As we sat over coffee, Kelso told me what had been happening in town, new businesses starting up, new people coming in from across the isthmus. “Carry your gun,” he added. “There’s renegades of all kinds driftin’ in. Some of them run out of Frisco are comin’ down here.”
West of the town, where I liked to ride, the hills were almost bare. Main and Spring streets had been laid out past First Street, but there were only a few scattered structures there, and east of Main and along that street there were many vineyards. From Spring Street west to the coast there was a wide area of swampy land, the ciénaga, miles of tules inhabited by wild cattle, occasional deer, and great flocks of ducks and geese at certain seasons.
Nearly every house had heavy wooden shutters that could be closed and barred at night. The houses were almost all of adobe, bricks made of clay mixed with straw, and the roofs were covered with tar from the tar pits on the La Brea Rancho, now owned by a man named Hancock, whom I saw about town but did not know.
Water was still obtained from the zanjas, but it was also peddled from door to door by a waterman. If he had been there earlier, I did not remember him, but now he went from house to house filling the ollas that hung in the shade of a porch. The water was cool and pleasant, even in the hottest weather. Riding about town after my long absence, I noted the changes that had been made, yet some things remained the same. Despite the laws against it, women still washed clothes in the zanjas, and more often than not some Indian children were found splashing naked in the water ditches from which the drinking water was obtained. Bill the waterman supposedly drew his water from the Los Angeles River or some of the springs he knew of in the hills around.
Thomas Fraser was no longer conducting his little school. William Wolfskill had hired teachers and opened a school for his children and those of some friends, but there was at least one other small school.
Business was slow, and I saw several storekeepers playing cards on the wide windowsills.
Further along the street were several gambling houses, the El Dorado and the Montgomery being two of the busiest. Turning suddenly to go back, I caught a glimpse of the flat-nosed Mexican with the scar. A glimpse only, and the man was gone. Was I being followed?
Walking on, I turned a corner and stopped. Only a moment later, the Mexican appeared. He started around the corner, but seeing me, stopped abruptly.
“Looking for someone? Maybe I can help you.” I took a step toward him.
He stood his ground. His hand was on his red sash and the hilt of his knife.
“I am not a boy any longer,” I said. “You wanted to torture me once. You intended to kill me. Now you have the chance.”
“Someday,” he said.
“Why not now? I am ready.”
“Someday.” He gestured around. “You have friends. I can wait.”
“Whenever,” I said.
He turned away, then stopped, and when he looked back, his eyes were ugly. “You think you are man now,” he sneered. “You are nothing! Nothing! You think you brave? Who did you ever fight? Who did you kill? Bah! To kill you is like a kitten! A sheep! You are nothing!”
He disappeared around the corner, and I stood there hot with anger, yet as the anger cooled, my ego was pierced by a thin shaft of cool logic.
Who had I fought? The flat-nosed vaquero might have had a dozen, two dozen, three dozen fights. He would be skilled with a knife, perhaps with a gun as well. Only his own caution had saved me.
Walking along the street to the book shop, I stepped inside and sat down. Long ago Jacob Finney had spoken of a man, a former boxer who lived in Sonora Town.
Boxing alone would not be enough. My skill with a gun was far beyond that of the average man. Part of this was due to a natural aptitude for which I deserved no credit, and a part was due to practice. Coordination was a gift, and my physical strength, which was considerable, had been not only a birthright but also developed during those years of living with and among the Cahuillas, climbing mountains, running in the desert, and wrestling.
Yet Rad Huber had already given me one lesson, and the fact that I had triumphed the second time did not fool me. I had won because he had been too ready for an easy repeat victory and my sudden attack had taken him by surprise. If we met again, as I was sure we would, he would whip me again. He had probably grown even more than I, and he, too, handled himself with natural ease.
There was only one answer. I had to learn something that would give me an edge.
Finney’s boxer, if he was still around, would be one way, but my father, who had traveled much in the Far East, had told me of skills each people possessed, known to them alone.
In both China and Japan as well as in Korea the fighting arts had been widely developed by various schools, each claiming its system the best, each possessing some tricks known to them alone. These included not only bare-hand fighting but fighting with all manner of ingenious weapons.
The world in which we lived was a violent one; furthermore, it had always been violent. Much as I wished to avoid trouble, it would surely come, and I must be prepared to meet it.
Sitting alone at the back of the shop, ignoring the conversation that went on, I considered myself with some irritation. People might have said I was brave to face Flat-Nose as I had, but it had been the bravery of ignorance. No doubt he had been fighting since he was a child, and in bitter win-or-die fights. He had sneered at me, treated me as a child, but he had been right and I was wrong.
Had he chosen to attack, I would now be dead, and the only reason he had not attacked was that we had stood among Anglo stores and shops or places where the gente de razón, the gentlemen of reason among the Californios, were to be found. In Sonora Town it would have been different.
When we walked home that evening, Miss Nesselrode was silent until we were almost at the door. “You are quiet,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
“It is never nice to realize one has been a fool,” I said.
