BARBARIA Installment 7

CHAPTER SEVEN


Finding no vigilantes, the posse rode away. The Marshal, still angry and frustrated, didn’t bother to say good bye. After his rude departure, it took Marshal Engles three weeks to get back to Fresno with a court order for the detention of Will and Pappy.

The decomposing bodies of the vigilantes had been found in the Salinas hills, and Engles was determined to interview the drovers in connection with the murders.

Engles had no solid evidence of their involvement, but he had been convinced by Will’s fit of laughter at their initial encounter that the man’s mockery was an indication of guilt. Engles’ superiors in Sacramento did not agree with his suspicions, and ordered him to stay put in Monterey to conduct a local investigation. He did so, and concluded that the victims were thrown to their deaths from a train above the gorge where they were found. Will and Pappy were on such a train, the night the vigilantes went missing . When Engles wired Sacramento with that information, he was informed that the train crew had been interviewed already, and had provided Engles’ suspects with a sound alibi.

In addition, on an unrelated case, the head office sent instructions to the marshal to familiarize himself with the facts of yet another missing person case. A girl had disappeared from a Los Angeles orphanage recently, and may have been the victim of kidnapping. The possibility of either an interstate or an international crime required that the Federal Marshals prepare themselves for involvement in the investigation.

In a fit of anger, Engles stood up from his desk and ripped the telegram to shreds. He loudly cursed the pig-headedness of the Sacramento Bureau. In his rage, he envisioned the uncontrolled hilarity of “Will Allison”, the offensive cattleman, openly mocking a U.S. Marshal in the presence of volunteer deputies, until the deputies themselves had joined in the laughter as well.

The Marshal also recalled, very clearly now, the derisive smirk on the lout’s face when Engles had fallen over backwards, getting down from the wagon of a diseased girl; a brown-skinned girl with delicious looking white legs.

Alabaster white. Delicious. As his rage began to subside, he paced the floor, thinking of the girl, and he felt stirrings of lust. The extraordinary and unexpected contrast had aroused him at the time, and the memory was doing so again. His penis hardened as he conjured up the alluring darkness of the child’s face and arms, and those dangling alabaster legs.

The man stopped pacing and looked down at the bits of torn telegram beneath his feet. The brown and white girl was the missing orphan, of course. He had seen the kidnapping victim with his own eyes on the Chowchilla Road. That laughing buffoon was not only a murderer, but a kidnapper as well. The idiots in Sacramento would have to listen, now. To hell with them. Engles decided not to even ask for permission.

There was no Federal Officer located in Fresno, but Engles had two agents under him in Monterey, who had been sent to assist on the vigilante investigation. He wired the Fresno County Sheriff, and instructed him to get on up to Madera to look for a bunch of Mexicans herding cows for two white men.

By then, of course, most of the Obregon party was already back in Vacaville, except for the Indians, Eli and Felix, who had been frequenting saloons and brothels in the Monterey area for two weeks, conducting their own investigation, and Will and Pappy, who were drinking and gambling with dozens of other transient whites in Madera. At least Will was drinking and gambling. Pappy did neither, and when Will went broke, his friend wouldn’t loan him a nickel. Of course, Will didn’t even ask. He knew what the answer would be.

The Sheriff of Fresno County was not an ambitious man. He did not have the time, and certainly not the inclination, to search the countryside for particular white and Mexican cowboys, when half of the men in the region were either white or Mexican cowboys. So it was with great reluctance that he rode out to the stockyards in a freezing north wind full of dust and the smells of cow dung, and began asking questions and looking at brands. He didn’t even go to Madera, just sent a telegram to a rancher friend up there.

After Will had lost his cattle drive earnings at the card tables, he and Pappy decided to go back to the town of Chowchilla, having learned that a rich farmer there, who lived in a house that looked like a European castle, was seeking to hire bilingual white men to oversee his work force. The pair got jobs supervising Mexicans in the bean fields along the river, and that’s where Engles caught up with them, nearly a month after they had parted company with Jorge and Raphael.

This time Engles had just two men with him, but they were career federal officers, not deputized railroad workers. Engles was certain by now that Will and Pappy were responsible for two crimes: that of the murdered vigilantes, and the kidnapped orphan. He arrested the pair, and put them in irons.


* * *

When William Allison and Horace Mouton first came to California together from Oklahoma, they were young, somewhere in their teens. At least, Will was “somewhere”, because he didn’t really know how old he was, but he was sure he was older than Horace, who did know his own age. Horace was sixteen, and a foot taller than William, and habitually addressed his friend in the diminutive, as “Shorty”, “Kid”, or “Little Willie”. Will Allison didn’t like that, but he allowed Horace his fun, and ordinarily wouldn’t fight him over it. Will would challenge others, however, who attempted to follow his friend’s lead. It soon became a favorite pastime of Horace to start fights, using Will as bait.
“Howdy, my name’s Horace, and this here’s my friend, Shorty.”

“Uh-huh. Glad to know ya, Horace. Shorty.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

“What you just called me.”

“Shorty?”

Then the fight would begin. If it seemed as though Will might take a beating, Horace would step in and rescue him. Either way, Horace would smooth things over among the combatants as they doctored cut lips, facial abrasions and bleeding noses after the battle, by explaining the game to the target, and offering to buy him a drink, which was seldom refused. With bad feelings in abeyance, the question inevitably came up.

“If you’re so damn touchy about your name, why don’t you just fight old Horace here, instead of everybody else in the state?”

“Can’t fight him.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you’d never know by looking, but he’s my Pappy.”

Forty years later, when both men were arrested by Federal Marshal Engles for questioning in connection with the murders of the Monterey vigilantes, and the kidnapping of Frances Hogan, age eleven, from the San Fernando Mission Orphanage, Will was no longer known as Shorty, but Horace was still Pappy.


