Eureka

  BOOM!

  Both boys jumped as the gun roared.

  The red shell exploded. Pieces flying left and right, the main piece jumping straight up. As it fell, Tallman fanned off a second shot and it disintegrated.

  And just as quickly, the gun was back in its holster and Tallman reached up and tenderly stroked the curves in his mustache.

  “You mean that one?” he said.

  He took out the pistol, flipped the retainer on the cylinder open and emptied the spent casings into his hand and dropped them in his pocket, then inserted fresh bullets into the slots and flipped the retainer shut. He handed the gun butt-first to Brodie.

  “Give it a try,” he said.

  The Irish kid took the pistol, stuck the gun between his pants and shirt so the hammer would not catch on his belt. It was on his left side, the butt facing to the right so he could cross-draw. He looked for a target. Twenty feet away a bottle rolled on the beach at the edge of the surf.

  He shook his hands and shoulders loose.

  His right arm moved swiftly across his body, hauled the big Frontiersman from its resting place. His left hand snapped the hammer back as he raised the gun at arm’s length and squeezed his hand. The gun roared, kicked his arm almost straight up. Sand kicked up an inch from the bottle.

  “Well, damn,” he muttered.

  “That was a good shot,” Tallman said, nodding assurance. “Just a hair to the right.”

  Brodie smiled, dropped the empty casing into his hand and gave the casing and the gun back to the sheriff.

  “How about you, Ben?” Tallman asked.

  “Nah,” Ben answered. “You know I never got the hang of it.”

  Tallman looked over his shoulder. The sun was turning red, sinking toward the horizon. He slapped them both on the shoulder.

  “You boys better get on up the Hill. Be dinnertime soon.”

  They rode the length of the beach to the cliff trail, a wide walkway huddled against the face of the cliff, which rose six hundred feet up the sea side of the Hill and ended at the edge of Grand View, the O’Dell estate. The grand, white-columned mansion sat back from the main road at the end of a drive lined on both sides by small bushes. Behind it and six hundred feet down, the Pacific Ocean stretched to the horizon.

  It and the Gorman estate were the two grandest houses on the Hill.

  A one-horse surrey was coming up the road from the strip of stores that serviced the families on the Hill. The driver was a powerfully built black man in his twenties, who spoke with an almost musical lilt. His name was Noah. Rumor had it that Shamus O’Dell had bought Noah’s mother at a slave market on one of the Caribbean islands. He had bought her as a housekeeper, not knowing she was pregnant. Her son had been raised by O’Dell and educated by his wife, Kate. Noah was fiercely loyal to the family, sometimes acting as a bodyguard for Shamus; sometimes watching over Delilah, who was O’Dell’s daughter and one of the three girls in the carriage; sometimes driving the family automobile, a German Daimler, which looked like a formal horse carriage powered by a gas engine and was the only automobile in the valley.

  O’Dell never took the car down the hill, fearing the brakes might not hold or it would get mired in mud. So he showed off in it sticking to the broad, forested, five-mile-wide northern mesa, the Hill, where the families of fourteen tycoons lived, five appearing only on weekends. Noah proudly squired O’Dell along the horse trails that served as roads, taking him to the club where the rich men and their male out-of-town guests drank at the bar or played cards. On occasion, Noah drove Delilah to the two-story schoolhouse, where tutors taught the dozen or so children of the barons who lived there year-round.

  Two of the girls in the surrey were facing Ben and Brodie as they reached the top of the cliff. The third girl was sitting opposite the other two, with her back to the boys.

  When Noah saw the boys, he reined in his horse.

  Delilah O’Dell, seventeen and the oldest of the three, already flaunted a sensuous and independent nature that would define her through the years. She was well developed for her age. Blazing red hair cascaded down over her shoulders and curled over her breasts. She ignored Ben, fixing her green eyes on Brodie.

  “Looks like you’ve been rolling those horses in the mud,” she said haughtily.

  Ann Harte, the girl sitting next to her, had just turned fifteen and was extremely shy. She giggled nervously, looked down, toyed with her purse, and murmured, “Hello.”

