Roy Bean's Gold (22 page)

Now, if I was a hand at cracking jokes, I'd have to say that the supper at the Del Monte Tavern was just a humdinger of a “love feast,” for, by the time the drinks came around, there was no one more satisfied with the California Rangers than the rangers themselves.

First and foremost, Captain Harry Love was the most satisfied of all, and he told the entire barroom just exactly why, with each speech punctuated by approving yelps and applause from the six assembled rangers, all of them mere greenhorns. Later in the evening I found them to be a collection of store clerks, bank tellers, and the like, all out for a lark away from their jobs, and following Captain Harry Love. Love himself turned out to be an ex-policeman, ward heeler, and small-time rancher from Texas, who'd talked the San Francisco City Council into forming a body of ninety-day rangers.

“Nobody nohow was ever able to catch aholt of sech confounded rascals as that José Carrillo and Tiger Juan Flores until we hit th' trail after 'em. Carrillo, he's a-pushin' up cactus while Flores is locked away at that there new
juzgado
at Point San Quentin,” drawled Love, tugging at his black ox-horn mustaches. “And yours truly, with my bloodhound rangers, done it.”

“
Pequeño pescado
,” one of the gray-bearded
rancheros
in the corner muttered to a friend, where they sat puffing their pipes.

“Oh, I heered that.” Love shrugged and called for another round for the whole house, including the skeptical
rancheros
. “Small fish, mebbie, but it ain't only small fish we're after, but some mighty big ones. sharks even. Well, you can tell the hull wide world that Harry Love's in th' field and he ain't comin' back, except for supplies, till he runs down that gol-durned Murieta.”

“And we'll gobble him long afore that slowpoke of a Sheriff Salazar gets halfway from Frisco,” said a skinny young hide salesman and ninety-day ranger. There were approving shouts and the rattle of six empty glasses.

“This here Salazar jest ain't got th' knack of trailin',” Love told the barroom. “Back in th' old Lone Star, even before th' war, I used to hunt me an Injun or a Mex before breakfast just to keep in practice. I been at this business since Nero was a pup.” He looked at me narrowly, red face flushed with liquor, but his words were steady. “I'm not prejudiced but y'gotta recollect that I'm a God-fearin' Yankee, leastwise a Texan, while this here Salazar's a greaser same as this sidewinder Murieta.” He shrugged. “So it don't take no blind man to see that there sheriff's not gonna move too briskly after his own sort, now does it?”

I got up. “Mister Love, I happen to know Sheriff Salazar pretty well, and his one hope in life, aside from growing back a new scalp, is to get his hands or rope affixed onto Joaquín Murieta.”

Then I bade the entire bunch
buenas noches
and got to my room before I found myself mixed up in a barroom fight with that whole lot of California Rangers—shoe clerks and all.

Next morning, when I took breakfast in the bar, I was glad to learn that Captain Almighty Love and his men had lit out at daybreak. I felt somehow sorry for those young fellows, and even for that red-faced blowhard Love, for he had stood me to my supper and drinks. But if those California Rangers ever got near either Joaquín, I truly feared for the whole posse's continued existence.

* * * * *

The rest of my travels up the El Camino Real took White Lightning and myself a total of six and a half more days. From time to time I'd meet or pass such run-of-the-mill travelers as peddlers' carts, occasional stages, mine supply wagons, and, once in a while, small herds of beef cattle, as well as restless groups of miners, going from camp to camp as they headed toward that “better strike.” But there were no more such curious folks as Peter Biggs and his cartload of fighting-mad cats, or odd characters like the swell-headed Captain Love and his squad of amateur
bandido
exterminators.

At about 11:00, the 20th of October, after riding fifteen miles from the comfortable Mansion House, where I'd spent the night, I reined in my white stallion on the crown of one of the hills that ringed San Francisco from the south, east, and north. There I sat breathing the mount and peering downward toward the great landlocked harbor, but there was little to see at the moment. The entire city below lay hidden under a shining sheet of vapor, shimmering whitely as it swayed and rippled in the freshening sea breeze, for all the world like the curtain of an immense theater that was about to rise to reveal the latest melodrama—or, more likely, comedy.

