the Californios (1974)

by L'amour, Louis

  It was a chopping, backward blow that landed solidly and staggered the Greek. He missed a step, and Sean turned quickly. Dazed, the Greek was almost as quick. Sean feinted, the Greek thrust wildly, and Sean hit him solidly on the chin with a right.

  The Greek's knees folded and Sean stepped in and kicked him on the chin. The knife went flying, and the Greek hit the dust and fell back.

  Sean walked calmly to him, jerked him half erect and hit him once in the solar plexus, hooking the punch with vicious force. Then dragging him by the scruff of the neck he took him to a saddled horse, obviously belonging to one of the invaders. "Take him, and get out."

  It was cool and quiet inside the adobe ranch house. Eileen Mulkerin paused in the living room and looked slowly around. Nothing had changed, this was her home. It was familiar, bare by some standards, but it was home and she loved every inch of it.

  "Did you have trouble, Michael?"

  "No. They didn't quite know what to do about me." He smiled. "There is an advantage in being of the Church, Senora. I just sat and they let me be after a few minutes of argument."

  He got to his feet. "I must go now. I have duties."

  "Of course, but will you tell everyone there is to be a fandango here, a week from Friday?"

  Michael glanced at her. His mother never surprised him anymore. "A fandango? Of course."

  When he had gone she turned to Mariana. "Come. You can help me."

  Sean Mulkerin walked outside, squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun on the hard-packed clay of the yard. Heat waves shimmered, and he glanced toward the corral, then the hills around.

  His mother's strategy was good, of course. Nobody would dream they did not have the money. She would spend a little of the gold, say nothing, and let them imagine how much she had. Wooston would probably demand immediate payment, but he would get little sympathy from the Californios who would now be sure she had the money and would permit him to take no action. Sean knew from past experience how they thought. They would simply say, "You know she has the money. When she is ready, she will pay. Do nothing."

  Sean Mulkerin climbed the low mountain near the ranch and looked toward the sea. The Lady Luck was anchored now in Paradise Cove. Tennison had shifted the schooner to have it closer in case of need.

  Sean checked his gun again. Despite his mother's reassurances, he was worried. Zeke Wooston was not like the men she had known, and he might not be susceptible to public pressure.

  They had lost him back in the hills but he would return and the men he had with him were not the kind to be easily turned from their purpose. They wanted the Malibu, and they would try by every means to get it.

  Montero was braiding a rawhide riata when he walked back down the footpath to the adobe.

  "We're going to need a couple of hands," he said quietly, "men we can trust."

  Montero nodded. "I have them. They are coming."

  "You've already sent for them?"

  "Before you returned I knew they would be needed. These are good men, tough men."

  "When will they be here?"

  "Today, tomorrow ... who knows? They are coming."

  The Senora would be riding to the pueblo, to Los Angeles. It was the thing to do now, to go in, to spend gold, to invite all to the fandango, the families of Sepulveda, Lugo, Verdugo, Abel Stearns ... all of them.

  In the meantime, life must go on, and Sean had to plan for the future of the ranch. Ground must be plowed, crops seeded. Many of the Californios were content to live as they always had, their cattle running wild upon thousands of acres, growing their few crops, existing in a pleasant sort of never-never land where all was peace and contentment and nobody had to struggle too much.

  That was the trouble with California in the 1840s. The life was too easy, there was no necessity for struggle, and men must struggle or they deteriorate.

  His thoughts returned to the gold. If they had come to that area for gold, then the gold must have been washed from the stream close to its point of origin, or dry-washed from the slides. The Senora had said there was no evidence of mining close by, although the cave itself showed some signs of work, very ancient work. Scowling he walked to the end of the porch and stood there, leaning against the pole at the corner.

  There was no other way. He must go back. He must find the place to which Juan had taken his mother, bury Juan's body, and look for the gold.

  In the meantime he must start things moving here in a more practical way. Men had spent their lives looking for lost mines or treasures and found nothing. He would not take that route. First he would set the wheels in motion.

