the Californios (1974)

by L'amour, Louis

  This was home, this sunny land along the sea with the mountains to shield it from the desert beyond. This was the place where he planned to live, out his years, and he wanted no other. Yet he could see the changes that were coming, although many of the Californios still lived in their dreams of a peaceful, quiet world secluded from all that lay outside.

  The coming of such men as Stearns, Wilson, Wolfskill, and the others should have been a warning of what lay ahead. These were hard but honest men, energetic and accustomed to competition and the drive to succeed, and their coming could not help but bring changes. It was these changes for which they must prepare.

  In a land where the sun shone nearly every day of the year, where cattle ran the hills in thousands, where anything grew almost without effort, it was too easy to sit back and relax. The trouble was that the men from eastern America and Europe who were now coming had lived in no such easy land and loved the struggle for existence.

  His mother had grasped that at once, as soon as she met the first of them. Each day saw them out and doing, and their Californio neighbors smiled at their energy as one smiles at an excited child.

  He remembered what the Senora had said, "Remember, Sean. These men are different. They have come and they like it here, and more will come. They will move fast, they will work hard, and in the end they will own it all."

  In New England and in northern Europe the seasons were short and the air brisk. One had little time to do what needed to be done. In California the seasons merged, dreamed one into the other, and what was not done today could be done tomorrow.

  Sean looked again along the street and eased his Paterson into a better position on his hip. He helped his mother to her saddle and handed her the reins.

  Del Campo and Polanco came from a cantina and swung to their saddles. A man came from the cantina behind them, and Del Campo turned his mount to face him. "There was something, Senor? You wished to speak?"

  "I speak when I wish. I do not now wish." He was a surly fellow with a knife scar over his right eye and what looked like an old powder burn on his right hand.

  Del Campo walked his horse slowly forward. "Do not forget me when you wish to speak," he said gently. "I shall be listening." He smiled, showing white, even teeth.

  The scarred man only stared at him, unsmiling. Del Campo wheeled his horse, stirring a cloud of dust, then he galloped after the Senora. Polanco had stayed off to one side, apparently unaware, but the man with the scarred face was not fooled.

  Fernandez came from the cantina behind him. "Who are they, Diego? I do not know them."

  "Nor I, but they are bad, amigo, ver' bad. I feel it. They are no strangers to the knife, not those."

  Fernandez walked back inside, spurs jingling. He walked to a back table where Zeke Wooston sat with Tomas. "It is talked about everywhere," he said. "The Senora has spent gold. She will give a fandango. She has bought much, ordered more, and paid in gold."

  Wooston swore. He swore slowly, bitterly, emphatically, giving the words an ugly twist "Gold! And we were that close!"

  "The fandango," Femandez said, "will bring them all to her house. You can do nothing, Senor."

  "I'll show them! By the Lord Harry, I'll3/4" He broke off suddenly. "Has King-Pin come in?"

  "No, Senor. Nor Francisco. I think they look for the gold, Senor."

  "Then they'd better come here with it! By God, I didn't hire them to go runnin' off when they're needed."

  Femandez shrugged. "Maybe they cannot come, Senor. Maybe they are dead ... or gone."

  "Gone?" Wooston stared at him. "Whats that mean?"

  "The Old One," Femandez said. "Follow him into the mountains and sometimes you come back, sometimes not."

  "Nonsense!"

  Femandez shrugged. "Perhaps, Senor. It is odd, I think that they never find them ... not even the bodies ... they find nothing."

  Chapter 15

  King-Pin Russell rode into a clearing and drew up, waiting for Francisco. He had become aware that despite his companion's seeming boldness, he was dropping back more and more, and it made Russell uneasy.

  He sat very still, listening.

  That was it ... the silence. Why couldn't there be some sound? What was it about these mountains? About this place?

  He turned in his saddle, looking all about. There were only mountains, only rocky, brush-covered or pine-clad hills. There were canyons or draws here and there that led to ... what?

