* * *
Even with a fresh horse, it was two hours of hard riding before Ramón neared the rancho. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and reined up, then realized that Clint too galloped through the scrub oak toward the Padilla hacienda. He spurred his horse, and the trails converged. Clint reined up ahead of him.
“Did you see the smoke?” Clint asked.
“Smoke?”
“As I crested the rise back there… a hell of a lot of smoke coming from the rancho.”
Without another word, Ramón spurred the stallion, leading the way.
They entered the clearing, and Ramón jerked rein, setting the stallion back on his haunches in a sliding halt.
Searing flames licked over the scorched adobe walls of the hacienda and barn; their red-tiled roofs had already collapsed. Only the cocina and the matanza remained unscathed. No one could be seen.
Ramón nudged his mount forward at a slow walk, “Alfonso,” he called, his eyes searching. “Alfonso Diego.”
But he received no answer. Reining up near a window of the hacienda, its leaded windows melted away, its shutters blackened with fire, Ramón looked inside and recognized the remains of Luis. His charred corpse sat in firing position, still clutching a blackened musket. The heat of the smoldering building drove Ramón back. He reined from the grisly scene and nudged his horse toward the barn, but it too stood in ruins.
Clint checked the other windows of the house, then followed. “Another man is at the side window,” Clint said, “but he has a burnt peg leg… it’s not Alfonso.”
“It is Rafael,” Ramón offered. Ramón studied the barn then stood in his stirrups to look out over the pasture beyond.
“Madre de dios,” he swore, and urged his horse into a lope. Clint stayed close behind.
They passed the butchered carcass of an Indian pony, its forequarters intact but its hindquarters and loins hurriedly stripped away. Ramón slowed his horse to a walk and reined up.
Alfonso, two stone lanceheads protruding through his chest, his head smashed, lay near his old stallion.
Setting his jaw, Ramón dismounted and walked slowly to the stallion. With a flick of his knife, he cut the látigo and loosened the saddle. He removed and unfolded the blanket and walked over to cover his father. Kneeling beside him, he slowly crossed himself. His breathing seemed to catch several times but he shed no tears.
Clints mouth rasped dry and his shoulders bunched in taut anger. He had not known the old man well, but he respected him and his son. He wished he could say something but sensed that nothing he could say would soothe Ramón’s grief.
Ramón rose and stared up at Clint, his eyes flat and cold. “For this, a thousand Yokuts will die.”
Ramón walked back to the fallen gray stallion, undallied his father’s reata, and followed it to its end. A rueful smile played at the corners of his mouth as he shooed a raven away from the stout brave sprawled in the earth, his neck at an odd angle, his eyes plucked away by the scavenger. “Salud, Alfonso Diego,” he said quietly.
He removed the loop, and coiled the reata as he returned to Clint. He handed the finely braided coil of leather to him. “I told you I would get you another. He wove the finest. No man was his equal as trenzador. He would want a good lazodor to have it.”
Clint said nothing. He did not want to fight the burning knot in his throat.
Ramón remounted. “Let us see if we can find any living,” Ramón said, and headed back toward the smoking shell of the hacienda. His ears rang, and his mouth was as dry as the ashes of yesterday’s fire. His stomach knotted in revolt at what he had seen, and he tasted bile. He did not hear them coming, for his mind was years away, in the time his father had put him astride his first pony. Then the sound of hoofbeats jolted him from his thoughts. Estoban Padilla, Inocente, and twenty vaqueros rounded the burned-out remains.
Clint and Ramón loped over to the men staring in grim fascination at the carnage. As they joined them the heavy door to the matanza creaked open, and Muñoz peeked out. He saw the vaqueros and fell to his knees in prayer. Behind him, the women and little children sank to their knees in joyous weeping.
“Has anyone been hurt?” Don Estoban asked as he dismounted.
Muñoz crossed himself a final time and rose. “Alfonso told me to hide, so I gathered the women and children in the matanza and barred the door. We could hear them on the roof but they left before they tried very hard to enter.” Muñoz glanced around, and when he saw the empty pasture and the house stripped of belongings, he knew why. They had what they had come for. His voice lowered and rang with dread. “Luis, Rafael, and Alfonso are not with us.”
