California Gold (33 page)

“What are you talking about, Diego? What are you going to do?”

“Do?”
Marquez repeated with a thick poisonous sarcasm. He threw the collar in the ashes, and in a moment a thread of smoke arose. “From this hour, I am going to fight them on their terms, not the Lord’s. I am going to war.”

The winter rain began to fall again, this time in earnest. The downpour soon smothered the embers, and when the charred beams cooled sufficiently, Mack used them to put together a crude shelter, with his saddle blanket for the roof. Marquez paid no attention, wandering disconsolately along the bluff. For a while Mack feared he might throw himself onto the rocks below.

After a bit the priest returned. Mack offered him some hardtack from his saddlebag, but Marquez wouldn’t touch it. He hardly spoke, and Mack passed a miserable night trying to sleep under scant cover. Marquez squatted in the open, soaked, staring at nothing.

In the morning, he was calmer. He pressed Mack’s hand and clasped his shivering shoulder. “I appreciate your kindness. But I’d like you to leave me now.”

“I can’t just ride off and abandon—” Mack sneezed.

The priest almost smiled. “Come, do what I ask. I don’t want your death on my conscience. I have other things to deal with.”

Rain dripped off Mack’s soaked hat brim. He peered into Marquez’s eyes, trying to fathom his intent. What did he mean about war? Where would he go? How would he survive?

“Leave me,” the priest said again. It was emphatic and cold.

Mack growled something and put his boot in Railroad’s stirrup.

At the head of the first rise, he glanced back. Marquez was kneeling in the rain amidst the canted beams and rubble, hands clasped, head bowed. Somehow, Mack didn’t think he was praying to a kind or forgiving God.

I
N THE DEPOT OFFICE
the following night, Mack began to rifle through Wyatt’s desk.

He pulled out everything: ledgers, unopened letters, notes Wyatt had written to himself. As he sifted through them, he began to see how complex a man Wyatt was. Some of the notes bristled with ideas for promoting San Solaro—“moonlight excursion?” “champagne supper?”—things Wyatt had never followed up. The ledgers were blotted, sloppily kept in a poor hand, with significant gaps between the dates of the entries. Many of the letters were creditor demands that Wyatt had ignored. In the stacks and stacks of paper, a portrait grew of a man brilliant, unscrupulous, and erratic. Mack had known that about Wyatt in some deep well of wordless understanding. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that his partner was a criminal as well as dangerously unstable.

The sound of a horse and rig came to him over the pelting of the rain. He picked up a kerosene lamp and held it high in the door.

The phaeton with yellow wheels rolled out of the night. Carla jumped down with a dripping parasol that hadn’t protected her from the rain; her hair was darker and plastered flat to her head. She was mussed and excited.

“I came the instant I heard. It’s all over Ventura County, I gather. Wyatt’s absconded.”

“That’s right. Come in.”

Streams of rain sluiced noisily down the roof. Carla shook her parasol and plucked her wet blouse away from her breasts. As soon as she let it go it clung again.

“You don’t look like you’ve slept…” she began.

“I haven’t, much. I’ve been plowing through all these.” He indicated the paper stacks. “Trying to find out who he cheated.” He struck the desk with his fist. “Who put up the money? That’s the big question. How the hell did he get thirty thousand dollars to buy this land?”

“Well, you certainly won’t find out by exhausting yourself and ranting.” She perched her parasol in a corner and smoothed her riding skirt. “Are you going to be polite and offer me a chair?”

He pointed to it. She sighed and sat.

“What’s the real upshot of all this, Mack? Are you saddled with his debts?”

“I have a good lawyer working on that—Potter, in Los Angeles. I want to pay off the debts if the creditors will permit it.” He sat at the desk, feeling the weariness settle into him at last; wild energy generated by repeated shocks had staved it off, but couldn’t any longer. He rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry I don’t have some wine to offer you. Not much food, either.”

Carla touched her hair, an unconscious feminine gesture. “I didn’t come here for food or wine.” Uncomfortably, he saw her dark-blue eyes finishing the statement.

“If Wyatt’s gone,” she said after a moment, “what happens to the title to San Solaro?”