“If you have done something foolish and realize it, then you are not quite the fool you were,” she said. “May I know what happened?”
Inside, seated in that quiet room I had come to think of as home, I explained.
“Your flat-nosed vaquero is a bad one. Only last week Vicente Lugo pointed him out to me as a troublemaker who had been driven out of his own town in Sonora. He uses the name of Valdez, but it is not his own. Chato Valdez is well known in Sonora Town, and much feared. You did well not to have trouble.”
“He was the wise one, not I,” I replied bitterly.
“And now?”
“Now I try to learn. With the gun, I shall not worry, but otherwise? And here, in the town, it could be otherwise. There is also Rad Huber.”
We talked long, of that and other things, but through it all there was a nagging thought, something said in passing that I had not noted at the time. Some reference to a man who lived near the mountains. He was Chinese, if I remembered correctly.
Miss Nesselrode told me then, for the first time, of her meeting with Don Isidro.
“And now?”
“He has not forgotten,” she said, “but I think he is a little afraid. I do not think he has ever been afraid except of being shamed, of being made to seem ridiculous. To be laughed at or pitied—that he could not stand. I think it has been the ruling motive of his whole life. But he is a small man—small in character, I mean. He hates you, and he now hates me as well, and I do not believe he has forgotten us.”
“Nor has the flat-nosed one, the one you say is Chato Valdez. Nor, for that matter, Fletcher.”
She smiled. “We have enemies, Johannes, but enemies can make one strong. And we will be strong.”
For a moment she was silent. “Your Aunt Elena, now? She, in her own way, is very strong. Yet, I think she has a secret. Perhaps it is her brother’s secret as well, but there is somethi
ng…”
Her voice trailed off; then she said, “Have you ridden your black stallion yet?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but soon. I think he likes me. I think, somehow, that he expects me to ride him. When I saddle the other horses, he comes to the corral bars and watches. He follows along inside the corral as I ride away, and I do not believe it is just because he wishes to be with the other horses.”
Wind stirred the leaves in the trees outside. Miss Nesselrode got to her feet, then said suddenly, “I almost forgot. Captain Laurel was by the shop earlier. He wants to talk to you.”
Meghan’s father wished to talk to me? And about what? It did not matter. I would see him.
Perhaps I would see her.
CHAPTER 37
When it was discovered that I had lately been rounding up wild horses in the San Joaquin, many wished to question me about what I had seen and what the country was like. The area from the mountains to the Colorado was virtually unknown, although some of the citizens, particularly those like Ben Wilson and William Wolfskill, who had been trappers, had crossed it at least once.
Yet why did Captain Laurel wish to see me? Was it this? Was he interested in those inner lands? Or was it some other matter?
On an early afternoon I walked my dark dapple-gray along the dusty street to his door.
An attractive Indian woman opened the door for me and I was shown into the shadowed quiet of a rectangular room carpeted with Oriental rugs. Other such rugs were thrown across the hidebound chairs. The inner walls were whitewashed, and over the mantel was an ancient shield and two samurai swords, which I recognized from drawings I had seen.
One wall of the room was covered with books, and I crossed to them at once. It needed but a glance to realize that I had discovered a first-class mind, one who had read far beyond my limited opportunities. Somewhat awed, I studied the titles, choosing a volume published in Spanish in 1621 of the journals of Matthew Ricci, covering his travels in China from 1583 to 1610. I knew nothing of the book, and opening it, was soon lost in its pages and scarcely heard Captain Laurel enter the room, nor was I aware of his presence until he appeared beside me.
“You are interested in China?”
“In everything,” I admitted, “but I’ve read nothing about China but The Travels of Marco Polo.”
“Then you should read Ricci. His may be the first book to come to Europe since Polo. The first about China, I mean. If you are interested, you may read it.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll treat it as though it were my own.”
He lifted an eyebrow at me. “I was afraid of that. Please remember it is not your own. Too many people borrow books and come to believe they are their own.”
“I wouldn’t—”
He waved a hand. “Forget it. Will you sit down?”
When we were seated, the Indian woman brought hot chocolate. He glanced at me several times. “I knew your grandfather,” he said abruptly, “and knew your father slightly. They were good men. Two of the very best.”
He changed the subject. “Tell me about this foray of yours into the interior.”
Briefly but with care for the major points, I told him of the country, our capture of wild horses, and of the Cahuillas who helped us. He listened, asking but few questions; then he said suddenly, “You know my daughter, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. We attended the same school.”
“Fraser’s a bright young man. A good teacher, I believe.” He looked at me again. “You are finished with school?”
“I can go no further here, and in any event, I must make my way in the world. I am a boy no longer, and whatever future I have lies in these”—I spread my hands—“or in what I can learn.”
“You have no wish to go to sea?”
“No, sir. I have chosen California, or it chose me, I do not know which.”
He emptied his cup and put it down. He stared at me, lighting a cigar. “You have enemies.”
