Going for the Gold 4
Sure as Shooting
They’ll always have Yosemite.
California, 1851. The Sierras are ruled by a band of marauding Indians, and Major Huntley Ashbury is determined to corral them. Huntley’s solitary existence as the biggest trader in the foothills is destroyed when he runs into Whitman Whitney, a half-breed physician with a talented knack for curing hysterical women—and men. Together they rein in the most savage barbarian of them all. Belle Pennington emerges from the forest with nothing left to lose but her Chinese book that tells stories of ribald encounters.
As Huntley and Whit clash impressing Belle with their skills, their Battalion ventures into the wild to discover the Indians' stronghold. Whit has only known the touch of men before, and his peculiar medical expertise astonishes and unites the three in their journey. But it is Belle’s restless spirit the men must conquer in the deep grassy valley of the Yosemite.
Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys
Length: 61,116 words
SURE AS SHOOTING
Going for the Gold 4
Karen Mercury
MENAGE AMOUR
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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SURE AS SHOOTING
Copyright © 2011 by Karen Mercury
E-book ISBN: 1-61926-039-5
First E-book Publication: October 2011
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
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DEDICATION
Dr. Dan for helping with guns and other shooting-related items.
And Jim Savage. E Clampus Vitus!
SURE AS SHOOTING
Going for the Gold 4
KAREN MERCURY
Copyright © 2011
Chapter One
There certainly never was before...and never will be again
thrown together under such peculiar and interesting circumstances, such a body of choice and pickled spirits.
—Theodore Hittell, History of California
October 1850
San Francisco
“All right, gentlemen! Step right up!”
It was difficult to get anyone’s attention in the grog shop that was packed with smelly men like sardines in a tin. Huntley Ashbury gestured at the three Indians who guarded what looked like a harmless barrel of tobacco. As they rolled it to the middle of the room, Huntley clambered onto a table, kicking whiskey cups and playing cards to the slimy floor. Several gamblers swore and made swipes for his legs, screaming like all possessed.
“You goddamned chowderhead!”
“Out, you bloody double-dealer!”
“Go shit in your hat and pull it down over your ears!”
These San Franciscan miners could do all the swearing for their army in Mexico and still have a surplus left over. They quieted when Huntley bellowed, “Come, boys, let’s all take a drink!”
Soon the barkeep was surrounded by a score of eager fellows waiting for their favorite drink. Brandy smashes and hot whiskey punches were passed out while they toasted their newfound compañero, Huntley Ashbury.
No one knew yet who he was here at the Plaza Hotel. Huntley would have to do something tomfool to get their attention—and to impress the soaked brain of José Juarez, the Digger Indian chief he had brought here. They were termed Diggers since they tended to dig for roots. Juarez looked on expressionless, drinking whiskey straight from his bottle as though it were water.
After his fellow Californians cheered, Huntley raised his own cup and shouted, “Here’s all the hair off your head! And now, boys. See this barrel that I have transported from my empire in the Sierra foothills? Well, it doesn’t contain tobacco—no sirree, boys, it contains nothing but gold dust and nuggets straight from the mines. Gold dust in exactly one-fourth the weight of my own body. Forty-five pounds of the finest color ever taken from the icy streams of the Sierra!”
As expected, a collective gasp rose from the crowd that was now undivided in their fixation on Huntley Ashbury, the most prosperous trader in the San Joaquin Valley. He continued, “You manifest-destiny men appreciate a good game of chance—you’re not representatives from the shores of fogydom like those watery geezers from back east! Sure as shooting, I’m no romancer. I will bet that barrel of color against the first fellow at a hand of poker!”
Yes, Huntley and his group from Agua Fria were on one of the biggest sprees San Francisco had ever seen. A little bad brandy and a big purse made every miner vastly important and friendly. Huntley had come to San Francisco by stage to secure the storage of his gold dust, to purchase supplies for the Digger Indians that Huntley had until recently considered his friends and subjects, but mainly to impress upon José Juarez the futility of rising up against Californians.
For lately Juarez had been grumbling, and had said nothing against the Diggers who had sacked a couple of Huntley’s trading posts, and had been very troublesome to miners in general. A few of Huntley’s many squaws had informed him there were more murderous attacks in the making. Huntley’s object was to display to Juarez the grandness of the white man’s most splendid city—the vast harbor of many masts, the tall hotels, and t
he superiority of their numbers. But so far, Juarez had only invested heavily in his favorite beverage.