* * *


“The thing is,” Engles growled at the pair as he circled them, chewing his tobacco and spitting, not on the ground, but directly onto the boots and pant legs of his captors, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

God damned cops always say that, Will said to himself.

The Marshal had the men chained to one another, back to back, against a Live Oak, five miles off the Coalinga – San Luis Road.

God damned cops, Will went on in his mind, Always telling you it ain’t no such thing as a coincidence. What they really mean is, ‘You’re the one we got, so you must be guilty,’ then they beat the shit out of you ‘til you confess. Hell if they don’t!

Engles had invented the interrogation technique of spitting on people, quite by accident. As a young New York City policeman, he used to spit on criminals out of contempt, and also to vent his anger, when they would not confess to crimes of which he was certain they were guilty. Engles had learned that, in many instances, the humiliation of being systematically spat upon had the effect of breaking down the willfulness of the accused, so that when the beatings began, his victims seemed less defiant.

Since he also enjoyed expectorating on people with impunity, for reasons that he did not clearly comprehend, nor had any interest in comprehending, Engles had adopted the practice as something of a signature enforcement technique. His colleagues, for the most part, found his eccentricity enormously entertaining, although few ever joined him in the game. When they bandied about nicknames for him, such as “Old Phlegm” or “Spit ‘em up”, he was pleased, and took the references as good-natured compliments.

“You two boys brought a load of cattle through Monterey on the night those vigilantes disappeared, and their bodies were found in a ravine below the tracks, on the way to San Luis, where you unloaded.” He planted a big one on Pappy’s chest, and continued to walk and talk, “When I came after you, looking for those missing men, who I was thinking were fugitives, you thought that was very, very funny.” He stopped in front of Will and made a direct hit on his throat, so the juice dribbled down under the man’s shirt.

“Then there’s the matter of that white girl in the wagon, fixed up to look like a Mexican” Engles went on, “I want you to tell me all about it, you understand? Tell me all about it, now! I want you to start the talking, Cowboy,” Engles said to Will, “I want you to tell me, first, just what was so funny that day, about being chased down by a US Marshal and his posse?”

Will was too angry to speak, but he was also afraid to die. He believed that a man who would chain up another man and spit down the front of his shirt would also kill the son of a bitch. Will looked Engles in the eye and started to ask the bastard what he was talking about, but didn’t want to get spit on again, so he said, “I was laughing at Pappy’s horse, jumping around like a polecat with a corn cob up her ass. Your deputies were laughing, too, in case you don’t remember. Hell, maybe they killed them vigilantes.”

Engles confronted Pappy again. “That right, Mr. Pappy? Was that old boy laughing about your horse jumping around?”

Pappy grinned and said, “Yeah, well, that was about half of it.”

Engles spit on Pappy twice, once on each shoulder. The Marshal could hit the mark at ten feet. That was probably one of the reasons he liked to spit on people. He was good at it. “Is that right? Well, then, tell me the rest. What was the other half?” Will cringed. He was afraid Pappy was going to say something sarcastic, and get them both killed.

“He was laughing because he was glad you didn’t recognize him,” Pappy said. He continued to grin, but Will kept his mouth closed tight, just in case.

“Recognize him? What the hell are you talking about?” Engles marched back around the tree and took a hard look at Will. “Who the hell is he? Who the hell are you, Mister?”

“That there’s Shorty Allison you’re looking at, Marshal,” shouted Pappy from his side of the tree, “Shorty Allison out of Oklahoma. Robbed the Tulsa First National Bank 6 months ago, then lit out for California with $40,000. Been here ever since, and as far as I can tell, ain’t spent a dime of that money yet.”

The two Deputy Marshals, who had been sitting on some rocks nearby, out of the heat, suddenly stood and walked toward the prisoners. “You mean ‘Albertson’?” one of them said to Pappy, “Tiny Albertson?”

“Holy shit!” said the other.

“Well, maybe. He told me he was Shorty Something-or-other. I like to just call him ‘Shorty’, you know. ‘Shorty for short!’ Ha-ha-ha,” Pappy chuckled at his unappreciated play on words.

“You shut your damned fool mouth,” yelled Will, jerking against his chains.

“Engles!” said one of the deputies, “There’s a nice reward for this hombre. Five or six hundred.”

“Hell, Shorty, you never told me that part,” Pappy said, “By God, Marshal, I ought to get that reward, ain’t I?”

“My name ain’t goddam Shorty, goddammit!” Will was getting more agitated.

“Hell, no, it ain’t,” said the deputy, “It’s Tiny, that’s what. Tiny Albertson.”

“Don’t call me that,” Will fumed at the deputy.

“Don’t call you what? Tiny? Shut your goddam mouth, Tiny!” The deputy, not given to spitting on people, backhanded Will across the face, knocking his head against the tree, causing him to bleed and feel dizzy.

“Well, what about it, boys? Do I get that reward, or don’t I?” Pappy asked.

Engles, who had been silent for several minutes, decided to take charge, again, of the interrogation. “You two,” he addressed the deputies and pointed at Will, “take this sorry fool and chain him up over there behind those rocks, and stay with him. But don’t beat on him. Just stay with him until I call you back. I want to have a little private talk with the other one, about his reward.”

The deputy who had hit Will started to object, “What do you mean, his reward?”

Engles grinned and winked, so the deputy remained silent. He unlocked the chain on Pappy’s left wrist, which loosed Will’s right arm, chain attached. Will immediately swung at the man, and the momentum of the swing wrapped the chain around his neck. Will grabbed the loose end of the chain and lifted up.