“Yes, sir. Enemies I have not made myself. They have chosen to be my enemies.”
“No matter. The reality is that you have enemies.” He paused, staring at me from under his brows. “Perhaps more than you realize, and that is unfortunate. A man can protect himself against enemies of whom he is aware. It is the others who can be most dangerous. In this case, most dangerous.”
“I do not follow you, sir. I know my grandfather—”
“Of course. He is an old fool, not only because of his attitude toward you but because of his acceptance of others.”
He took the cigar from his teeth. “Have you given thought to what would happen should your grandfather die?”
“Die? No, sir. It had not occurred to me. I should certainly have one enemy the less.”
“What of his estate?”
“I have not thought of it, sir.”
“You’d better! You’d better give it serious thought. Your grandfather is not a young man. Moreover, I suspect there are those who do not expect him to live much longer. If he should die, you would be his heir, or one of his heirs.”
“I had not thought of it, sir. My Aunt Elena—”
He dismissed her with a wave. “She is a woman. She would be left a modest pension, I suspect.” He paused, dusted ash from his cigar, and asked, “Do you know of any other heirs?”
“No, I don’t,” I admitted, “but I’ve given it no thought. My grandfather hates me, sir. He would leave nothing to me.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps he has been no more careful in that than in other business dealings. Perhaps he has no will.”
He paced the floor, then turned abruptly and said, “What do you know of your grandfather’s Spanish properties?”
“I wasn’t aware there were any.”
“There are. Your grandfather, in property, is a very wealthy man. His cash position is, I believe, not so good. Not that a skillful manager couldn’t straighten it out very quickly.”
He sat down again, leaning his elbows on his knees. He was a stocky, powerful man with fierce gray brows and a shock of gray, curly hair. “What do you know of Don Federico Villegra?”
“It is a new name to me.”
He drew on his cigar, dusted the ash again, and said, “It is good that you have friends. You’d last no time at all without them.”
Irritated, I said, “I can take care of myself!” Yet even as I spoke, I thought of Chato Valdez and honesty made me remind myself that I’d been a fool once. Was I about to be so again?
“I have some good friends,” I agreed.
“You have more than you realize of those, too. Why do you think you are here?”
“I’ve no idea. Frankly, sir, I have been puzzled, although I have wanted very much to know you.”
“You have, have you? Well, you know me now, thanks to Meghan. She decided you needed help.”
Meghan thought I needed help? Did she think me a child, then? Or did she think me weak? I said nothing, waiting.
“You see, young man, Meghan and I knew things you did not. You must not blame yourself, for there is no way you were likely to know.
“Don Federico is the man your grandfather wanted to marry your mother. When she ran off with your father, he was insulted. He was furious.” He drew on his cigar, then put it down beside the empty cup. “And not only because of your mother.
“You see, Don Federico is a relative. A distant one, it is true. Distant enough so he could marry your mother, but close enough to inherit if you were dead.”
For a moment, I just stared. Slowly it sank in. “You are sure of this?”
“My first trip to California was around the Horn, from Spain. Before that I spent several months sailing to Spain from Tripoli. I am a man who listens well, and there is much gossip. There was a lot of it when your grandfather suddenly decided to sail to America so suddenly that he arranged to l
eave Cádiz at night.”
“On your ship?”
“No, my ship was to come later. I was to bring cargo that belonged to him. I was also to bring his sister.”
“Aunt Elena?”
“It was she. We carried five other passengers on that voyage. An old man, a Spanish lad several years less than twenty, three women, and a sick boy.”
“Then you know Aunt Elena?”
“Only slightly. She kept to her cabin much of the time, as did the woman who was caring for the sick boy. Occasionally when the weather was fair she would come on deck, and sometimes she helped the woman care for the sick boy. If he was really sick.”
“You do not think he was?”
“I’ve no idea, although he seemed active enough when on deck, and quick enough when he needed to be. You see, one night the other Spanish lad tried to stab him. At least, that was what my mate thought, and the helmsman, too. The sick boy was alone by the rail, and it all happened very fast. According to the mate, the Spanish lad suddenly drew a knife and tried to stab the boy, but the boy turned so suddenly the attempt failed, and the boy twisted the Spanish lad’s wrist and forced him to drop the knife. And he did it almost without effort.
“The mate called for me, and when I came up they both refused to admit there had been trouble. Under the circumstances, there was nothing I could do but warn them.”
It seemed a story without point except that Aunt Elena’s voyage had not been without incident.
“Some more chocolate? I shall have some.”
“Please.” I did not know what to say except to comment, “There must have been some quarrel between them.”
“Perhaps.” He accepted the cup from the Indian girl and waited until I had mine and then said, “The Spanish lad was Don Federico.”
Was that it? Was he warning me?
“The other boy, the sick one, simply dropped off the world. Perhaps he died. There was much sickness here for a while. When I asked about him, nobody knew anything, and the woman who cared for him had also disappeared. Later, I heard she married a vaquero.”
The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 26