  There were several thousand head of cattle on the Malibu. If he could round up all over six years old, get the hides and tallow, he would have a beginning. Besides, he had an idea of getting a bull from the Mormons at San Bernardino. He had seen their cattle, all bigger, fatter, and better than the cattle he had. With a bull or two he could breed his own herd, for while beef was a drug on the market now, it might not always be. In the meanwhile there was some seed left from their planting venture. They could try that

  He would ride up the coast and talk to the Chumash. They had rarely come to the ranch since his father died, but it was a contact that must not be lost. Through them he might establish connections with Indians from the interior who had furs to trade.

  There was no time to waste.

  "Jesus," he said, as Montero approached the porch, "let the word get around that we will trade for furs. I want to reach the mountain Indians."

  Montero said, "I think this is good."

  He paused. "Capitan, two men have come. They are not strangers to me although I have not seen them before."

  "What sort of men?"

  "Vaqueros, Capitan. They are good men with the horse, the cow, the riata." He paused again. "They are also good men for the fight."

  "Where do they come from?"

  "Sonora, Capitan. At least, that was the last place, but one of them was once in the army with your father."

  "I will see them."

  An hour later they rode up to the ranch. They came up the trail at full gallop, pulled up before the ranch house, and swung down. Both were obviously magnificent horsemen. The older man, whom Sean immediately knew must be the one who had served with his father, was broad and thick, but with muscle, not fat.

  "Cabeza Del Campo," he said, introducing himself, a sly glint in his eye. "I was a sergeant with your father, Senor. Four years I rode with him, from the time I was sixteen until I was twenty."

  "Since then?"

  His eyes twinkled. "I have lived, Senor."

  Sean turned his attention to the younger man, scarcely more than a boy. He was lean and hard, showing more Indian than Spanish.

  "Antonio Polanco, Senor. I would serve you."

  "It is hard work here," Sean told them, "and there may be fighting. Loyalty is of first importance. When you no longer wish to work here, come to me and speak. You can go then."

  "It is understood."

  "Our enemies outnumber us. They are shrewd and intelligent. We want no violence, but if you are attacked or the people here or the place are endangered, fight. If you fight, win. If the odds are too great get out gracefully if you can. There is always another day."

  "Si Senor. It is understood."

  He glanced from one to the other. "My mother is in command here. After her there is me, and after me, Jesus Montero. It is understood?"

  "It is."

  Sean looked at them again, then turned to Montero. "Do not look for other men. I think these two will be enough."

  Del Campo glanced at Polanco. "Did you hear that, amigo?" he spoke softly. "He says we are enough. So it must be."

  In the rough country east of Pine Mountain, Zeke Wooston and his group twice lost their way. Disgruntled and irritated they finally made camp only a few miles from their starting point.

  "You was supposed to be a tracker," Wooston said irritably to Silva.

  "A tracker, Senor, but no
t a man who knows this country. You wished to go back by a shorter way, it is a way that is strange to me. In the morning--"

  "In the morning I will lead us out," Wooston declared. "Where's King-Pin?"

  Silva shrugged. None of the others knew either. "Francisco is with him," somebody said. "They turned into a wrong canyon, perhaps."

  Wooston was not pleased. He wanted his men together. No telling what they might ran into. The long trek through the mountains and their failure to follow the widow and her son had angered him. There was too much delay. He had cargoes coming in within the week and he wanted no trouble with anyone when they landed on the coast. He had already advised them that the Malibu would be his, that they could come in safely at that point

  Suddenly a fierce anger rose within him. He was a man who could not abide frustration, and this damned Irish woman and her cub had--

  "Beltran!"

  Beltran was a man he had watched closely. Although Beltran did not know it, Wooston had checked his background enough to know he was a murderer, had been a bandit, and was wanted by the law at a dozen places in Mexico. He was an excellent shot, good with any weapon, and a fine horseman. He rode with Velasco, and they made a nasty team.