The thick grass among the scattered chaparral, flanking the roadside, now turning a paler green, flared and tossed about in the Pacific winds. Somewhere in the distance a pair of mourning doves called to each other from a knot of pine saplings, while a suddenly swooping marsh hawk, diving after some rabbit or gopher, scared up a flock of valley quail. The unexpected thunder of wings spooked my horse and in the time it took to head him back into the road and somewhat gentle him, that fog-like vapor, spread across the city, had parted, leaving silvery shreds and billows to drift off over the northern hills.

There the entire panorama lay, all shining before me, as the arching sun gilded roof top and steeple of the first truly Yankee city I'd viewed for many a year. New York, I supposed, could be no finer.

Slowly the vista widened and I saw the steep little city climbing up its sandy slopes, surrounded by rings of barren hills, now all golden green, clustered in a crescent, and stretching downward to a waterfront where what seemed like half of the world's shipping rode at anchor. Bright flags fluttered or stood out stiffly in the winds. On an inclining sandy cliff to the north, called ­Telegraph Hill, the gaunt arm of the signal semaphore was etched blackly against the bright blue of the sky as it waited to point out the arrival of the graceful, snow-white-winged clippers. Here and there one of the little river steamers, down from the Sacramento, trailed a thread-like banner of smoke as it criss-crossed the wide sparkling bay. The Long Wharf, at the water's edge, looked like nothing less than a narrow watery village strung along the forest of masts that speared up from the busy waterfront.

Far up from the hodge-podge of the dock area, I could see dozens of little crooked streets, winding along like a series of footpaths among the block upon block of little white-and-gray frame houses, and just about make out the scallops of wooden trimming along their eaves. Beyond them, iron houses perched upon the upper slopes, while dozens of canvas tents, of all sizes and colors, flapped farther up the windy heights. And in the very heart of the crescent-shaped city, rising tier upon tier, there lofted the massive buildings of Portsmouth Square. These, I could see, were built to stay of stone or painted plaster, and all trimmed out with wide balconies and finely wrought railings. Those, I found, were mainly the gaming houses and theaters, along with four-storied hotels, for ever since the gold rush the sporting life had become a part of San Francisco's existence.

Somewhere down there I'd find Dulcima sooner or later, maybe at one of the theaters—and Rosita, though I'd not thought of her much lately. But that fiery
señorita
was bound to be off there somewhere in the foothills, with her brother. And beyond those foothills, and the open country, there waited—Kirker's gold!

Thinking on such things, I lingered upon the hill, while all that distant sound of voices and the rattle of carriages and carts and footsteps, echoing up from the wooden-planked streets, blended with the shrilling of the winds through the grass and shrubs. At last, jolted from my reverie by the approach of hoof beats, I turned in my saddle to discover the dusty approach of one of the San Francisco-bound coaches.

I lingered no longer but gave my horse his head and went pounding down the steep road, leaving the coach far in the rear. We shortly came to the outskirts of the city, loping past low, rambling warehouses and various sheds. As the road curved on toward the waterfront, I began to meet the traffic of a busy city. Here on Montgomery, a carelessly planked street that had taken over from the broad El Camino Real, I passed between crowded shops and stalls. Again and again I had to pull aside to keep from colliding with the many red-and-white hackney coaches. These conveyances, filled with miners on a spree, dashed past at full tilt, barely missing the swarms of sailors who came clambering up from the boat stairs, as well as men of every color and hue who hastened up and down the narrow street or leaped cursing from under a hackney's wheels.

White Lightning shook his head and jingled his bridle chains at the ungodly racket and confusion but kept on along a street that now climbed toward the city's center. And as we clattered through the noisy throngs, I saw more than one stranger pause to watch us go by, though I knew that he was admiring the great white stallion and not the linen-duster-clad vagabond on his broad back.

Crossing Jackson and heading toward the haven of Portsmouth Square, where, a passer-by at the waterfront had told me “everything happened in San Francisco,” I passed shops filled with mining implements that overflowed out upon the wooden sidewalks. Some stores displayed the newest in miner's togs, while others were filled with the latest in tailor-made fashions from Paris and New York, everything seeming to have something to do with the acquiring of gold and the spending of the same.

I had a view of San Francisco's new wrinkle in transportation when I pulled up at Kearny Street to let one of the new Yellow Line's canary-tinted omnibuses roll past on its way out to the Mission Plank Road on the city's outskirts.