“They are dead,” Ramón said coldly. “And I ride to avenge them. Who rides with me?”
The vaqueros’ voices rose as one.
Twenty-One
Clint stepped forward, ready to mount and ride out with the vaqueros.
Inocente Ruiz locked eyes with him but spoke to Ramón. “My vaqueros and I will ride with you, Ramón, but we will not ride with this Anglo.”
Clint remained silent, but his cold, chipped-ice eyes spoke for him. Again he felt it was Ramón’s play.
“It is not your fight,” Ramón said quietly, turning to him.
“I want to ride with you, Ramón.”
“It is not your fight. It is ours,” He reached over and placed a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “And I need twenty more than I need one.”
“Then I will hunt on my own,” Clint said, breaking his hard gaze from Inocente’s.
Don Estoban Padilla stepped forward. “For each man who returns one head of my brood stock—his voiced rose, and he shook his fists—a thousand reales!”
“I ride for blood,” Ramón whispered.
“Then we ride!” Inocente yelled, spinning his horse and thundering away.
Ramón hesitated and touched the brim of his flat hat. “I am sorry, amigo, but this is the best way. Por favor, see that my father’s body is taken to the mission.”
“As you wish, amigo,” Clint answered, but Ramón was already five long strides away, joining his compadres. Clint’s chest burned with frustration as he watched the group of determined vaqueros gallop away.
Don Estoban looked beaten and weary. He glanced at the remnants of his home, then at the barn. “Two lifetimes of work,” he muttered.
A lone carreta rested near the corral, and an ox grazed in the pasture, unbothered by the carnage surrounding it.
His eyes distant and flat, Estoban glanced at Clint. You may take the carreta and the boy. Have Muñoz return quickly. I will need him here. Inform the pueblo of what has happened, and tell the alcalde that my vaqueros have ridden in pursuit.” Estoban motioned to the old women, who wept quietly. Find something to wrap the bodies in. You will have much time to mourn after we see what we can salvage from this mess.”
Clint remounted as soon as he had helped with the grisly job of wrapping the bodies in blankets and loading them in the carreta. Muñoz took the driver’s seat of the cart and cracked a whip over the ox’s wide horns, but the animal merely flicked his ears.
Just as he began another pass with the whip, the carriage—carrying Juana, Tia Angelina and Juana’s mother, Doña Isabel—entered the yard. Their Indian driver reined up, but the women remained sitting, stunned and silent, until Doña Isabel broke down in tears and buried her face in her hands. Juana jumped from the carriage and ran toward the barn. “Florita! She was not in the fire?”
“No, daughter, Estoban answered. Not in the fire, but gone, as all the horses are. The Yokuts drove them out.”
“But… but… Juana could not bear the terrible thought; then she stared up at her father. “They will butcher my little palomino.”
“You should not worry about a horse at a time like this,” Estoban snapped, and Juana’s attention turned to the turret with its bundled load.
“Not ours? Not our people?” she whispered, and her eyes flooded with tears.
“Alfonso, Luis
, and Rafael.”
Juana swayed against the carreta, the tears in her eyes spilling down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees and prayed. Tia Angelina joined her.
“We do no good here,” Clint muttered to Muñoz, and urged the stallion around. After several echoing cracks of the whip, Clint led the carreta away at a slow walk, its creaking wheels a sad accompaniment to the women’s prayers.
By the time they reached the mission, it was the middle of the afternoon. Clint had been frustrated by the slow pace of the carreta, but he had promised Ramón, and it was the least he could do.
He would give almost anything for one of the Charleston’s Aston pistols or Hawkens muskets and one of her fine sabers. He was mounted as well as any man, if only he were armed as well. Wishing is fool’s work, he decided. While his stallion plodded behind the cart, Clint let his head fall to his chest, he slept in the saddle, the stallion clomping along slowly.
