
The cherub shrugged his shoulders. “Makes no difference. Report them both to the law.”
“Surely that’s unnecessary,” said Officer.
“I can’t believe you’d do that,” said Abby.
It took a few minutes, but a deal was struck. In return for keeping all the money, Sumner would let them both go.
“That fair?” he asked Grumble.
The cherub nodded. “I think so.”
Sumner scooped up the entire pile.
“If you’ll excuse me then,” said Officer. “Gentlemen. Madam.”
The “madam” sounded edgy.
“I don’t think he want your company no more,” Sumner told Abby.
“Decidedly not,” said Officer, and left.
Five minutes later Sumner came back. “He’s in his lodgings,” the black man said.
They all started hooting. Fists pounded the table.
The bartender looked at them like they were crazy.
Grumble started dividing the money.
Flat Dog liked the roar of the waves. He got a kick out of how the water swooshed up the sand, paused to wet his bottom, and sucked back to the infinite sea.
Julia was stretched out next to him. He reached for her hand. She squeezed his but didn’t open her eyes. She’d said she just wanted to enjoy the sun on her body.
The swoosh tickled his parts again. He thought about what this funny thing the ocean was. Water swirling up and back. Waves crashing down. Amazing what forever-and-ever noise the ocean made. It shut out the rest of the world and invited you to …
He looked again at the horizon. He liked the place where the dark blue sea smeared into the light blue sky. For a small distance you couldn’t tell which was which. He knew people sailed out there—somehow they used the wind in their canvas sails and went wherever they wanted. They even sailed, according to Captain Smith, all the way to China, a place at least five thousand miles west. His home countr
y was about one thousand miles northeast. The idea of sailing—traveling by wind!—five thousand miles! There you would find people with yellow faces. What a hoot.
Julia screamed.
Something whacked Flat Dog in the head.
He tried to spin and get to his feet. Groggily, he pitched to the sand.
A Californio stood over him, holding a pistol like a club.
Julia screamed and screamed.
Plat Dog got to his hands and knees and peered.
Men were dragging Julia across the sand. Her skirt rode up and exposed too much thigh.
They dropped her at her father’s feet. He pulled her skirt down and said something abrupt in Spanish.
She barked loud words at him.
Flat Dog tried to get up.
A boot slammed him back down.
Rubio strode over to him, a whip in his hand. The Russian knout—Flat Dog saw the dried and hardened thongs of rawhide interwoven with wire. He remembered that the wire was sharpened so it would tear the flesh.
On hands and knees he charged Rubio.
Two men kicked him, and he felt ribs crack.
Julia was howling, but Rubio’s men held her away.
In utter silence the don inspected his knout, and thumbed the wire tips. The savage gleam in his eyes and the contemptuous curl of his lips spoke for him.
Two men held Flat Dog, one gripping his calves, the other standing on his hands.
Rubio raised the knout high and spoke a single word. “Indio!” With that cry he lashed the whip down.
Agony beyond imagination.
“Indio!” yelled the don, and the knout struck again.
Flat Dog’s mind sailed off somewhere, perhaps to China. Only his body was left to suffer.
Ten times the knout struck. Ten times the don shouted, “Indio!”
Much later, Flat Dog regained consciousness. The first thing he saw was that no one was with him on the beach except his horse. He didn’t call out for Julia. He knew.
He wiggled. Then he didn’t move again for a while. At great length and in great pain, he got to his hands and knees. He crawled and crawled until he came to the tipi flap. He struggled past it and collapsed. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would lie across his horse and ride toward the pueblo. Later, maybe, he would come back for the tipi.
Jedediah’s trip to San Diego confirmed his darkest prejudices about Mexicans. The governor was suspicious of him—“Why have you and your men invaded our country without passports?” Plainly, the governor suspected that these Americans were the vanguard of a host of Americans who would come and take this golden clime from the Mexicans. The Russians asserted their rights to some of it. The British coveted it. Surely the Americans, who shared the continent, would try to push their way in.
Jedediah explained patiently that he and his men were merely hunters. Finding themselves in a parched country, without enough food and water for the men, or water and grass for the horses, they were desperate. And their desperate solution was to cross what the Mexicans called the Mojave Desert to San Gabriel Mission, hoping to rest men and horses. There they hoped to trade for more horses, and be on their way again.
Several captains of American ships vouched for the truth of what Jedediah said.
The governor neither understood nor cared. Not knowing what “hunting beaver” could mean, he called them “fishermen.” And he didn’t want to take responsibility for dealing with interlopers. “You will have to go to Mexico City,” he said. “There they will decide what to do with you.”
Jedediah was perfectly aware that in San Diego he was half guest, half prisoner. But he refused to go to Mexico City. If he did, he might spend years in a Mexican jail. He confided to his journal that it was also an impertinence to demand that he make the journey at his own expense.
So the governor, always a politician, made a ruling. “You will have to wait until I send a letter to Mexico City and get an answer back.”
Jedediah argued. “Don’t you see, the delay will be ruinous. Think what I’ll have to pay my men in wages while they do nothing. Think of my losses in beaver that doesn’t get trapped.”
Finally, influenced by those reputable ship captains, the governor granted Jedediah passports, on one strict condition—that he gather his men from San Gabriel and leave the country the way he came.