When I rode into Portsmouth Square, I seemed to have arrived in the middle of a regular
Arabian Nights
masquerade. Reining in and looking around for some sort of inexpensive tavern or hotel, I could only stare at the noisy spectacle. Here transplanted Yankees were playing Spanish
dons
to the hilt as they strutted along in their sweeping sombreros and black velvet capes or, equipped with serapes and glittering spurs, walked some mighty passable horses around the square. Scores of red-shirted miners in town to celebrate a strike or forget their troubles strolled from building to building, each armed to the teeth with low-slung pistols and Bowie knives stuck in their boots within handy reach. And there was no mistaking the gambling fraternity in their tall, silky stovepipe hats, dapper suits of both somber and gay colors, all with snowy-white, fancy-frilled shirts set off with diamond studs or glittering gold breastpins—each fancy outfit topped by a knobby neck stock of flashy patterns.

But the gamblers, miners, and plain citizens all beat a hasty retreat whenever one of the brightly painted carriages, lined with red silks and drawn by pairs of spirited horses, dashed out from one of the side streets to add to the noontime bedlam.

Noticing a likely-looking hotel on the north side of the square, I dismounted, tugged off my duster, and handed the reins to a ragged bootblack while I went into the Parker House. I came back out almost at once and took the reins back, tossing the urchin a coin—$20 a day was just too rich for my blood.

I was directed over to nearby Washington Street by a passer-by, where I landed a room on the third floor of the San Francisco House at the more reasonable rate of $10 a week.

With White Lightning safely housed in Bryant's Livery on Clay I took lunch at a nearby saloon-restaurant and went back out into the brilliant fall sunlight to enjoy the afternoon. Walking back down to the square, I stood outside the lavish Bella Union, looking over the parade.

It seemed that the same crowd, or one like it, was continuing its march about the square. Dapper gamblers passed in and out of the various halls, along with rougher miners, well-to-do businessmen, and just plain folks of about every nationality, including fuzzy-headed Kanakas from the distant Sandwich Islands, raggedy Negroes and, by their lingo, Germans, Italians, French, and even British, along with scores of pigtailed Chinese. The Chinese women in particular were delicate of build but bold of eye, and all were coming and going upon their private errands—or just loafing around with the rest of us, watching the excitement of an average day in town.

From the gaming houses' open windows came the sound of flutes, fiddles, and banjos, as well as the shouts of laughter of the winners and the sharp outcries of the losers. From time to time, one of the women within, who dealt cards or turned a wheel, would lean from an upper window to smile down upon the crowds, drumming up some trade while the room behind her sleek head blazed with candles to rival the golden afternoon.

Coming up to this three-ring circus from the easy, usually soft-going atmosphere of San Diego made me realize mighty shortly that all of this was going to take some sort of getting used to.

It was a good thing, I thought, that I had plenty of time, for I needed to hole up for a spell and do some serious planning in laying out my campaign.

I had to get in touch with Josh, tell him where I'd lit, then wait and see how his election prospects panned out. I also had to try to find Dulcima, then fit my projected hunt for the gold into our future. As for Rosita, she was always there, somewhere in the back of my mind, and vaguely bothering me, for some reason that I couldn't quite pin down. Perhaps it was because she was Dulcima's guardian, though only a few years older than the “niece” she'd threatened to deal with when she had the time—and perhaps it was because of her connection with the Kirker loot and Murieta.

I returned to the hotel at sundown, having stayed out of the gambling halls all afternoon by a great effort of will power, and had myself a decent meal of steak and potatoes at a nearby restaurant. Then I picked up the latest copy of the
Alta California
and went up to room 303.

After I'd shucked down to my underwear, lit the cracked spirit lamp, and piled into the creaking wooden bedstead, I took out the handbill with Dulcima's picture and spent some time looking at it. It got me plumb fidgety thinking that she might come to town almost any day. And what if she showed up with that low-down Diamond Dick? That circumstance could be explosive to say the least. Well, Mr. Diamond Dick Powers was going to find himself playing some mighty poor hands—if I could deal them. And I was downright set on getting Dulcima, and keeping her—right along with his horse.