Pappy ran around the tree and found himself behind the other deputy, who was attempting to free his partner from Will’s strangle hold. Engles, meanwhile, was back-pedaling in the direction of the horses. Pappy punched the deputy at the base of his skull, knocking him into the tree and stunning him and causing blood to run down his face and onto his shirt. Then he slipped his own chain under the man’s chin, and copied Will’s strangle hold. Engles took off running, then, running toward the horses for a firearm. He stumbled on the way, which frightened Pappy’s horse, who had never liked Engles since the first time they had met. None of the animals were tied, so when one started running, Hell bent, the rest followed. Engles screamed at them to stop, but that just made them run faster for about a half-mile, then they stopped.

“Goddammit, quit choking the son of a bitch,” said Pappy, “ All he did was call you Shorty. Ain’t worth hanging for.”

Will eased up and allowed the man to cough and gasp.

“Look at that spit-crazy bastard,” Will said, “Think he’s going to catch his horse?”

“Naw, I don’t think so. He ain’t very good with horses. And you know how they love to run on a day like this, with the breeze and all.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“Dunno.”

“Think he’ll come back over here?”

Pappy laughed loudly, “I know he’s stupid with horses, but I don’t think he’s dumb enough to come around here after all that spitting he done.”

“Well, what the hell. He’s going to have to walk back to Chowchilla, I guess. Ain’t that right?”

“I guess,” Pappy smiled, “You want to hold my man’s neck, here, while I unlock our chains?”

“Right. You want to go get that crazy mare of yours? Think you can catch her before that idiot gets to town? Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

“Shit, I don’t know. Hope so. She ain’t a bad animal, you know. Just playful.”

Pappy bent over to unlock the chains, and Will watched Engles give up on catching his horse, and start moving at a trot in the general direction of town. Then Will turned his eyes in the opposite direction where the horses had gone into a grove of trees to the west.

“Well, I’ll be ….,” said Will, gaping into the distance over Pappy’s shoulder.

Eli and Felix emerged from a grove of trees about a thousand yards away, leading five horses toward them. Before the caravan could draw near, Will waved them off, then he and Pappy chained the deputies to the tree and blindfolded them. Will started to say something, but Pappy put his fingers to his lips, and they walked over to where the new arrivals were holding the horses.

“Did you see that Engles fella?” asked Pappy in a low voice, so the blindfolded agents couldn’t hear.

“Oh, yeah,” whispered Eli, “We been watching him use you boys for a spittoon this morning.”

“Did he see you?” asked Will.

“Naw, We stayed out of sight. The horses found us pretty quick, though.”

Felix said something in Miwok, and Eli translated.

“The Marshal’s saddle bags are full of money and valuables,” said Eli, “That stuff belong to you?”

“It’s all mine,” said Pappy, “This here gambling man is lucky to still have his shirt and pants. He damn near bet his boots on his last hand.”

“Felix thinks we ought to get out of here while the getting’s good,” Eli said.

“Just give me one more minute,” Pappy said, retrieving his belongings from the saddle bags, “I want to have a little talk with those government men over there before we leave.”

Pappy slung a canteen of water over his shoulder, and walked back to where the agents were chained, and stood over them. “Shorty wants me to tell you something,” said Pappy. He placed a hundred dollar gold piece into each man’s hand, and explained what they were. Then he took the coins from their hands an pushed one down into each man’s pocket.

“That’s for keeping your mouths shut,” Pappy said, “Shorty says there’s plenty more where that came from if he don’t get caught. If he’s still on the loose in six months, both you boys will get a thousand dollars each. He knows your names and where you work, so don’t worry about not getting paid, unless he gets caught, of course.”

“What do you want us to tell Engles?” asked the man who had slapped Will, “and who the hell are you?”

“I’m one of the fellas you overheard whispering, ain’t that right?” asked Pappy.

“Yeah,” said the other man, whose face was a bloody mess, “but we couldn’t hear too good.”

“Sure, but you did hear ‘Texas’. And ‘Houston’, you think, and a name,” Pappy went on, “Max, you think. Yeah, that was it. Max, in Houston.” He placed the canteen on the ground next to the men. “There’s water here. Careful you don’t spill it all, trying to drink with those chains on.”

Pappy walked back to the gathering of friends and horses, mulling over what they should do next, now that they were fugitives from justice and all.

Will figured their best chance was to hide out in San Francisco, around the Barbary Coast, “Because they got so damn many criminals hiding there already, nobody’s going to notice two more.”

Pappy didn’t agree. He wanted to go up in the mountains.

“Felix thinks you’re both right,” said Eli. “He says one of you should go to the city, and the other to the mountains. Us two, soon as we get our tracks covered around here, we’re getting back to Vacaville to let Raphael know what’s going on.”

“Tell Raphael I’ll get to that Golden Spike place as soon as I can. Probably take a week or two, ‘cause I’ll be going the long way around,” said Will.

“You’ll be going to your old mining shack, ain’t that right, Pappy?” Eli asked.

“Yeah, that’ll be best for me. Tell ‘em I’m going to cut my hair off and grow a long beard. I’ll stay through fall and be snowed in for the winter, so nobody will hear from me until next March, at least.”

“Don’t suppose you boys could loan a fella a few dollars,” Will said to Eli, making him laugh. Even Felix smiled.

Pappy, who had been checking his horses feet and re-cinching his saddle, climbed on to the animal’s back and began easing away from the others. He called back over his shoulder, “After you loan him the money, get him into a card game. You’ll get it all back in five minutes.”

Eli handed over some bills and coins. Will stuffed the money in his saddlebag and tipped his hat in thanks.

“Guess I’ll be going before the posse gets here. Don’t want to make it too easy on them,” Will said, then cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted in the wind at Pappy’s receding backside, “Take care of yourself, Old Man!”