  "Senor?"

  Wooston looked into Beltran's black eyes and felt a slight chill. The man was as deadly as a rattler. "Take Velasco," he drew two gold eagles from his pocket, "and kill Senora Mulkerin and her son, the captain. Do you understand?"

  Beltran shrugged. He fingered the two coins in his hand. "What is this?" he asked softly. "This gold? It is not enough, Senor."

  "You will get more when it is done. There will be four more pieces of gold for each if it is done within the week, and if you are caught, it was a robbery you attempted ... nothing more."

  "Si."

  Beltran walked to Velasco. He handed him a gold piece, then explained. "Good! We will do it ... but carefully, amigo. Very carefully."

  "It is not a good thing," Velasco said, "to kill a beautiful woman. Perhaps it would be better if--"

  "He said kill. It is what we will do, Velasco. We will only kill ... very quickly. Then we will rob them and there is San Francisco."

  "Of course," Velasco said carelessly, but he was thinking his own thoughts.

  Chapter 14

  In the pueblo of Los Angeles the houses were of adobe, their almost flat roofs plastered with asphalt from the tar pits at Rancho La Brea. There were many trails into the town, most of them old Indian trails that had been found useful.

  There was a guardhouse in the town, and a church, a few trading posts and stores, here and there a cantina. A scattering of homes lay along the various roads and streets, and the population was about fourteen hundred, depending on the season or the time of day.

  The trail from Malibu to the pueblo lay along the shore for a few miles, then joined with the old Indian trail from the coast, to the tar pits, to the town, usually called El Camino Viejo ... the old road.

  Eileen Mulkerin rode into the dusty street on a black gelding, a high-stepping horse with his neck arched and a fine sense of pride.

  She rode with style, a style the Irish have carried with them to many far lands. She rode sidesaddle, her flaring skirt draped effectively, and to see her no man would have dreamed that she had two tall sons, or that the man who rode beside her was one of them.

  They turned into the street, her black horse prancing a little and stopped before the door of a trading post.

  Sean swung down and offered his hand to his mother, and she stepped down like a princess. The two vaqueros tilted their sombreros and looked about with the confidence of men who know their strength and for whom they ride.

  Eileen swept through the door Sean held aside for her and entered the post. She glanced around, smiled at the storekeeper who almost dropped his broom and hastily straightened the leather apron he wore.

  "Yes, Senora?"

  She placed her order before him. "I will pay," she said quietly, "in gold."

  He looked up quickly. There was little coin in California, and less gold. Men paid in hides, tallow, furs, or in whatever they might have to trade.

  "Gold?" The merchant was startled.

  "In gold," she repeated, dropping the remark carelessly while looking at some fabric on the counter.

  She ordered quickly, moving from one counter to the next, wasting no time. She ordered food, wine, dress material, several imported delicacies rarely found in California, and then she paid for it with small nuggets.

  "We are entertaining," she said then, "a small fandango. Will you tell our friends? I shall send riders ... but you know how it is, and someone might be missed."

  "Of course, Senora." He swallowed with some difficulty as he gathered the nuggets and weighed them. "I have not seen so much gold since ... since ..."

  "My husband was here?" she shrugged a lovely shoulder. "It is difficult ... the gold, I mean. One does not have it close by, and it is rather a bother.

  "I must have more mules," she added, "for the next time."

  "Yes, yes of course." There was respect in the merchant's eyes. "Perhaps Don Abel Steams, or Senor Wolfskill will have mules to sell ... or loan."

  "Oh, yes, they might have." Eileen Mulkerin gathered her skirts. "Will you have this ready? Our cart will be here soon to pick it up."

  "Of course! Of course!"

  They would all be there, of course, and there were forty or fifty foreigners in the vicinity now. William Wolfskill had been a trapper, now he owned a vast ranch and was growing oranges to ship. Don Benito Wilson, Hugo Reid, Don Juan Temple, William Workman, John Rowland, had also come west and most of them had married daughters of old California families.