He explained the agreement, and she clapped her hands. “Then you’re the owner. Everything is solved. I knew you’d be successful.”

“Certainly,” he said with a bitter look. “I now own a hundred percent of nothing instead of twenty percent.”

She leaned forward. “Whatever money you need to right the situation here, pay your creditors—I have it. More than enough. It’s yours.”

“Carla, the money I pay to the creditors has to be money I make myself.”

Her eyes flashed with reflections of the kerosene lamps. “I’d be angry with you if you weren’t so crashingly upright to the point of being ridiculous.” She leaned over him and kissed him lightly on the lips. Damp hair fell against his cheek. He smelled the wet-musky odor of her skin. “You’re as stubborn as old Swampy. We can discuss that later. There’s a more urgent problem. One that has needed a resolution for many a week.”

Again she kissed him. This time it was longer, firmer, with a sinuous little caress of the tip of her tongue. Despite his exhaustion, his body responded.

“I really came over because I knew you’d be alone. Finally. I never belonged to Wyatt, but you seemed to think I did…”

Her tongue touched his cheek, a slow, tantalizing lick. “So now I’ll remind you…”

Her hand dropped into his lap. She laughed low over what she found.

“Wyatt is gone. There’s no one to disturb us. Those papers will wait. We can be together all night long.”

“Carla—”

“No, Mack. No more protests. I get what I want. What I want is you.”

Her hand down there between them caressed and pressed, and he broke. He seized her face in both hands and kissed her with all the violence of emotion finally released.

He blew out one of the two lamps. Hoisting her in his arms, he kissed her face, her ear, the corner of her mouth.

“Not here,” he said. “This was his. The tent.”

“No, I can’t wait. I can’t wait.”

Carla held on to his chest. She was astride him, and her thighs and flanks shone from the exertion of rising and falling. Mack’s left hand gripped her waist and his right held her breast. He felt her hard nipple on his palm.

The passion wracked them. Carla threw her head back. She began to bite her lips and toss her unbound hair.

Suddenly he took hold of her waist, lifted, and rolled her over. She tumbled on her back on Wyatt’s bed with a cry of mingled surprise and excitement, and he flung his leg across her thighs. She was browned evenly by the sun on every part of her body.

With a gasp, he heaved himself on top, kissing her hard to forestall argument. She groped for him, guided him, her blue eyes huge with a bewilderment soon replaced by foggy understanding.

She cried out, eyes shut. Mack drowned in her scent, her softness, kissing her throat. She kneaded his shoulders and beat the backs of his legs with her heels. The passion was so intense it hurt. He thrust harder and deeper. They rode that way, up to the peak.

Shattered, he slept with Carla in his arms.

Much later, the storm intensified. Heavy rain slammed the roof, leaking through some crack out in the office. Lightning washed the streaming windows. Unseen faults in the earth seemed to shudder with every thunderclap.

He gently touched her round, voluptuous body, brushed her shoulder with a kiss. She woke, muttering, then felt his hand touching her and laughed.

“Wait, though—” She struggled away.

He propped up on his elbows. “What for?”

“Do you have the gold scarf? The one you saved? This time I want to wear it for you.”

Entering her again, he found her slick and fever-hot. The rain slackened a little. He could hear the bed creaking fast beneath them. She was incredible—soft, pillowlike, with no prudish restraint. She bit him and petted him and whispered into his ears shocking words that made him love her the more furiously.

A new sound brushed at the edge of awareness while they rode up toward the climax again, a rushing roar. Then he guessed its source: water in the canal, water streaming off the steep hillsides, crashing through the dry channel in a torrent.

“God, God, I love you,” she cried over the roar.

The gray sky boiled with clouds of darker gray and a light shower speckled the overflowing canal. The water was still draining from the hillsides, rushing along to spread in huge pools out where the banks of the streambed flattened, three quarters of a mile beyond the gate.

The air was cool and refreshed. They walked along the canal bank, Carla clinging to his arm affectionately. She’d pulled her hair back and tied it with the scarf and her cheeks had a scrubbed shiny look, free of rouge and mascara. Mack had never seen this woman before: satiated, quiet, meek.

He watched the flowing water, pondering.

“What are you thinking?”

“You’d be insulted.”