  Brodie was staring at the girl with her back to the two riders. “Oh, Del,” she chastised, “that’s rude.” Then she turned and stared back at Brodie.

  Isabel Hoffman was as fragile as Delilah was lusty. She would turn seventeen in two weeks. Jet-black braided hair hung down her back. Deep brown eyes stared softly from a face that had the quality of fine china. Sharp features accented high cheekbones. She was dressed in a white pinafore. She was always dressed in white or pastel, unlike Delilah, who favored bright, sometimes garish colors. Sometimes black, when she was feeling moody.

  Today, Delilah was dressed in black.

  The valley was owned by the JMC and Pacific, which O’Dell and Gorman had inherited when Jesse Crane had been gunned down. Shrewdly, Gorman had opted for a smaller share of the property—but his share completely encircled O’Dell’s. The Irishman could not develop his property without entry and exit rights through Gorman’s property and Gorman, knowing O’Dell’s plans for the future, refused to give them up.

  But O’Dell owned the six square blocks that included the town of Eureka.

  “Something the matter, Del?” Ben asked.

  “You know what’s the matter,” she chided, still looking at Brodie.

  Ben thought for a moment and said, “Is this about the game?”

  She finally glared at him but did not answer.

  “That’s between my father and yours,” Ben said quietly. “We’ve all been friends since I can remember. What’s it got to do with us?”

  “Yes.” Isabel nodded. “I agree.”

  “My father says we’ll have to leave if he loses. But he won’t lose.” Delilah looked at Brodie and her full lips curled into a slight smile. “When he was young he played poker for a living. Over in Denver.”

  “I don’t know whether my father can even play poker,” Ben said.

  “So when he loses,” Del said with a snicker, “will you leave?”

  “Mr. Eli hasn’t talked about it,” Brodie interrupted.

  “He’s the only one in town who hasn’t,” said Isabel. She looked at Ben and said, “Aren’t you worried?”

  “It’s not for our houses, just the land in the valley.”

  Del looked down and picked at her skirt. Her tone became more plaintive. “Daddy has such a terrible temper. He said if that old . . . if Mr. Eli wins . . . he’ll leave on the spot and go back to San Francisco and never set foot here again, and Mother and I will follow as soon as school ends.”

  “I’m sorry it’s come to that, Del,” said Ben.

  “Me, too,” Brodie said. “But we can’t do anything about it. Just wait and see what happens.”

  Ben reached down and squeezed Isabel’s hand.

  “We gotta go. It’s dinnertime.”

  She nodded and looked at Brodie, who wheeled his horse around as he touched the bill of his cap.

  “See you at school tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.

  Noah snapped his whip and the surrey moved up the road toward Grand View. Delilah looked back as they pulled away, her eyes fixed on Brodie’s back as the two boys headed toward home.

  The only time Brodie ever saw Eli Gorman in less than business attire was on Sunday at lunch when he sometimes wore a silk smoking jacket. Even then, he wore a tie. Short and somewhat stubby, his heavy-lidded but steady brown eyes never wavered, alert and always interested. He spoke in a deep, level voice, which he rarely raised, even in anger. His face was thick-featured, topped by thinning black hair, and concealed behind a graying mustache and goatee. Most pe
ople found his appearance intimidating.

  In business he was tough but fair, a shrewd, well-informed, quiet fox who had attended some of the finest schools in Europe and emigrated to the United States with his father, a banker. He mastered the English language, had not a whit of an accent. At twenty-one, he attached himself as an intern to Andrew Carnegie, the powerful steel magnate, who later moved him into the railroad business, where Gorman proved a wily match for the robber barons who controlled the network of trunk lines that criss-crossed the country. In his mid- thirties, Gorman found himself in San Francisco, comfortably rich thanks to a generous inheritance and artful investments in his burgeoning business.

  It was there he finally began to enjoy life. He met and, after a year of ardent courtship, married Madeline Lowenstein, the tall, handsome, cultured daughter of a wealthy shipping magnate. Maddy gently sanded off his rough edges and they idolized their son, Ben, who had come late in both their lives. Then fate had led Eli to robber baron Jesse Milstrum Crane, to the Frisco–Los Angeles railroad fiasco, and, ultimately, to his unfortunate partnership with Shamus O’Dell.