  Nothing, probably. Just back to some spot where the water had started a cut into the rock. He wet his lips, considered, and after a bit lifted his canteen and unscrewed the cap for a short drink. He rinsed his mouth carefully, holding it there for a time, then swallowed. His eyes were busy.

  The gold must be up here. This was where they had come, and from somewhere up here they had turned back. If he could find the source of that gold ... to hell with Wooston and the rest of them. He'd take a bit of it, enough of it, and ride right out of here for the north. He could hole up somewhere around Monterey until he could get a ship. Then after awhile he'd come back for more gold. By that time Zeke Wooston would be, hopefully, out of the picture.

  Francisco?

  He spat. To hell with Francisco. The Mexican would probably try to kill him as soon as they located the gold but he would do it first. Then he'd get out by himself.

  He heard the faint footfalls of a horse, and then Francisco appeared, easy in the saddle.

  "Where y' been? I figured you was lost."

  Francisco shrugged. "I thought my horse had thrown a shoe. It hadn't though. It took me just a little while."

  No use arguing. Of course, Francisco was lying. He simply wanted to bring up the rear far enough back so that any trouble that came upon them would strike Russell first. Well, so be it.

  "Run out of tracks?" King-Pin asked. "They surely come this way."

  Francisco rode past made a wide sweep, came up with nothing, and began at once to search more carefully.

  Still nothing.

  Contemptuous at first, he now became irritated. Yet he could find no tracks.

  Suddenly a stone fell down among the rocks, bounding from rock to rock. And in that instant, Russell's gun was out and ready. Francisco looked on thoughtfully. Very fast ... very, very fast.

  Only the stone rattling, then quiet. The same quiet as before. Not simply a stillness, but a total absence of sound.

  Sweat trickled down the back of Russell's neck. He mopped it with his bandanna, then pointed. "I figure they went along the back side of the mountain."

  Francisco looked at the direction with no relish. Dark pine forests alternating with rocky slopes. Not good riding, any of it, and beyond broken crags along a ridge and great tumbled slabs of rock.

  "You're the tracker," Russell suggested. "You'd better lead off."

  Francisco walked his horse forward, scouting a way through the rocks. They had gone a quarter of a mile before he suddenly said, "Ha!" and pointed.

  Russell saw it after a moment of searching. The cut made by the outer edge of a horse's shoe. It was the trail.

  He looked ahead with misgiving, but followed on. If there was gold he meant to have it. He had covered country much like this in many places in the West, so why did this give him that edgy, haunted feeling? Why did he feel that unseen eyes were watching him?

  They rode into the pines, a dark silent place where they wove a slow trail among the pillared trunks. On these trees the growth only started when high off the ground, yet there were other pines here with gray-green, long needles. The trail dipped down, then went up between the rocks and among a thicker stand of pines.

  Twice they lost the trail, twice they found it again more by chance than by good sense. On their left ahead of them was a great gouged-out hollow in the ridge. The trail seemed to stop there, and Francisco, casting about, suddenly called him.

  King-Pin walked his horse over to him. The ground was marked and scarred by horse tracks. Here the horses had been tied, evidently for some time.
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  "They walked," Russell said. "It can't be far now."

  Francisco looked slowly about him. Gold tinged the ridge beyond Beartrap Creek. The hollow was in shadow now. Darkness came swiftly in these closed-in places where ridges held off the light.

  "We'd better camp. We'll find it in the morning."

  Russell got down. A thin trickle of water came down from the hollow. He tasted it ... not bad. "All right," he said.

  He was a tough, bitter man with no loyalties, and no ideals. He wanted money for gambling, for women, for power. Yet the few times he had money it had not lasted, and he was left with nothing. He dreamed of the big strike, the big success that would leave him with money for everything. He had not grasped the fact that he was one of those to whom success was a stranger because he lacked persistence. He was forever grasping at chances to get rich in one swift move, and failure taught him nothing.