Pappy raised one arm in the air without turning around.

“He’s my pappy, you know. I don’t like him much, but a man has to make allowances for family, don’t he?”

“Felix says we should get moving. Make time while this wind is up to blow over our tracks,” Eli said, “If we’re lucky, it will start raining hard before the posse comes. He thinks we’re going to be lucky.”

“When the hell does Felix tell you all of this stuff? When the hell you tell Eli all this stuff, Felix? I hardly ever hear you say a damn word.”

The three men rode due west together for a while, then stopped, shook hands and parted company. Will continued west and the other two turned north. The wind soon shifted direction, and began swirling in from the southwest, bearing the smell of water and electricity. Thunderheads were stacking up overhead. The fugitives were going to be lucky.

That afternoon, the Office of the United States Federal Marshal in Sacramento received a telegram from Chowchilla:

OKLAHOMA BANK FUGITIVE TINY ALBERTSON INVOLVED WITH VIGILANTE MURDERS AND ORPHAN KIDNAPPING STOP ACCOMPLICE PAPPY STONE STOP BOTH ESCAPED FROM CUSTODY STOP HOLDING TWO OFFICERS HOSTAGE STOP NO MEN FOR POSSE HERE STOP ONLY MEXICANS STOP SEND MORE AGENTS STOP

BARBARIA Installment 6

CHAPTER SIX


The conductor roused Will Dexter, who was stiff from trying to sleep in his cramped second-class seat. Pappy Mouton was still snoring across the aisle. The sky was streaked with color as the rising sun elbowed its way through the clouds.

“Wake up, Pap. Time to get to work.”

Mouton kept snoring, and Will had to reach over and shake him by the foot. The train was slowing down as the men pulled on their boots and hauled their packs down from overhead. They were a half-mile out of the station when the cars groaned to a full stop. Back in the cattle car, Raphael eased open the door and took a peek. When he saw Will and Pappy coming toward him along side the train, he hopped out and walked up to meet them.

“Mornin’, Boys.”

“Whew!” said Will. He spat on the ground. “Next time I’m ridin’ back with you and the horses where a man can stretch out in the straw and get some sleep.”

“The conductor say anything to you this morning?” Raphael asked.

“Said if we wanna unload our cattle, to get our asses moving,” said Pappy, stopping to urinate. “Says we got fifteen minutes while the engine takes on water, and to be sure the ramps are put back and the cars closed up.”

“O.K. Start unloading and saddle up. We’re going to drive ’em east a few miles, then I’ll come back with one of you boys to look for my brother.”

“How come?’ said Will. “Can’t we just hold the cattle around here for a while?”

“We had a little trouble in Monterey last night,” Raphael answered. “I was expecting we’d get stopped by the cops here.”

“What kind of trouble?” asked Pappy.

“I’ll tell you later. It’s best if you don’t know now, anyway, in case the cops do show up. Remember, you’re the bosses, and you don’t know anything.” Raphael grabbed the ladder rungs on the side of the car and started climbing up. “I’m going to sit up top and keep a look out.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Will, remembering. “There’s a man up there looking back. Wave both your arms over your head when we’re unloaded and the train can start movin’. Conductor told me to do that. The guy up there will wave his arms to answer you. Damn. Almost forgot.”

Felix and the others had their car open and the stock ramp down. They led out the horses first. Will and Pappy put saddles and bridles on their animals, then all the riders backed off into a wide circle while Gyp untied the panel that held the cattle, and dragged it out of the way. The gentler animals sniffed the ramp and began to step down. The wilder ones hugged the rear wall of the car. When the lead animals decided to move, the wild ones rushed past them into the open field beside the tracks. The herders backed off, waving their arms slowly and talking, to calm those who were in panic. The calmer animals began to pull great mouthfuls of grass from the pasture. Gyp climbed down slowly and urged the feeding cattle away from the tracks, then went to the next car and unloaded there. Ely eased his horse around between the herd and the train, while Gyp closed the car doors and hauled the ramps back up. Ignatio was holding Gyp’s horse, and he walked over to retrieve the animal. Just as Gyp mounted, Raphael called out from on top of the car.

“Somebody’s coming. One rider on the right. Go ahead and move the herd away.” He waved his arms to the spotter on the lead car, and got a response. Then Raphael climbed down and walked over to where Will was holding his horse. He mounted and told Will to come with him. As the rest of the crew herded the cattle away from the train, Raphael and Will trotted their horses to the last car, and went around to meet whomever was coming from the station down the other side of the tracks.

“We gonna have to shoot this guy?” said Will, grinning.

“Christ, I hope not.” Raphael answered. The rider was coming at a slow trot. The pair stopped their advance and waited.

“Sheeit,” Raphael said, turning to Will with a broad smile. “It’s my damn brother.” He urged his horse ahead and rode up to meet Jorge.

The twins shook hands, and Raphael chided Jorge about staying out of trouble in the future. Will rode up and was introduced. Jorge explained that his group was east of town at a campsite just off the wagon road to Chowchilla.

“Lazaro explained in his wire that we’d be going in that direction,” Jorge said, “so we set up camp yesterday.”

“OK,” said Raphael, “Let’s get out of here and not press our luck.” The train whistle blew and the cars started moving forward. The three men waited until their path was clear, then crossed the tracks and caught up with the herd. They made their way to the Chowchilla road, and were at Jorge’s camp by early afternoon.

There were two tents and a few lean-to shelters set up on a bluff above a river that curved away to the east. Ely, Felix, Pappy and Will elected to make camp with the cattle on the river bank, and the rest followed the trail along the bluff to ride up the hill to meet Jorge’s crew. He was trying to explain to his brother the reason for not taking the train from Los Angeles. He dug the news clipping about Frances from his vest pocket and handed it to Raphael, who stopped his horse to read.