  Now, at fifty, the old fox was a man whose persona was dictated by tradition. In his religion, ethics, family, and friendships, his life was stable and comfortable, if somewhat ritualized. He tried to keep his business run the same way. But now, uncharacteristically, he was about to risk his ownership of half the valley in a poker game that would pit O’Dell’s greed against his vision.

  Madeline knew about the game and supported his decision. And the boys knew about the game because it was a topic of gossip all over the valley. But it was not a subject Eli discussed openly with his family.

  Eli stared across the elegant dining table at Ben and Brodie as the evening prayers began. Eli was inspired by their friendship, which transcended social standing, by Ben’s ability to see the value of this young boy, toughened by the streets of Eureka but with an innate sense of honesty and loyalty. And Brodie was smart, no longer brandishing the hard-boiled attitude he first had shown that day four years ago when Ben had brought him home—a tattered ragamuffin whose mother was a washerwoman. Eli was proud that Brodie saw and admired the same values of trust and friendship in Ben. When Brodie’s mother died of lung fever four months later, Eli had unofficially adopted the boy, given him a room over the stable, and paid him five dollars a week to groom the horses.

  Brodie was grateful for his new life and showed it in many ways. Every Friday, starting at sundown, he voluntarily performed or directed the chores of the servants during the twenty-four hours devoted to prayer and atonement during which all other activities were forbidden to Jews. When Brodie had been invited to share meals with the family, it was his choice to wear a yarmulke—a voluntary act that deeply touched Eli.

  When the prayers were over, Eli piled food upon Maddy’s fine china plates and passed them around. He sat at the head of the table wearing a prayer shawl, his pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose.

  “So what were you two up to after school?” Mr. Eli asked as he chewed a mouthful of meat loaf.

  A little too casual, Brodie thought. The old fox knows.

  “We had a little problem in Eureka,” he blurted, before Ben could avoid the truth.

  Ben winced but was speechless. Eli looked up and stared at his son. His tone was quiet but firm. “What were you doing in Eureka?”

  “We went to the pharmacy to get a soda.”

  “There’s a soda shop up here on the Hill.”

  “We were real thirsty, Papa,” Ben said. “We played baseball for two hours.”

  “You don’t know enough to take a canteen? A bottle of water?”

  “We shared it with the kids from Milltown, sir,” Brodie pitched in. “They didn’t have none.”

  “Any. Not none. The word is any.”

  “Yes, sir, any,” Brodie said.

  “Then what?”

  “There was a . . . uh . . . mix-up,” Ben said.

  “What kind of mix-up? Did you have words with somebody?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ben.

  “Harsh words?”

  Ben nodded.

  “So harsh they gave Thomas a bruise over his eye? Words that fly through the air and make an eye black-and-blue?” Eli was the only one who called Brodie by his given first name.

  “It was a fight, sir,” Brodie said. “With a guy named Guilfoyle.”

  “He called me a kike,” Ben said.

  Maddy looked down at her plate, embarrassed by the bigoted remark.

  Eli took another bite of food.

  “And you stood up for Benjamin?” Eli said to Brodie.

  Brodie looked down at his lap. “He said it to me, not Ben. Besides, Ben, he does the thinkin’ and I . . . uh . . . I do the . . .”

  “Fightin’?” Eli said, mimicking Brodie’s tough talk. “Brains and brawn, that it?”

  “That’s about it, sir.”

  “Look at me, Thomas. Don’t look away, that’s a sign of weakness. Always look a person straight in the eye.”

  “Yes sir,” Brodie answered and fixed his gaze on Mr. Eli’s dark brown eyes.

  “You’re a very bright young man, Thomas. A bit impetuous, but that’s the Irish in you. Don’t undersell yourself. Just because you’re handy with your fists doesn’t mean you’re stupid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eli looked at Brodie. “This Guilfoyle, is he the young hoodlum who works for Riker?”

  Brodie nodded.