  He sneered at the vaqueros who herded cattle for other men, he had only contempt for hard-working citizens of any kind, never seeming to realize that even the poorest lived better than he did, year in and year out, and without fear of the law.

  He had courage and skill with guns. He had belief in his ability to outfight any man and believed himself smarter than most, with no evidence whatever to prove it. He had worked for a number of other men who planned crimes and always for smaller pay than he had expected. In his life there was always a Zeke Wooston who somehow skimmed the cream, but he never asked himself why this was so.

  He invariably pictured those who were successful as lucky or thieves who stole what they had by devices imagined but unknown.

  Now he was sure he would find the gold. He never doubted the legend of the gold because to doubt it would mean to doubt his whole existence. The gold had to be there, but if somehow he failed to get it he would shift quickly to another treasure to be stolen.

  As for Sean Mulkerin, Russell had no doubt he could defeat him in any kind of a fight, although he would prefer it to be with guns. He was wary only of Wooston, for Wooston was more than a danger to be faced. He was a shrewd, conniving man. If Russell respected any man it was Wooston. In California, as in many other lands, death could be bought, and Wooston had money and was friendly with Captain Nick Bell. Russell knew far too much about Bell for comfort. Bell could kill, or have someone killed because he was the law.

  Each man carried a little food and they prepared it now. They had eaten and were drinking coffee by the fire when they heard the sound.

  At first it seemed far off, then close by. It sounded like someone chanting, but no words could be distinguished.

  Francisco crossed himself quickly, and Russell shifted his cup to his left hand and reached for his rifle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing but the darkness beyond the circle of firelight.

  The sound vanished, and Russell wet his lips with his tongue. Wind, probably, he told himself, yet it was no wind that he had ever heard before.

  "Funny sound," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "What could it be?"

  Francisco shrugged, looking carefully around him. "I do not know, Senor. I think when morning comes it is better we go from here."

  "You joking? You mean leave without the gold?"

  "Sometimes gold is very expensive, Senor. Perhaps the gold belongs to ghosts. Perhaps only the Old One knows these ghosts."

  "I don't believe in ghosts," Russell said, wondering if the statement sounded as hollow as it was. He did not, he told himself, believe in ghosts ... but what was that sound?

  Maybe wind in the rocks ... but there was no wind. Maybe contraction caused by the chill of evening, but in what? Where?

  "Let's get some sleep," he suggested. But he did not feel at all like sleeping.

  He gathered wood that lay close about and stacked it near the fire.

  "Zeke must be back to Tomas' cantina already," he said, wishing he was there also.

  "I think so," Francisco agreed. The Mexican was staying close to the fire, too. Francisco arranged his blankets near the fire, then lay down. He did not, Russell noted, remove his boots.

  "I think tomorrow I will go back," Francisco said.

  "What's the matter? You scared?"

  Francisco looked at him. "Like you, Senor. There is gold that is not for human hands to touch. I am thinking this is such gold."

  "The Mulkerins touched it. They took some of it a couple of times."

  "The Old One is their friend."

  "You'll feel different, come daylight."

  "Perhaps, Senor. But I hope I am not such a fool."

  Resting his head on his arm, he closed his eyes, and Russell was alone with his thoughts. He let his eyes scan the darkness. Anything might be out there ... but what was he? A scared kid? There ain't such things as ghosts.

  He added wood to the fire and rolled up in his blankets, a pistol in his hand. The fire crackled, a low wind moaned in the treetops, somewhere a stone rattled.

  He awoke suddenly. He didn't know how long he had been asleep. He lay quiet, listening.

  The night was still, but suddenly he caught a faint sound of hoof beats. Faint and far-off, but hoof beats. He sat up quickly and looked around and in an instant he knew what had happened. He had known, instinctively, since he heard those first far-off sounds.

  Francisco was gone.

  He reached for his gun, started to rise. In a moment of blind rage he wanted only to pursue Francisco and kill him, but he realized his chances of overtaking the Mexican were slight. The man knew this country better that he, and Francisco had a good lead.