“So you walked all the way here from Los Angeles with a couple of pack mules, carrying a runaway white girl on a stretcher?”

“Yeah. That’s what we decided.”

“You’re as crazy as this Miwok bunch,” Raphael said. He had already told Jorge, Will and Pappy the story of the dead vigilantes. “By rights, the lot of us ought to be swinging by our necks.”

Jorge smiled in agreement. “Actually, it was one of the women, Angelita, who made us do it. Told her husband that if he left the girl, he’d have to leave his wife too.”

“Hell, Brother. Who’s the boss of this crew? You or Angelita?”

“Who’s the boss of yours?” Jorge retorted, “What’s his name? Felix?”

When they rode into camp, cooking smells temporarily ended all conversation except introductions. Gyp and Ignatio packed a pot of meat and beans and a stack of tortillas into a sack, and rode down the trail to the river. In between bites and swallows, Raphael attempted to outline his plans to the others for the cattle drive across the valley. However, as the children overcame their initial shyness before the new arrival, it was too difficult to discuss serious matters over their chatter and laughter. They were fascinated by the identical appearance of the newcomer with Jorge, and began to gather around with innumerable questions and comments.

Raphael discontinued his lecture. He was about to ask the whereabouts of the white girl, when Angelita emerged from one of the tents, carrying the girl in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. The other children moved aside to make a path as the woman carried Frances to the edge of the cooking fire and set her on the ground in front of the twins. Her skin had been darkened with petroleum ointment, and her eyes were wide and fearful. Jorge, who had been the only one to speak English to the child since she had regained consciousness, had barely begun to gain her trust. She was still weak, and Angelita squatted with her arms around the girl, propping Frances up from behind. Three of the other children scrunched up around her as well, so she wouldn’t topple over.

Jorge smiled at Frances and asked if she was feeling better. Her sense of alarm seemed to ease, and she nodded her head. Then she began to glance back and forth at the faces of the twins with a puzzled look, causing the rest of the children to laugh and start up again with their chatter. They all began at once to explain Raphael to Frances, who understood very little of what they were saying. Jorge held forth his hand. After a few seconds, the girl’s arm squirmed out of the folds of the blanket, and she took the man’s hand in her own.

A huge grinned spread across his face. Frances had shied away from Jorge’s touch until now. Angelita raised her eyes to Heaven in a silent prayer of gratitude. The girl had not uttered a word since they had found her, except in the delirium of her nightmares. Everyone was hoping she would soon begin to talk to Jorge.

“This man who looks like me,” Jorge said, “is my brother. My twin brother. His name is Raphael.”

Raphael’s expression was blank. He stood and circled around to the fire to pour a cup of coffee. Frances craned her neck and followed him with her eyes. She turned back to Jorge.

To Angelita’s delight, and in answer to her prayer, Frances spoke, “Mother has sent two of you.” Her voice was raspy from lack of use, but loud enough so that everyone near her could hear. She smiled slightly, and a new calm filled her eyes. She relaxed into the arms of Angelita, and dropped Jorge’s hand.

“She spoke! She spoke!” Angelita exclaimed, then asked, “What did she say?”

“She said her mother has sent two of us. I think she means Raphael and me.” Jorge said.

“She has been dreaming of her mother,” said Camilla, Angelita’s fifteen-year-old daughter. “She has been saying ‘Mama’ a lot in her sleep.”

Almost at once, Frances drifted off to sleep in Angelita’s arms. Everyone became quiet and watched the child.

“She has gone to tell her mother the news,” Camilla said.

Angelita carried the girl back to the tent, and Raphael walked to the edge of the bluff to sip his coffee and study the enormous valley. A north wind had cleared the sky of clouds, and he could see the tips of the Sierra Nevada in the distance.

Jorge followed Angelita to the tent to discuss Frances’ progress, then walked out to the cliff’s edge to join his brother. Jorge chuckled. “Well, Mi Hermano, how does it feel to be a guardian angel?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Raphael snapped.

“Well, when you think about it, I guess that answers the question, eh?”

“What question is that?” Raphael grumbled.

“What you said before, About why we aren’t hanging from a couple of oak trees.”

“Oh yeah? And why is that?”

“We’ve been getting protection from the spirit world,” Jorge smiled and sipped at his coffee. “Apparently the kid’s departed mother has sent us on a mission.”

“Is that the kind of shit they taught you at Cambridge?” Raphael spat over the cliff.

“No. I just learned that from Angelita,” Jorge said. “Couldn’t wait to let you in on it.”

“Well, you tell Angelita to break camp now. We’re getting the hell out of here before a god damned posse shows up.”

“No, I don’t think she’ll agree to that. She says Frances is sleeping soundly for the first time in two weeks. Even when she was unconscious, the kid was jerking around and babbling all the time. Angelita’s not going to wake her up.”

“For Christ sake, Jorge! I’m telling you to break camp now. We’re moving out.” Raphael glared at Jorge, who turned and walked back toward the cooking fires.

After a few steps he stopped and turned, still smiling. “You can discuss it with her if you like,” Jorge said, “but I don’t think she’ll agree. I think she’ll tell you that we can leave when the white girl wakes up.”

Raphael began to pace back and forth at the bluff’s edge, cursing. Jorge watched for a few seconds, then went to take a nap himself.

The next morning at dawn the camp was dismantled and Jorge’s two pack mules were loaded. He had acquired a wagon and horses at San Luis. As the party made its way down the bluff trail, a storm was gathering to the west. But to the east, where they were headed, the sky was clear and the outline of the mountain peaks was sharp against a red horizon. They rode directly away from the dark skies, in the direction of the mountains.