Huntley jumped from the table. Of course many San Franciscans wanted to view the contents of the barrel to ensure they weren’t being bamboozled into getting overly excited over five pounds of sawdust. Huntley waved a magnanimous arm, saying, “Step right up, boys!” The Indians lifted the lid of the barrel enough so that various faces could peer inside and satisfy themselves that Huntley was indeed telling the truth—and even if he had merely layered a couple inches of dust on top of dozens of sardine tins, it was good enough to induce many wagers. “Who will be first?” Huntley asked the crowd. “Let’s celebrate the entry of California into the Union in big style!”
Huntley leaned back on his bootheels and crossed his arms with satisfaction as the San Franciscans argued among themselves as to who would be the first to play a hand with him. So it was with complete surprise that he found a lit cigarrito being shoved in his face. Backing up, Huntley stepped squarely on the toes of another gambler, and his hand instinctively went for his hip holster.
He relaxed a bit when he discovered the smoker was only a corned José Juarez, clad in his mishmash of fashion—a beaver top hat above a shirt with a ruffled bosom, but below that, in a state of nature wearing only a rude breechcloth. Huntley tensed again when it became apparent Juarez was in a serious stew.
The chief yelled, “That gold is meant for our blankets and our whiskey! It’s not yours to gamble away, you double-dealing cheat!”
Huntley held up his hands. “Hey, hey. Calm down there, José. I don’t cheat at poker, murder men, or bribe. This here is my own gold fair and square. The gold for your blankets was deposited—”
José hauled back and took a wobbly swing at Huntley. Huntley dodged to one side so the blow glanced, only throwing José off balance and angering him even further. José twirled like an oiled fandango dancer, and when he shouted, “We’ve been sold! Sold and buffaloed by this murderous cheat!” well, that was about all Huntley could take from the chief. To be called out like that by a red man in a public place was one of the ultimate insults, so Huntley just wound up and walloped José.
Now men paid attention, especially when José went flailing back into a group of them, and they disgustedly tossed him back in Huntley’s direction. Huntley punched him again. It was like a circus game with a clown, punching him down only to have him bounce back up, and the San Franciscans were heartily amused.
But Huntley did not want to continue whaling on such a sorry excuse for a human, so he was not disappointed when a stranger stepped behind him and gripped him by both elbows. “Now, now,” said the stranger in a smooth, placid voice. “Get that Indian out of here, and we can continue our game.”
Still, Huntley did not like being pinioned like that, fair game for anyone who should take it into his mind to wallop him, so he squirmed while a stumbling José was dragged away by a few men. “Release me, you cussed son of a bitch!” he snarled. He was prepared to have to whack this worm too, so when the fellow relaxed his grip and Huntley spun around to face him, he was completely unprepared for what he saw.
He was stunned into silence by the beauty of the man’s face and physique. In a country where most of the devils one ran up against were beaten, worn-out blockheads of the first degree, weathered faces containing gnarled and broken teeth, limbs sticking out every which way, this fellow loomed three heads above everyone. His high-boned cheeks were so fine his face was as though carved from a solid piece of slate. His dark eyes flashed righteously under arched silky eyebrows, and a drooping, well-trimmed moustache marked him as an educated satyr. He was clad in a ready-made frock coat with a dandified silk cravat.
He was awfully muscular, too, and seemed reluctant to release Huntley. Huntley was no weak kitten himself—so tall, some said, that he couldn’t tell when his feet were cold—but he had a similar reluctance to extricate himself. Warmth emanated from this enigmatic stranger, and it was probably only the almost complete absence of women in California that made Huntley’s prick swell up with his crotch plastered to the man’s. That was all—just the unfamiliarity of being touched by a cultivated individual who spoke decent English. Still, there was something eerie in the way he locked his eyes onto Huntley—a vigorous chill shot up Huntley’s spine at the touch, and his nipples stiffened into painful points. It was awkward in the extreme, but Huntley didn’t want to walk away, so he said, “Who are you, and what business is this of yours?”
Still gripping Huntley by the forearms, the fellow said evenly, “I’m a medical doctor. Dr. Whitman Whitney. I’m sorry, but I can’t bear to stand by and watch someone break another’s nose. Even if it is ‘only’ an Indian.”
A doctor? An idea instantly popped into Huntley’s brain. They could use a doctor in Agua Fria. Shaking himself loose at last, he clapped the fellow on the shoulder and said, “Thanks. I’ll stand you to a drink.”