Sometime later, he was awakened by a cry from Muñoz. Knowing they were near the pueblo and wary of a meeting with Captain Sharpentier, Clint snapped instantly alert.
Padre Javier met them at the mission gates, sadly crossing himself as he saw the first of the carnage that he had feared would come. Finally he knew what had been bothering him. He did not believe in premonition, but more and more as he grew older, he accepted things he did not understand.
“Take them to the laundry room. It is where we prepare the bodies for burial.”
Clint slid out of the saddle and extended his hand to the padre. “Should I be on the lookout for Sharpentier?” he asked.
He left days ago. I don’t think the Charleston will return for more than a month, probably two.”
Clint loosened the horse’s cinch and handed the braided reins to an Indian boy. Having been assured that the Charleston had sailed, he dropped to the grass and left the padre to his grim business. It was almost an hour before the padre returned and handed him a mug of coffee.
Clint rubbed his tired eyes and climbed to his feet. “Padre Javier, I must ride to avenge the death of my friend’s father.”
“Vengeance is the Lord’s, my son,” said the padre.
“I know, but if you’ll find me a musket, I’ll ride and give the Lord a hand.”
Padre Javier paused uncertainly for a moment then his look hardened. “Come with me.”
The padre strode away, and Clint hurried to keep up. Padre Javier turned into a wide gated courtyard filled with flowering frangipani and rose bushes.
“Where are we?’ Clint asked.
“The hacienda of Don Nicholas Den.”
The priest pounded at a massive carved mahogany door.
An Indian answered and led them inside to fine hand-rubbed plank floors, the first Clint had seen in Alta California.
The man who entered the room to meet them was slender and wiry, light-haired, blue-eyed, and square-jawed, and unlike the Mexicans, wore full muttonchop sideburns.
The priest introduced them, and Clint was surprised to hear an Irish accent in the Spanish greeting.
“County Kilkenny?” Clint asked, as he shook hands.
“Why, yes, lad, and yourself?” The don smiled widely.
“The same, but I remember it little.”
“Ryan, Ryan,” Don Nicholas said, pondering. “I knew some Ryans, and fine folk they were. Aye, Ireland’s a grand place, green as an emerald and twice as lovely.” Don Nicholas walked to a sideboard and reached into one of the cubbyholes. “You wouldn’t mind sharing a wee bit of the tears of St. Patrick with a fellow Irishman?”
Clint did not dissuade his host from pouring a dollop for each of the three of them.
“To old Ireland,” Don Nicholas toasted, and the three men drank.
The smooth whiskey was elixir to Clint after the Mexican aguardiente he had been drinking. “It’s been a long time… too long,” he said.
“Now, Padre,” Don Nicholas turned to his gray-robed guest. What brings you here?”
“Our young Irish friend here wishes to ride in pursuit of the Yokuts raiders—”
“He would take up our fight?” The don let his gaze drift to Clint, who was content to let the padre do his talking.
“He has his own reasons.”
The don shrewdly appraised Clint. “I’ve heard that you’re a wanted man, Señor Ryan.”
“I’ve heard that too, Don Nicholas. But they seek the wrong man. The first mate is a thick-headed ox of a Welshman, and the captain is the son—bastard son, I would suppose—of a bloody Englishman. I fear they find an Irish hide as good as any upon which to place the blame.”
“Some things never change. ‘Tis an answer suiting a son of Kilkenny.” Don Nicholas brought the bottle out again.
“I need the loan of a musket,” Clint said, and related the story of the raid on the Padillas’ rancho.
Don Nicholas surveyed him up and down, “So the Celt wants blood. I don’t have a musket to spare my friend, but might have a Druid charm or two that will suit you as well.” He motioned for the two men to bring their glasses and led them to the rear of the spacious house. Clint wondered what good an ancient Celtic charm would do against a hand of heathens but followed.
The Irish don entered his private quarters and paused in front of a tall locked chest. He produced a ring of jangling keys from his pocket. Opening the chest, he reached among a rack of long guns and handed one to Clint, the likes of which Clint had never seen.