Sam was talking to Jedediah in the captain’s room, which was a lot nicer than anyone else’s room, when he heard a soft tap and a soft voice. “Sam.”
He opened the door.
Meadowlark stood crying, head down, her shoulders shaking.
Sam held her.
Now she sobbed loudly, and her body quaked.
When she was ready, she led Sam and Jedediah to the room she and Sam shared. On their small bed the sheets were wild with blood. Then Sam saw that a head dented the pillow, and …
Meadowlark stopped them from pulling back the sheets hastily. Instead she peeled them off slowly. They were not stuck hard to the cloth shirt beneath. The first cloth shirt Flat Dog had ever owned was in tatters.
The back beneath it was a mass of red welts and deep slashes.
Sam looked at Jedediah, anger in his eyes, and said, “They flogged Flat Dog, the bastards.”
Sam guessed who, and with what.
Father Sanchez came with a translator and a Mexican woman who had skill at healing, a curandera. She spent a long time cleaning Flat Dog’s back and then gently rubbing salves onto the open wounds.
Flat Dog made no sound, no movement. Meadowlark held his hand and from time to time wept. Sam, Jedediah, Father Sanchez, and the translator watched gravely.
Sam told the captain the story, how Flat Dog and Julia Rubio were wildly attracted to each other, how Julia finagled an invitation to the rancho for all of them. How she and Flat Dog slipped away, came to Topanga Beach, and asked to use the tipi.
Jedediah gave Sam a stern look, though Father Sanchez did not.
“Looks like it was a bad idea,” the captain told Sam.
“Rubio is a harsh man,” the friar put in. “He has no respect for any authority but his own.”
“He’s also a bastard,” growled Sam.
“I have seen this coming. His family rebels, especially this youngest girl. The harsher his rules, the more headstrong she gets.”
“What makes me furious,” said Sam, “is that Rubio thinks he’s superior. He whipped Flat Dog like a slave, not a man.”
Father Sanchez said softly, “I doubt that the don respects your American idea of equality.”
The curandera gave Meadowlark what was left of the salve. She said some words, and the translator said, “Put this on his wounds again tomorrow morning. In a few days his back will be much better. I think a rib or two is broken. That will bother him longer.”
Coy curled up beneath the bed and stayed until Flat Dog was on his feet again.
Sam and Meadowlark spent the days trying to get the story out of Flat Dog, but he wouldn’t talk about it. They wondered what had happened to Julia, but at their questions Flat Dog just shook his head no.
On the fourth day he started moving decently and the spark in his eyes hinted at returning. Which was good, because tomorrow was the night of the celebration.
Eleven
Fandango
Fandango: The Mexicans turned the Pueblo of the Angels into a party. The beaver men didn’t know what the occasion was and didn’t care. Any excuse to dance, sing, holler, carouse, and romance the ladies was plenty good enough for them.
The beaver men called the affair a fandango. Sumner said baile would be a better word for it, but fandango sounded a bigger party to the trappers.
La música was at la plaza. Everybody came—Mexicans of the pueblo; dons of the ranchos and their ladies, plus their grown sons and daughters, the men who worked the ranchos; the many Mexicans who lived at the mission, and plenty of mission Indios. The plaza was throbbing with people decked in their baile best and in a festive mood.
Gideon said,
“I will fiddle,” and pegged toward the orchestra with his case.
“How you think the French-Canadian melodies mix with the Mexican?” Sumner asked Sam.
Sam smiled and shrugged. Tonight he was downhearted. Gideon had decided to stay at the pueblo as an apprentice to Angel and then travel with his new master from mission to mission, learning silversmithing and goldsmithing. The master was in his twenties and Spanish. The apprentice was in his thirties and French-Canadian. But all that mattered was the art.
Sam had to admit that making beautiful objects in gold and silver seemed good for the bear man. For a French-Canadian on one leg it was a definite step up from hunting beaver and fighting Indians. Still, in a few days Sam would lose his traveling companion of four years, four long years of every kind of adventure, times shining and sour, up to heaven and down to hell and up to heaven again.
Sam thought often of the terrible night when he cut Gideon’s leg off at the knee. Sometimes he even dreamed about it. That night had changed Gideon’s life forever. Sam’s too. Now the man himself, his bright spirit, would be taken away.
Sam, Meadowlark, Flat Dog, Sumner, Grumble, Abby—as a group they made their way around the edge of the plaza, looking for a place to sit. But the cantinas were jam-packed, people raising their cups, crying out, waiters rushing here and there, all the hustle and bustle of a grand celebration.
Flat Dog was walking on tenterhooks, a man afraid that any step would bring pain. His back was a mass of scabs.
“I believe I will mingle with the crowd,” said Sumner, starting to slip away.
“Come back,” said Grumble. “You will not cut any purses. Tonight or any time.”
“I’m good at it, I …”
“Sumner! Are you my apprentice? It’s foolish to do things they flog you for, or put you in jail for.”
“Take the jail, to hell with the flogging,” said Flat Dog.
“The idea,” Grumble said firmly, “is to create ruses and illusions, not commit crimes.”
Sumner frowned and stayed with the group. He had declared himself free. Whenever Jedediah decided to leave, Sumner would make himself scarce and rendezvous later with Grumble and continue his education in the fine art of living by his wits.
