Over coffee, they talked of what lay before them, and after a while Sean said, “Is Michael here?”
“He is.”
“Then he will have to stay. I do not think they would dare to forcibly eject a man of the Church.”
“And what do you expect me to do?” she demanded.
“We must think of that, Señora. This is your ranch. You are in command here. However, we must never yield possession. I know Michael, and he is immovable. If he says he will stay, he will stay.
“As for us, it might be better to disappear, to keep out of sight so they cannot serve you with papers.”
“That does nothing but delay them.”
Suddenly Win Standish appeared in the door, Michael behind him. “We heard voices,” Win said. “How are you, Sean? A good voyage?”
“Only the weather. The hides went for a dollar and fifty cents. We did somewhat better on the pelts.”
“You paid expenses?”
“No more than that.”
Turning, Sean presented Mariana. His explanation was brief.
Win’s face stiffened. “The last thing we want is trouble with Andres Machado. He is a rich, powerful, and vindictive man. If you think we have trouble with Wooston, it will be nothing to what Machado can do.”
“We must return her to them,” Win said. “She was betrothed to Machado. It was her father’s wish.”
“I will not marry him! I will die first!”
“It was your father’s wish,” Brother Michael replied gently. “Do you not respect your parents?”
“My father was not concerned. My father is dead. This is my uncle who wishes to be rid of me, and of Andres, who wants a wife for his home.”
“She should have something to say about whom she marries,” Sean said quietly.
“We cannot afford this trouble,” Standish interrupted. “And if we lose the ranch, where will she go then?”
“One thing at a time,” Sean said.
“You are all forgetting the ranch,” Eileen said. “It is the first consideration.”
“It has been a bad year,” Win Standish said, “and I have given all I can.”
“It has been much, more than enough. You have been loyal, Win.” Eileen spoke quietly. “It was more than we had a right to expect of you.”
Jesus Montero sat in a corner twisting his hat in his hands. “There is the old man,” he said, “Juan. He went with Don Jaime to the mountains.”
“You mean,” Win turned on him, “when the colonel found the gold?”
“It was not much gold,” Montero said, “only a little bit. However, it was enough.”
“I have never believed in the gold,” Standish said. “Nobody has found gold in California.”
“That is not true,” Sean replied. “There was a vaquero who found some in one of the canyons. It was a few nuggets clinging to the roots of a wild onion. There is gold.”
“Stories!” Win scoffed. “Just stories!”
“Do you know the mountains, Montero?” Eileen asked.
“Who knows them? Nobody. Not even the Indians know them. When you ride into them and think you know them you come back later and they have changed. My people do not go to the mountains, Señora.”
“But you do know where the old man is?”
Montero shrugged. “Perhaps. Who can say? He comes and he goes and if he does not wish you to see him you do not see him. I have not seen him since a year before Don Jaime died. He may be dead now…or gone.”
“Gone?”
“They disappear sometimes, the Old Ones do. They disappear and one finds nothing, nothing at all. Who knows where they go? One day they are here, and the next they are gone.”
“The old man, Montero? Can you take me to him?” Sean asked.
“I can try. If he is alive and wishes to be found, we will find him. If he does not wish it, we will not.”
“What kind of Indian is he?” Michael asked.
Montero shrugged. “Who knows? Some say he was one of those who named the land, those who were here before the Chumash and are gone now.
“Who knows what Malibu means? Latecomers have tried to say it means where the mountains meet the sea, but it is not true. Nobody knows…nor Mugu…nor Hueneme. The names were given long ago to the land, and the people who gave them are gone. All but this old man.”
“Have you seen him, Sean?” Michael asked.
“Twice…once when I was only a small boy I met him near Sandstone Peak. He talked to me…for a long time.”
“You never told me of that,” Eileen protested. “What did he say?”
“It was something he was teaching me. A lot of words. He got up and left very suddenly, but before he left me he stopped to say, ‘wisdom must be shared, it must be given, or else it lies cold upon the rocks. I would give you my wisdom, young one.’”
“And did he?”
“A little, I think. I saw him only once more before I went off to sea. He talked to me again, for a long time.”
“He is a strange one,” Michael agreed. “The Indians will not speak of him. Whenever I have tried to learn from them who or what he was, they have avoided my questions.”
“They probably just don’t know,” Standish replied dryly. “Nothing mysterious there. He’s just an old man who lives alone.”
Eileen looked at him. “Win, you’re the best nephew a woman ever had…but you’re not Irish.”
“What has that to do with it?” Standish asked, a bit irritated.
“Possibly nothing,” she agreed, smiling, “but the Irish are an ancient people, and they do not deny another world.”
“Heaven? The Hereafter?” Win said. “Neither do I. I am a churchgoer. I believe in a Heaven and Hell.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” Eileen Mulkerin said. “I mean we Celts are not inclined to be overly skeptical about the Little People, or the mysterious. Ireland was a haunted land, but the ghosts were friendly there, most of them.”
“Señora,” Standish said, “I cannot understand you. Most of the time you are one of the most practical, sensible, down-to-earth women I have ever known or expect to know, but sometimes—”
She smiled again. “But sometimes I am Irish, is that it?”
“Can you take me to Juan, Jesus?” Sean asked.
