E
ILEEN MULKERIN RODE into the yard at the ranch on Malibu with her son beside her. Behind them were Mariana and Jesus Montero.
She drew up in the yard and looked at the rough-looking crowd who faced her. Renegades, all of them, some gringos, some Mexicans.
Brother Michael sat on the porch in the shade. He had a rifle across his knees.
She looked at the renegades with eyes that were cold and level. “You have no business here. You will leave.”
Their leader, a swaggering man in a wide sombrero and wide-bottomed pants, wearing two guns, laughed. “I am Greek John,” he said, sneering. “I do not go when a woman speaks. Señor Wooston told me to stay until he comes. I stay.”
“My mother told you to leave,” Sean said quietly. “You have one minute.”
Greek John was lean, whip-hard, and strong. He touched his mustache lightly and smiled. “Come, little one,” he said, “I shall teach you.”
Sean dismounted from his horse and trailed the reins. “Señora?” he spoke gently. “Forgive me.”
He swung, his fist exploding on the Greek’s chin. The Greek dropped to hands and knees, his sombrero flying loose. For a moment he stayed there, shaking his head. When he got up he held a knife in his hand.
“Now I shall kill you,” he said.
Sean made no move toward the Bowie, nor the Paterson Colt .36 on his hip. He simply waited.
The Greek came forward, the knife low. Sean measured him with expertise gained on the waterfronts of Shanghai, Singapore, Amurang, and Taku Bar. The man moved well, held his knife low, cutting edge up.
The man came on, the knife in his right hand. He would thrust and cut to the left, Sean was sure. Hands ready, he waited. The Greek suddenly feinted, lunged, and thrust. Sean sidestepped quickly to the left and saw the blade sweep to his right, and then Sean slashed at the Greek’s ear with the edge of his hand.
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, Señora. 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 Señora 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 1840’s. 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 Señora 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 drag 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, Señor. Four years I rode with him, from the time I was sixteen until I was twenty.”
“Since then?”
His eyes twinkled. “I have lived, Señor.”
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, Señor. 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.”
“
Sí, Señor
. 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.”
I
N 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, Señor, but not 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 run 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.
“Señor?”
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 Señora 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, Señor.”
“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.”
“Sí.”
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.”