  “And he was looking for a fight, was he?”

  Brodie nodded again.

  Eli nodded toward the black-and-blue streak over Brodie’s eye.

  “He’s quite a bit larger than you.”

  “He whipped him good, Papa,” Ben chimed in. “The miserable skunk . . .”

  “Benny, please!” Maddy said.

  “Sorry, Mother. Anyway, he only got one punch in and Brodie—”

  “Yes,” the father interrupted. “He whipped him good.” He thought for a moment and added, “Well, I’m glad you won, Thomas. Winning is always preferable to losing. But I have forbidden you both from going into Eureka for just this reason. Are we understood on that?”

  They both nodded.

  “Mother, have you anything to add?”

  Madeline Gorman, who had been listening quietly to the conversation, looked up from her dinner.

  “I don’t approve of brawling,” she said softly. “But sometimes it is a matter of honor, Eli.”

  “Yes, my dear, I understand that. The point is, they weren’t supposed to be there in the first place.” He cleared his throat and added, “Well, enough said of that. Let’s enjoy our dinner.”

  The full moon was brighter than the lanterns flittering at the corners of the wide paddock. Brodie had showered off both horses and stabled the brown. Now he stood brushing the white horse in slow, easy strokes, smoothing out his coat and sweeping the tangles from his mane, and talking to him in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Frisky tonight, huh, Cyclone?”

  The horse snorted and casually stomped a hoof.

  Brodie stroked his forelock, patted his neck, rubbed his soft muzzle.

  “Liked that run on the beach, din’tcha? You like runnin’ on the sand.”

  The horse growled and bobbed his head.

  Behind Brodie, the end of a cigar glowed in the darkness.

  “You really love that animal, don’t you, Thomas?”

  It startled Brodie, although it was not uncommon for Mr. Eli to stroll down to the pasture for his evening cigar. He never smoked in the house; Mrs. Gorman hated the smell of cigars.

  “He’s the first thing I ever owned, sir. Three dollars, imagine that. He’s one handsome fellow, he is.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “And you, sir,” Brodie answered.

  The white stallion, a horse bred to be ridden, had been hitched side by side with a muscular dray horse, hauling railroad ties in a wagon. The white strained but did not have the powerful
legs of the dray. The driver, a big-chested, angry man, was lashing out at the white.

  “You lazy son of a bitch,” he roared. “You worthless, good-for- nothing nag. I’ll show you who’s boss.”

  He jumped down from the wagon and pulled a pistol from his back pocket. Brodie, who was working on the railroad that summer, jumped down from a railroad car and ran to the man.

  “Don’t shoot him,” he begged.

  The big man glared down at him. “Who the hell are you?” he growled. “Get outta my way.”

  He cocked the pistol, held it toward the horse’s head.

  “I’ll buy him,” Brodie cried out.

  “With what?”

  Brodie had five silver eagles in his pocket, his pay for the week.

  “Two eagles,” he said. “I’ll give you two dollars.” He took out two coins and held them in the palm of his hand toward the man.

  “I’d rather shoot the lazy bastard,” he sneered.

  “I’ll make it three. Is it worth three dollars to shoot him?”

  The driver stared at the three silver dollars.

  “Christ, yer crazy,” he said. But he took the three bucks and unhitched the horse. “How you gonna get him home?”

  “I’ll ride him,” Brodie said.

  “You ain’t even got a saddle.”

  “I’ll ride him bareback.”

  “Shit,” the driver said, and spat a stream of tobacco onto the horse’s neck. “You get on him, he’ll throw you all the way to Albuquerque.”

  Brodie rode the horse six miles bareback, using a rope for a bridle. He was thrown four times and he was skinned up, his one shirtsleeve almost torn off and a bruise on his cheek. When he got to end-o’-track he bummed a ride into Eureka on a wagon, with the horse he named Cyclone tied to the back. Then he led the horse the last four miles up the cliff walk and across the top of the hill to the Gorman estate.

  Eli remembered the day Brodie came home with the animal. Skinny, its ribs standing out like a museum skeleton, its flanks festered with whip scars, its eyes crazy and fear filled.