“No, tell me.”

“I’m thinking about this.” He jumped off the bank, landing knee-deep in the swift brown flow. The canal actually almost resembled the dishonest illustration in Wyatt’s brochure. “Water,” he shouted, flinging his arms out. He strode upstream, splashing, his glance flying back and forth from the black-clouded peaks to the dry thirsty shores of the canal. He remembered Marquez talking about the importance of water. The old Indian in Wheatville too.

Carla watched him with amused surprise as Mack splashed up fans of water with his hands. “If we had this much water all the time—in a reservoir, behind a dam—this land wouldn’t be worthless. Wyatt promised it to buyers but he didn’t have a notion of how to deliver. I’m going to find out.”

Exhilarated and soaked, he came back and clambered up beside her. “There, I told you what I was thinking. You’re insulted, aren’t you?”

Still amused, she said, “Only a little. I got what I wanted. Finally.” Quite unexpectedly, she caressed his face. Her eyes grew strangely anxious. “Did you like it, Mack? Please tell me you did. I’m not good for much else.”

Unbidden, Nellie’s face came to mind. What would Nellie say about a woman who thought so little of herself? She would erupt. Maybe Carla couldn’t help her feelings. She seemed so unsure all at once, vulnerable as a child.

Reassuring her wasn’t hard.

“I liked it.” He smiled. “Very much.”

“Then let’s go back and—”

“No, Carla. No more today. I have to plow through the rest of those blasted papers. I have to figure out what I’m going to do with this place.”

“I said you needn’t worry. I have enough money for both of us.”

“I’ve taken all I can from you.”

His firmness destroyed her docility, and the old familiar Carla came back, a puzzling conspirator’s smile fleeting over her face.

“For the moment,” she said, kissing him.

They walked back toward the depot along the rushing canal.

“When will I see you, Mack?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when this is all straightened out.”

After she left, he realized with some annoyance that she had still been wearing the golden scarf.

On New Year’s Eve, 1888, he found a news clipping.

It was in a large tattered envelope, one of the last desk items he examined. With it were a lock of dark hair wrapped in a cheap woman’s handkerchief, a certificate of birth from Osage County, Kansas, and a small oval daguerreotype of a tired young woman with light eyes and a smile so strained it was obviously supplied just for the photographer. The clipping was from the
San Diego Bee
, dated November 1887.

SENSATIONAL MURDER!

Remains of Don Ysidor

Sterns Discovered at

His Residence

The battered corpse of the wealthy and respected Don Ysidor Sterns, a longtime resident of this area, was found Monday morning in the main house of Rancho de la Bahía, the Sterns family home for ninety years.

Authorities report Don Ysidor was bludgeoned to death in a most brutal manner. The Don, a widower whose numerous children and grandchildren reside in other parts of California, lived alone. He was faithful in attendance at Sunday mass at his church. When he failed to appear on Sunday, Fr. Anselm Gruder, fearing illness, rode to the Don’s residence early Monday morning. Fr. Gruder discovered the grisly corpse.

There were no signs of forced intrusion. However, authorities discovered a large metal cashbox, which showed dents and scratches. Its lock was broken, the contents removed. Don Ysidor was considered a man of means, with substantial investments in San Diego street railways, and also in Elisha Babcock’s land syndicate, which constructed the sumptuous Coronado Hotel and developed the Coronado Heights and South Coronado tracts.

Mack laid the yellowed cutting on the desk with an unsteady hand. “Damn you, Wyatt. God damn you.”

Now he knew where the money had come from, even if he’d never know how Wyatt had charmed his way into the house, and the presence, of the man he murdered.

On the first business day of 1889, Mack returned to Los Angeles and called on Potter. He handed the lawyer the old envelope, sealed with blobs of wax.

“Will you keep this in your safe?”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“Some personal papers. Nothing important.”

Enrique Potter bobbed his head and squared the envelope in front of him. He regarded Mack with a pleased smile.

“Happy New Year, then. It certainly looks more auspicious than the last one.”

“I don’t know how you can say that. San Solaro Development owes all those people their down payments—”

“Yes, but as a practical matter, how many of them reside anywhere nearby?”

Mack had often seen the list. “Not a one.”