“By the saints, this is a piece.” Clint rubbed the blued weapon’s walnut stock in appreciation.
“And this is a piece to match,” The don handed him a handgun. Both pieces had revolving cylinders, or breeches. “Eight shots for the pistol and ten for the ring-lever rifle. Both are thirty-six caliber. Small ball, but very accurate, built by Samuel Colt for the Texas Navy.”
The don gathered powder flasks and shot from the cabinet. “And you, sir, will be a veritable one-man army with both pieces at your disposal. I was fortunate to buy them off an ex-officer of the republic of Texas, a man of dubious background, I would guess, who came to the shores of Santa Barbara a little short of cash. He owned three of each model. I understand there were one hundred eighty of the rifles manufactured for the Texas Navy and about the same number of hand guns for the Texas Rangers. He would only sell the two of each I own.
“And you would lend me these?” Clint asked.
“Only if you promise to teach those thieving heathens a lesson. Old Alfonso Diego was a good friend of mine. He taught me much about cattle and horses when I first landed on the shores of California. And his son, Ramón, speaks highly of you.”
“I will return these as I found them.”
“And return with your skin. I would hate to think of a Celt’s hide decorating the hovel of some heathen, or of a savage with a Druid charm at his disposal.”
With the rifle slipped securely into a saddle scabbard that rode under his leg and the pistol in a saddle holster on the right side of the horn, Clint felt prepared. He had his knife at his belt and his reata tied to the saddle.
Clint, Don Nicholas Den, and the padre took dinner at the Den hacienda—roast hen, poached fish, potatoes, and a variety of fruits and wines with each dish. It was the finest meal Clint could remember, and he was hard put to take his leave after it was finished. But leave he must, for the others would be far in front of him, and he had a stop to make on the way.
Don Nicholas had loaned him not only the firearms, but a second horse—a fine tall red roan almost the equal of the palomino. With two horses, he could move much faster. He also left with a bedroll, a goatgut of water, and several pounds of jerked meat.
He rode well into the night, slept for not more than two hours, and rode on. As dawn blushed, the sky over the mountains to the west, he came upon the place he sought.
Hawk and his Chumash band were up and moving about when he rode into the camp. At first, Hawk did not recognize him, now that he was dressed in a decent jerga and the flat-crowned hat and fine leather boots of th
e vaquero, riding two of the finest horses in the country, but when he did, he welcomed Clint with open arms.
As did Matthew Mataca Konokapali.
“You sent me to a good place, amigo,” Matt said, watching Clint dismount. “I have been treated well.”
“How would you like to see some new country?” Clint asked the big Kanaka. “However, we may not receive much of a welcome.”
Matt tilted his massive head. “As long as it is no closer to the stocks, or to the alcalde’s juzgado, I would like new country.”
“And you can set yourself right with the cholos if things work out.”
Hawk followed their conversation with interest but said nothing. Clint turned to him. “And you, mi amigo, do you have any love lost for the Yokuts?”
Hawk did not answer. His look said enough.
“Then ride with us,” Clint said. “We don’t know the country, though the track shouldn’t be difficult to follow. They’ve stolen over a hundred horses, including some of the finest breeding stock in Alta California.”
Truhud, the paxa, who had been standing in the shadows nearby, strode forward, speaking the guttural Chumash language in harsh tones to Hawk, who returned harsh words in kind. Then Hawk stomped away, and the paxa gave Clint a victorious look with his arms folded.
His eyes cold and hard, Clint glared at him, but the man did not flinch. Chahett stepped from a group of girls and smiled at Clint. The paxa strode toward her in anger.
“Hey!” Clint shouted, and Truhud turned and glowered. Clint had his knife in hand, running a thumb across its sharp edge, offering its warning as he glared at the shaman. “If you hurt her in any way, Truhud, you’ll answer to the blade. Clint’s voice was steady and cold, and it was obvious that the shaman understood.
Hawk rode up, leading another saddled horse for Matt and two spares. He motioned to Matt to mount up. Two of the animals carried water gourds and had jerga bedrolls tied to their carved saddles.