After a couple of hours Ignatio spotted a dust cloud behind them. Whoever was raising the dust was coming fast. Will and Pappy dropped back to take up the rear of the drive and do the talking. Raphael and Jorge moved ahead among the other men, who urged the cattle along at a steady pace. The men checked their weapons in preparation for the worst. Esteban and Rogelio each carried shotguns, and walked their horses along beside the wagon.

There were five in the approaching party. Engels was a federal marshal, assigned to Monterey county. He wore a dark suit with a long, dirt-streaked coat and a stocking cap that covered his bald head and his ears. The others were railroad workers from San Luis who had been pressed into service as temporary deputies. A cold north wind whipped around them, waving the tails of Engels’ coat like a flag as he pulled to a stop, spooking Pappy’s horse.

“I’m glad I caught up with you boys,” Engels said. “Been riding most of the night.”

“You been riding all night to catch us? What the hell,” Will said, “You wanna buy our cattle, or something?”

Pappy’s horse was now hopping around in the sagebrush like a demented rabbit, trying to shake the man out of the saddle. The deputies were laughing at the beast’s antics. One of them commented that Pappy’s mount must have horseshit instead of brains in its head.

“Nah,” said Engles, “this ain’t about cattle. You do have papers on them brands, though, I expect.”

Will took offense. “Whatta you care about the brands on my stock? Who the hell are you, Mister?”

“I’m a Federal Marshal from Monterey County, and these boys here are duly deputized. We need to ask you some questions.”

“That conductor on the train already seen my brand papers. Why didn’t you talk to him?”

“Well, this ain’t about the cattle, I said. Anyway, that train was long gone, and the conductor with it, before I got down there to San Luis yesterday evening.”

Pappy’s animal finally settled down, but wouldn’t come anywhere near Engles. The temporary deputies all dismounted and started stretching, spitting, urinating, and rolling cigarettes.

“Go on and stop your drive, now. Gotta talk to y’all. Hold that wagon and bring all those drovers on back here." Engles said.

“Shit!” said Will. “You ride all night to come out here and spook our horses, now you want us to let our cattle wander all over the goddam desert while we talk to you? Whose gonna round ‘em up after you’re done talking?”

“Just calm yourself down,” Engles said.
“Lemme see your damn papers,” Will answered. “How do I know you ain’t some wild bunch come out here to steal our stock?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Engles bristled.

“I’m talking about, if that’s what you’re aiming to do, you better aim again, ‘cause we sure got you outgunned. That’s what I’m talking about!” Will meant what he said. There was no hesitation in his voice. He and Engles eyed one another for a few seconds while the wind howled and the cattle and the wagon kept moving farther into the distance.

Finally, Engles dug into his inside coat pocket and produced a folded document, which he handed to Will, who took a long time, pretending to read very carefully. Meanhile, Pappy kept soothing his horse and walking it in circles, staying well away from the others. Will, who couldn’t read, eventually handed the papers back to Engles and asked him his name.

“Why, I’m Steven J. Engles. Just what it says on the paper,” the man said.

Will decided to become conciliatory. He relaxed his demeanor, smiled and offered his hand. “Glad to know you, Deputy Engles. I’m Will Dexter, and that fella over their on the shit-head horse is Pappy Mouton.”

The deputies on the ground, who had become edgy during the tense exchange between their strange new boss and the even stranger cowboy, visibly relaxed and began to talk among themselves. Engles shook hands and nodded in Pappy’s direction. The “temps” all began shouting their names at once, saying hello.

“What brings you out our way this morning?” Will said with a friendly smile, as though the Central Valley had suddenly and magically become his own personal garden, and Engles had just dropped by for tea.

“I told ya, I gotta ask you some questions!” Engles responded.

“Well hurry it up, for Christ Sake,” Will exclaimed in a jovial tone, “ I’ve got to get these cattle to Madera, and I’m freezing in this wind.”

“We’re lookin’ for some vigilantes.” Engles voice remained stern and officious. “I have a warrant from the Attorney General in Sacramento to arrest them. We have reason to believe they’ve joined up with your bunch.”

Will’s mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. He stared at the sheriff for a few seconds, then began to laugh. He laughed harder and harder, until he was bent over in his saddle, coughing. Tears flowed down his cheeks and soaked his beard. Because of the wind, Pappy hadn’t been able to hear what Engles had said. He growled at his horse to quit screwing around, and trotted over beside Will.

“What’s the damn joke?” Engles demanded.

Will straightened up and took a deep breath, and tried to tell Pappy, but just started laughing again. Now the temporary deputies were laughing as well, although they hadn’t been able to hear either.

Engles wasn’t amused. He shouted at Pappy. “Are you fellas hidin’ three vigilantes in that wagon, or not? Are they up there, drivin’ your cattle?”

Pappy, although grasping the humor of the situation, remained calm and smiled. “Vigilantes, you say? Three of ‘em? Ah, what do these fellas look like, these vigilantes?”

Will gave up trying to control himself, and rode off to catch up with the wagon.

Engles continued speaking to Pappy. “Two of ‘em about your age. One younger man. Dooley, is his name. The two old boys are Smith and Kramer. I know ‘em all by sight. Been knowin’ ‘em a long time. Now…”

Pappy gave a congenial nod, and interrupted. “Yes, sir. C’mon, now. Follow along slow so’s ye won’t stampede the herd or scare the children. Come along and look for your vigilantes.”

Pappy turned his horse and began a slow trot after Will. Engles followed him, and the San Luis deputies mounted and brought up the rear.