  Getting up he gathered a few sticks and built up his fire. Dawn was far away.

  The coffeepot was still at the edge of the coals so he nudged it closer. He tugged his boots on, stood up, and stamped his feet. He picked up his gun and slid it into the clumsy holster.

  His rage subsided and he decided it was the best thing that could have happened. Now he alone would find the gold, and he alone would know where it was. That is, he and the Mulkerin outfit.

  He could take care of that in due time, if Zeke Wooston did not. He would wait until daylight, then hunt for the place where the Mulkerins had gotten their gold. He would load up whatever he could carry and start for the coast.

  He could even ride back to Los Angeles, tell Wooston that Francisco had left him and that he'd had a bad time finding his way out of the hills. Let them think he had found nothing.

  The night now seemed like any other night. The spooky feeling was gone. He added more wood to the fire, drank more coffee, and saddled his horse. When he returned to the fire a faint light was showing in the east.

  An hour later he was riding. The tracks were plain here, tracks coming out of that hollow, that horseshoe-like place in the mountain wall. He rode his horse as far as he could, watered it at the small creek, then tied it on a small patch of grass.

  Taking his rifle he started up the creek.

  It was an hour before he found the cave. The terrace before it puzzled him. Flat as a floor, free of all large stones, packed very solid as if rolled by something heavy. It looked like some sort of a working area and it puzzled him.

  When he saw the cave he was wary. Rifle ready, he approached it. He spoke, and there was no reply. His lips felt dry and he glanced around, seeing nothing. His eyes swept the high rim ... was someone watching? Was the cave a trap?

  He was thinking like a kid again. He stepped into the cave and stopped. On the packed sand of the cave floor lay Juan, the Old One.

  He lay perfectly still as if he had merely closed his eyes. Russell touched his hand ... cool ... not really cold.

  Was he dead? Russell lifted an eyelid. The Indian was dead, all right.

  Straightening up, he glanced around. Seeing the pots he checked them ... empty. From one he shook a tiny fleck of gold dust.

  Damn!

  Was that all there was? He started to turn away and suddenly felt a chill go through him.

  The body was gone.

  Chapter 16
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  For an instant he stood riveted, a cold prickling traveling along his spine and up the back of his neck. His tongue, gone suddenly dry, rumbled at drier lips. Very slowly, he lowered his hand to his gun.

  He was having trouble breathing; as though he had been struck suddenly in the pit of the stomach. His eyes, like those of a trapped animal, moved warily from side to side fearful of what they might see.

  The cave was empty. There was nothing there, nothing at all.

  He did not move. His muscles seemed stiff, and when he tried to swallow he had to struggle to do it.

  Carefully, he drew his gun. The cave mouth was empty, outside there was sunlight. He crouched down, his back against the cave wall. His eyes went again to the place where the Old One's body had lain.

  The marks of it were there. That, at least, had not been an illusion. The marks were there, and something else he must not have noticed before. The tracks of sandals ...

  Of woven sandals. His tongue managed to wet his dry lips. He could see the marks of two sets of sandals on either side of the place where the Old One had lain.

  Sandals?

  That was silly. He was imagining things. Those tracks or whatever they were had to have been there before.

  They must have been.

  Only they were not.

  He straightened up slowly. No use staying here, the gold was gone. It was time to get out. Yet the gold must have come from here, from somewhere around. Gold did not just appear out of thin air. He told himself that, several times.

  Circling to avoid the spot where the old man's body had been, he eased out of the cave mouth into the sunlight. All was quiet. The terrace outside was empty. It was very flat, right down to the edge of the creek. Like a floor. Maybe it had been a floor at some time.

  He mopped his face with a handkerchief and squinted his eyes against the morning sun. Heat waves shimmered beyond the terrace. He'd never seen them so close before. Heat waves usually only showed themselves at some distance.