None of the San Franciscans had forgotten the barrel of ore, but Huntley wanted to talk to the doctor, so they took their whiskeys and found an isolated table, letting the Indians guard the barrel. Huntley couldn’t put his finger on it, but he wanted to know more about this exotic-looking physician who had taken him by storm.
Perhaps Dr. Whitney noted the sharp way Huntley looked at him, for his next comment was, “And if you’re wondering, yes, I’m part Cherokee. That doesn’t mean I randomly run around standing up for Indians. I assess the situation first, and that fellow was clearly three sheets to the wind.”
Huntley frowned. “Part Cherokee? You don’t look it. You could pass for white.” Not with those achingly high cheekbones and rich chestnut skin, Huntley thought.
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” There was an undertone of teasing.
“Why, how’d you—”
“Get a medical degree? I had to go to the University of Glasgow. They were the only school that would let me in.”
“Glasgow…” Huntley had a vague idea where that was, but he was obviously not as learned as Dr. Whitney.
The physician smiled, displaying even white teeth. “Scotland. So tell me…Where do you hail from? What brings you to standing inside the Plaza Hotel rolling a barrel full of gold dust around?”
Huntley hitched his chin in the direction of the street. “I was trying to impress upon my friend there, José Juarez, that the whites are unbeatable. Lately there’s been some trouble in the area of my estate in the foothills, and promises of more trouble to come. I brought him here to show him the whites are more numerous than wasps and ants, and if they’re aroused to anger, every Indian engaged in the war will be killed before the whites are satisfied.”
Dr. Whitney frowned. “War? What war?”
“I’ve received hints that the tribes are no longer content to trade the gold they find for clothing and cooking utensils—that it’s much easier for them to just steal what they want instead of laboring for it. All very true—it is easier to plunder, in a way—but a few of my friends have been killed lately by Diggers, good men who just happened to be in the way of free plunder. There’s a war coming, Doc.” Huntley felt free to call him by such an intimate name although they’d just met. “You mark my words. And I don’t think I’ve impressed any such thing on the brain of Chief Juarez, so I’ll be leaving in the morning to make sure my empire hasn’t crashed down around my ears.”
Dr. Whitney pointed at Huntley with his whiskey cup. “What is this empire? You’re a trader, right?”
Huntley smacked his lips with satisfaction. He enjoyed bragging. “Yes, the first trader in the Mariposa foothills! I’ve a monopoly over pretty much everything there, and five hundred Indians work my placer claims on the Tuolumne and Merced Rivers. I speak the dialect of pretty much every tribe and have many eager squaws.” But something is missing, Huntley thought rather sadly. “The company of a well-spoken physician would be very much appreciated. What’s your next move? Doctoring all these newly rich miners, no doubt.” He’d known for a long time
that a white man could live in the wilds, but only if such solitude was leavened with a good dose of civilization, which this alluring doctor could definitely bring. He’d had quite enough of smelly and grizzled yokels spitting their stream of tobacco juice on his floors.
The doctor seemed to be considering such an invitation. “I have a great interest in anthropology, and for obvious reasons am interested in tribes. I could learn quite a bit by taking a journey up to your land.”
“Then it’s decided!” Huntley said happily. “Plenty of my neighbors need doctoring, and I’m sure there will be much you can learn from the tribes.”
“And from you.” The doctor’s look was decidedly sultry, but Huntley had no idea why he’d be looking at him like that. His prick swelled again against his thigh with the joy of discovering something unknown. The doctor would lend a level of excitement unknown in the foothills, and it was definitely a pleasure just gazing at his exotic face. “Tell me. I’ve heard about this grand, immense valley, a secret valley, if you will, that’s been hidden from whites. An acquaintance was just telling me about it—it’s some stronghold of an Indian tribe.”
Huntley nodded. “The Ahwahnee Valley, the ‘Deep Grassy Valley.’ I’ve come close to it once while chasing some Indians who murdered a friend. There are supposed to be enormous waterfalls maybe five hundred feet tall and giant granite domes that have been worn smooth with time.”
“But you never saw it?”
“Nope. I came up to a high pass and was accosted by an old Indian compañero, Chief Tenaya. He warned me against going into the valley, that it was full of devils and evil beings, perfectly suited for an ambush. A terrible abyss guarded by a Rock chief who hurls boulders at white men.” Huntley chuckled. “I don’t hold stock in stories like that, of course—I was just running short on supplies, barefoot with poor animals, so I headed back.”
Sure as Shooting Page 1