BARBARIA installment 5

CHAPTER FIVE


Raphael Obregon pulled his two-horse surrey to the curb in front of The Golden Spike on Pacific Street. Eleven-year-old Jewett Andaluce was riding with him up front, and hopped to the ground and began to unbridle. It was almost noon, and the street was crowded with vehicles, livestock and people coming and going in all directions. The sky was clear, and an icy breeze out of the north was embracing the streets of the Barbary Coast.

“Keep an eye on things, all right?” Raphael said. The boy nodded vigorously, and patted the neck of the curbside horse.

“You know what to do, now, eh?” Raphael asked. “I’m going to have ’em bring you something to eat and drink. Just stay with the horses and look after things, O.K?”

Jewett smiled. His face was animated and he kept patting the horse’s neck, but didn’t speak.

“This might take an hour or so. That’s a long time to wait. Think you can do that?” Again, an energetic nodding of the head. The man laughed and walked into the Saloon.

The lights were dim compared to the bright sunshine on the street. Men sat at cloth covered tables, eating, drinking, and talking. There were a few informal card games going on, but the gaming wheels and dice tables weren’t operating yet. A dozen women in short satin skirts and net stockings were scattered about the room, mingling with the customers. One of the women came around from behind the bar and hooked her arm in Raphael’s.

“Hello, Salina,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“What’s this I hear about you leaving today?” she said. She wore the required abundance of rouge on her full cheeks and lips. Her brown hair was lightly oiled and styled about her face in ringlets.

“Yeah, I have to go on a trip. Just found out. Too bad, huh?”

“Yeah, too damn bad for me. I was countin’ on making some more cash off of you tonight.” She reached up and stuck her finger in his ear.

Raphael slid two dollars in silver from his vest pocket and handed it to her. “Here, that ought to ease your pain. Get my boy out front something to eat, O.K? And kind of keep an eye on him for me. He’s not used to this big city life, you know?”

“Oooh. For two bucks, I’ll be his mama and his grandma. What’s his name again? Jew Boy?”

“Nah, just Jew. Short for Jewett. I’ll be upstairs talking to my brother. You seen him this morning?”

“Yeah, he was here a while ago. Said hello. He’s probably up there in Fairyland, having one of his friends for lunch. You sure you want to go up there. Some of those old boys would really like to taste what you got.” She whooped with laughter and reached down and squeezed Raphael’s penis for emphasis. He goosed her, and made his way through the kitchen to the back stairs.

The Golden Spike took up the first two stories of the building on Pacific and Green. The two upper floors comprised The Adonis, a dance and gambling club reserved for special clientele, who were, for the most part, homosexual men. Lazarus O’Brian, a long time friend of the owner, kept a private room at The Adonis, fourth floor, rear.

Raphael mounted the stairs slowly. He’d had a late night, and wasn’t feeling very well. He checked the lounge and restaurant on the third floor, and was relieved to see Lazaro at a window table, eating alone. The décor was more luxurious and sedate than in the gaudy saloon downstairs, and the curtains were open onto Pacific Avenue, flooding the room with daylight. Several men greeted Raphael and shook his hand as he made his way across the room.

Lazaro stood and embraced his youthful brother. Raphael wasn’t hungry. He ordered a whiskey and a pot of tea with milk.

“Salina gave me your letter last night. Sounds like Jorge’s bit off more than he can chew.”

“Oh, I think he’ll be all right. He’s bringing some workers up from Jalisco, and the railroad station agent in Los Angeles wasn’t cooperative.”

“How many people he got with him?”

“There’s twenty altogether. They had nineteen, then picked up one more in Los Angeles.”

“All men?” Raphael sipped his whiskey and tea in turn.

“No. Just twelve. The rest are women and kids.”

“Where are they now?”

“On their way up the coast to San Luis Obispo. I’ve arranged for train transport from there. But there’s another problem.”

“Monterey?”

Lazaro laughed. “You’re surprisingly well informed for a bandido, Little Brother.”

“Yeah, us outlaws need to pay attention. That vigilant bunch down there has been good for my business. Got Chinese and Mexican whores pouring into town these days, looking for shelter.”

“Well, they’ve taken to stopping trains, now. Looking for Chinese to hang.”

Raphael gulped the last of his drinks and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What do you want me to do?”

Lazaro shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe meet him at San Luis and give him an escort across the valley to Fresno? I just don’t want him trying to take that train through Monterey. That mob’s blood is up, and all the law enforcement agencies want to do is avoid confrontation.”

“He don’t have any Chinos with him does he?”

“No, but they’ve been attacking anyone that ain’t white. An uppity negro could really set them off, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, Hermano, I know,” Raphael said. “Any excuse to lynch a negro. Especially one that talks like a white college professor.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Does the Railroad have a spur line east out of San Luis?”

“No. Nothing cuts across until you get north of Monterey to Pacheco Pass.”

“That fuss in Monterey. It’s about dock work, right?”

“Yeah. The beet farmers fired all the Chinese field workers, bringing in Mexicans. So the Chinos went looking for work on the docks, and fishing. That’s white work down there, same as here. A vigilance committee started up a couple of weeks ago, raising Hell.”

“Trouble is,” said Raphael, “if I try to take some men down to San Luis, we could get lynched on the way. Wouldn’t be much help to Jorge, then.”

“Yeah. I was thinking you could take some white guys with you, for protection.”

“Who? You?”

“No, I can’t. I have to be in Sacramento all week. I was thinking about those Vacaville cowboys. What’re their names?”

“You mean Will Dexter? Him and Pappy?”

“Yeah. Those two. They always seemed like pretty good fellows to me.”

“They’re all right.” Raphael looked around and waved at the waiter for another whiskey and tea. “You mind doin’ a little cattle business this week?”

“What kind of cattle business?” Lazaro raised his eyebrows. “You a rustler now?”