  Eileen Mulkerin left the store, pausing briefly on the walk outside. Her eyes swept the dusty street. It was a far cry from Dublin or Cork, far different from London and Paris, yet she loved the old adobes where the whitewash was peeling from the bricks, the dogs lay comfortably in the dust, wagging lazy tails at the occasional passing rider.

  Three riders came down the street, handsome boys scarcely into their teens, yet already magnificent horsemen. All three were richly dressed, and they bowed to her with decorum and a certain flair that was all their own. Two of them were Sepulvedas, and the third was Antonio Yorba.

  She knew she could expect them at the fandango, for they never missed anything of the sort, and people of all ages came, for there were no parties for the young, the middle-aged, or the old. All gathered together, falling into their various groups at times, and mixing at other times.

  The Californios were great dancers and they possessed a manner and style like nothing she had seen, even in France or Spain.

  "Senora! It is good to see you!"

  She turned quickly. Pio Pico was a somewhat portly man, shrewd and kindly, always active in local affairs.

  "I have been shopping, Senor. You will come to our fandango?"

  "This is the first I had heard. A fandango is it? But of course!"

  Even Pio might be fooled by the gold, but he would wish to be fooled, for he had been a friend of Jaime's, and was a friend of hers.

  "You have had trouble, Senora?"

  "Senor Wooston has a small debt. He wishes to take the ranch! It is absurd, is it not? I shall pay him, of course, but the gold takes time, and at this season there is much to do. It is not," she added glibly, "as if we did not have it. Jaime always found enough to handle such affairs, but Sean has been away, and with Michael in the Church3/4"

  "I understand, Senora. Of course, you will not lose the ranch. Of course not." His eyes twinkled a little. "And what a time for a fandango! Beautiful, Senora! Simply beautiful!"

  There was no fooling Pio, of course. Her chin lifted a little and she smiled impudently. "I thought you would approve, Don Pio, and would you please pass the word to all our friends? There will be much to eat, wine to drink, and there will be dancing!"

  After a few minutes more, she watched him go up the street, pleased that she had scored
a point in her favor, for in Los Angeles the word of Pio Pico counted for a great deal and public pressure was something not even Zeke Wooston would dare to challenge. Her fandango would be popular with the pleasure-loving Californios, and the knowledge that she had money, even if not readily available, would make any move to force her from the ranch decidedly unpopular.

  Too many were in the same position. Cash was always in short supply and many of the wealthiest saw little actual money from one year to the next. Most of the Americans or Europeans who had come to California had married into local families, had become Mexican citizens, and adopted the ways of the community. Wooston had stood aside from all that and was not popular.

  Nor was his connection with Micheltorena popular. The governor had made enemies, and his refusal to curb the excesses of the army was making him more enemies. The casual, easy-going Californios could handle their own affairs, and on more than one occasion had banded together to pursue horse thieves or fight off attacks by bands of Indians from the desert.

  Sean left his mother talking to a woman on the street and walked to the corner. Despite the Senora's confidence, he was worried.

  Zeke Wooston was not a Californio and did not have the tolerant, somewhat casual attitude that was typical of them. Fernandez was a dangerous man, ready to take any advantage, as was Russell. Tomas Alexander? Well, Tomas would be more careful, and if possible, more dangerous.

  Sean's eyes searched the street. The pueblo was small, but there were many places where a man might keep out of sight. He glanced at Wooston's office, but there was no sign of movement, no activity. It could be possible they had not yet found their way from the mountains.

  He turned on his heel and strolled back the way he had come.

  His mother turned to him, and he was again struck by her great beauty. If there was gray in her hair it was not visible, and if there were lines on her face he could not see them. "Come, Sean. We will go back. I wish to stop along the way."

  The air was clear, the sky blue. He looked again to the hills where no clouds gathered. The Santa Monicas curved around, and in the distance he could see other mountains lifting their raw backs against the sky.