“Who knows? I will try.”
“Tomorrow, then. Very early.”
“What of Wooston?” Michael suggested.
Sean shrugged. “Your problem, Michael. You are a strong man, a sane man, and you are of the Church. If I am here either they or I might become impatient of words, but you can speak, and you are not expected to be violent.
“Let them stay if they insist, but
you
must not go! Stay…do not give up possession. That is most important.”
“I will go, and—”
“I shall go with you,” Eileen Mulkerin said quietly. “It is my ranch, and Juan knows me also. We will both go.”
“And I,” Mariana said.
“Not you,” Sean brushed the suggestion aside with some impatience. “It will be a long ride, a hot, hard ride, and we do not know what will happen nor where it will end.”
“You seem to forget, Captain, that Andres will come. He will take me by force, and if you do not want Brother Michael to resist and be killed…for Andres would not hesitate, believe me.”
“She can ride with me,” Eileen said. “She will be company for me, and I do not think she will wilt or fall by the way.”
“I grew up on a ranch. I could ride a horse as soon as I could walk.”
“This is ridiculous!” Standish protested. “Señora, what are you thinking of? Riding off into the hills after some nameless old Indian who knew your husband!
“He probably knows nothing! In any event, your husband brought home very little gold. Don’t you think he would have brought more if there was more? And after all, the old man may be dead.”
“Can you suggest an alternative?” the Señora asked quietly. “Win, I know how you feel, but I know of nothing else we can do. Twice before the gold saved us, and maybe it will on this occasion. If we do not do this, what do we do? Give up the ranch? Or turn these hills into a bloody battleground? I will die here, Win Standish, rather than give up a single acre!”
“Oh, all right! Go if you must!” He hesitated. “Will you be all right, Michael? I’d like to ride in and talk to Pio. Maybe there is something he can do…or suggest. He is a wise man.”
“There’s no use asking how long you will be gone,” Michael said, “but whatever the time, I shall be here. Have no fear about that.”
“Tennison is on the schooner, and he will either be lying at Point Dume, in the cove beside it, or up the coast. You know where. I have told him to preserve the
Lady Luck
at all costs. He will be ghosting off shore if not in close, so a signal will call him.”
“I will be all right,” Michael said quietly.
“And pray,” Sean said. “I think we will need your prayers…the more the better.”
“You do not pray, Sean?” Michael suggested gently.
Sean grinned. “I’ll be praying, don’t worry about that! But I am afraid prayers from my lips won’t have the appeal yours will.”
Sean went to his room and stripped off his shirt and bathed in the basin, pouring cold water from the pitcher. It was good to be back, even at such a time.
The bare, whitewashed walls of his room were home. He could hear faint sounds in the other rooms as the others prepared for bed.
Suddenly his door opened slightly. It was Jesus.
“I think we will be watched,” he said, “and followed.”
“By Russell?”
Montero shrugged. “By Russell, or by Tomas…somebody. After I show you, I shall come back to be with Brother Michael.”
“Thank you. I would like that.”
Montero closed the door and squatted against the wall. His eyes were very black. “I did not know the Old One had talked with you. If he did so you are chosen.”
“What does that mean?”
Montero did not reply for a moment. “They say of him that he was the last of his people, that they were a great people who came here from afar. They say that once there was a city in the desert, a very great city of adobe and stone and it existed for many lifetimes, and then one night there was a great shaking of the earth and after many days it continued to shake and there was no more city, no more people…only a handful…and Juan, the Old One.”
“It’s a good story, Montero, but I doubt it. Pedro Fages came up through this country long ago and he spoke of no city. There were others along the coast a hundred years before him, at least. I think it is only a story. How old can Juan be? Is he seventy? Eighty?”
“He is old, Señor, very, very old. Who can say how old? Can you put a time to his years? I cannot. The oldest men of the villages cannot. There was a Chumash who lived on San Miguel. He was very old, and he told me that when he was a child Juan looked as he does now. Who knows, Señor?
“Are you ready to say what can and cannot be? I am not. I am a humble man, Señor, yet I have ridden among the mountains, I have traveled far, far to the south and seen many things. My people call me a wise one…a maker of magic…but to him I am a child, Señor, I, who am a proud man, confess it.
“You measure time, Señor. I have seen the brass clock on your ship. You are very careful to measure time, and perhaps this is the white man’s fault…that he tries to measure the immeasurable. That he tries to put chains upon the unchainable. What is time, Señor? Who can say? You count footsteps when you measure land. You count sun and moons and the seasons, but what does it tell you? Do you know, Señor, I think you do wrong to count these things.
“I think they
are
. I think time
is
. I do not think time passes, as you say. I think time is here, that it never began, can never be measured, and will always be.
“I think you walk up and down and across because that is what you believe the world to be, but perhaps there are others who walk up and down and across but also walk through.”
“Through? Through what?”
Montero got to his feet. Carefully, he brushed his sombrero. “There is always tomorrow. Now I shall sleep.”
“Jesus?”
Montero had lifted the latch on the door. “Sí, Señor?”
“You have talked to the Old One, too?”
“A little, Señor, only a little. Not as he will talk to you.
Buenos noches, Señor. Hasta la vista.
”