The paxa shot a last condemning look at Hawk, then spun on his heel and marched away.
Matt labored up into the saddle, and the stout pony expelled a breath, “I hate horses,” Matt mumbled as he settled into the carved saddle.
“But not as much as you hate walking,” Clint said with a smile, then glanced back and waved at Chahett. He spun the horse and headed out.
Once they were far from camp, Hawk rode up beside him. “These Yokuts—how were they dressed and in what manner was their hair?”
Clint explained in detail as much as he could remember.
“Ton Tache,” Hawk said, confirming Clint’s belief that the Chumash would be of great help. “I know a faster way. If they’re pushing a big band of horses, they’ll move to the Always Star then toward the sun birthplace through the valley the Spanish call Cuyama. It is the easiest way to drive so many, and there is good water most of the way.”
Clint figured the Always Star must be the North Star, the only one that remained fixed in the Northern Hemisphere, and the sun birthplace must be the east where the sun came up. He questioned not picking up the obvious trail of the horses, but he had sought this man’s help, and he would take it. Hawk reined to the north, and Clint followed, Matt bouncing along behind, his lumbering bulk making the mustang he rode look like a tiny Welsh pony.
It’s a good thing we have extra mounts, Clint thought, eyeing the rugged country ahead. Then he turned his attention to the trail, and Hawk dropped back beside him.
“When we reach the land of the Yokuts,” Hawk cautioned, “the land of the elk we must be on our guard. They will take you and the Kanaka for Mexicans and they would love to have my skin. There was a time when I helped the mission padres round up Yokuts and bring them to the coast.”
“Are there many of them?”
“As the stars in the sky,” Hawk said.
“How long before we reach this land of the elk?”
“Before the sun takes its dip into the sea, but then it is still a great distance to the Tache village.”
Clint rubbed the stock of the revolving breech rifle in his scabbard and made sure the pistol was secure in its saddle holster. As usual, he was riding into trouble.
“A great country, this Alta California,” he thought, “Never boring, at least.
Twenty-Two
Estoban’s heart ached as he kicked his way through the charred remains of the hacienda,
“There is no sense trying to save that,” Estoban instructed Juana, who was sorting through scorched china dishes. He attempted a smile but feared his sincerity was lacking. “We will find more dishes that your mother likes better.”
“This china was my favorite.” Juana said. But the tears she felt did not come. She, like the rest of the family, had no tears left. Without comment, she began to throw the china into a wheelbarrow.
Tía Angelina also helped with the cleanup, but Juana’s mother, Doña Isabel, stayed in the caleche, her hands clasped across her breast, rocking back and forth.
It could have been worse, Estoban realized, had the matanza not been windowless to keep the flies and rodents at bay. He had climbed to the roof and found burned-out torches where the Indians had tried to set fire to the brea he had hauled from the seep near the ocean to seal the flat-planked roof. Luckily, the heavy tar had not ignited.
Yes, it could have been much worse.
He gazed over the ruins and resisted the impulse to throw up his hands and walk away.
“La paciencia todo lo alcanza.” Maria his faithful old house servant, said quietly to him as if she read his mind. His mouth curved in an attempt at a smile. Yes, patience does attain everything. It was patience, he knew, that had bred the finest palomino Andalusians in all the Americas. And it would be patience that rebuilt the hacienda and barn.
Estoban moved from room to room, working alongside his people. Even old Dora, who had been married to Luis for more years than Estoban could remember, worked and hid her grief, except for an occasional tear.
And Muñoz – Muñoz, who had had the foresight to herd the women and children into the matanza in the first place, he must remember to give Muñoz his pick of the remuda, if he got them back, and a fine silver-conchoed saddle and bridle.
These were only possessions, he reminded himself, looking at the charred ruins of a lifetime of work. He walked out front to the caleche to comfort his wife. “She is not so strong as Juana and Angelina,” he thought, hearing her sobs. If only he and the vaqueros had been here when the Yokuts attacked