“Hell, no. Folks look out for their pimps and bootleggers, but they like to hang rustlers. I don’t go in for dangerous work, Lazaro,” Raphael laughed, “You know me better than that.”

“What cattle business, then?”

“I’m talking about Will and Pappy. They’d probably go along with us, if there was a cattle deal in it.”

“Sure. That would be OK. What kind of deal?”

“Loan them the money for a couple of carloads of steers at the
Dixon Auction Yard, and ship ’em to San Luis. I’ll take my men and horses in one of the cattle cars, and get Will and Pappy to come along as bosses. Nobody’s going to make a couple of white cowmen unload their cattle to look for Chinamen in the middle of the night.”

“What are you going to do with the steers when you get off the train?”

“I’m thinking we’ll go ahead and drive them across the valley to Fresno. Pappy and Will can sell ‘em for a profit, and pay you back. Why not? We’ll put the women and kids in a wagon. Only thing safer than pimping and bootlegging in California is a Central Valley cattle drive. The law even allows us Indians to carry all the guns we need with no questions asked. Protection from all those imaginary rustlers out there.”

The two men worked out some details, then Raphael finished his drinks and summed up. “So I’ll need to go to Vacaville today to talk to Pappy and Will and the Andaluce boys. If everyone’s willing, we can leave out in a couple of days.”

“I’ll wire my bank in Vacaville, so your cowboy friends can draw the money tomorrow,” said Lazaro, “Anything else you want me to do?”

“Naw, I don’t think so,” said Raphael, thinking out loud, “ We’ll ship at night. It might be raining, so we’ll get us those enclosed stock cars. Ones with drop ramps on one side, so we can unload before we pull into the yards at San Luis. Have ’em panel off part of a car for us Indians and the horses, and put down a thick bed of straw. Late. Close to midnight as possible. Oh, yeah! Don’t forget to wire Jorge in San Luis, and tell him to stay put at the station until we get there.”

“Goddammit, Raphael, listen to you giving orders. That voice. You sound just like Papa.”

The young man didn’t smile. Before Lazaro could say anything else, Raphael pushed his chair back and stood up. He reached across the table and gripped his brother’s shoulder, holding him in his seat.

“I ain’t nothing like him,” he said, then walked away.


* * *


Around eleven P.M., two days later, a freight train pulled out of the Vacaville yard, heading south. Inside the fourth from the last car, which appeared locked from the outside but, on the left side, was not, four men lounged in the dark with Raphael. Ignatio and Gyp Andaluce, Ely Madrone, and Felix Suisun. . Ignatio and Gyp were young Jewett’s older brothers. Eli and Felix were their uncles. Their horses were tied and loosely saddled at the rear of the car, munching from feedbags. There were two extra horses, unsaddled, for Will Dexter and Pappy Mouton, who were riding up ahead in a passenger car.

Most of the cattle in the front half of Raphael’s stock car were calm. Some were lying in the straw, belching and chewing their cuds. A few were crowded nervously against the walls, as far away from the men as possible. The men themselves grumbled and joked about riding in the dark. They sipped whiskey, slept, and complained because Raphael wouldn’t let them smoke in the straw. Now and then someone would get up and grope his way among the horses to urinate, trying not to stumble, and clucking to calm any restless beast that might take a notion to kick.

After five hours, Raphael figured they were getting close to Monterey station. The men bridled and cinched up five of the horses. When Raphael felt the train beginning to slow, he put on his sheepskin jacket and a pair of leather gloves, then eased open the door of the car just enough to squeeze through. It was raining. Not too hard, but the wet steel of the ladder on the side of the car was slippery. Someone pulled the door closed, and Raphael climbed to the roof, made his way forward, and got down in the space between cars. He moved back and forth from one side of the train to the other, looking for torches up ahead, and hoping that the Monterey Vigilance Committee had decided to stay home out of the rain tonight.

When he spotted a dozen or so torches on the west side of the train, Raphael got back to the door of the car and banged to be let in. His men were armed with pistols, rifles, and shotguns. There was only one door to the car, on the east side. They mounted their animals, facing that side in a loose semicircle, and each trained a cocked and loaded weapon on the door. Most of them, including Raphael, were hoping to get out of this yard without incident. Gyp was enjoying the moment, however, and anticipating a good fight. Raphael untied the rope holding up the stock ramp. If he released it after the door was open, the ramp would drop from its own weight.

The general plan was to avoid discovery, but if the door came open, Raphael had directed everyone to ride out of there fast, doing as much damage as possible on the way, and to head south a mile or so to rendezvous, unless they were being chased. Then it would have to be every man for himself.

The train came to a halt. Shouting could be heard up the tracks toward the engine, but the words were unintelligible. As the group of gunmen waited, a couple of voices became louder and clearer. Some men were coming down the tracks toward them, but it sounded like they were keeping to the west side of the train. Raphael’s men whispered to their horses, trying to calm them, but the excitement of being bridled and readied for riding was stirring them up.

“Hey, thar!” a man shouted just outside their car, “They got cattle and maybe some mules in these cars here.” He rattled the slats on that side.

Someone answered, “Well, goddamit, don’t open the car up unless you wanna be chasin’ stock around here the rest of the night. Jesus!”

Through the gaps in the sideboards, Raphael and the others could see two men with torches, and the shadows of two long guns in the firelight.

“Yeah, Boy. Ima turn’em loose for ya. Help ya pass the time, roundin’ ‘em up.”

The torches sprinkled their light over the crowd of men and beasts inside the train, but revealed nothing. In response to human voices, the shuffling hooves and agitated snorting of the animals inside became louder and more rapid.

A shout from a third man up the tracks was answered by one of the torch bearers, “C’mon, boy! Get a move on. It’s rainin’ out here, y’ know.”

The late arrival soon caught up. “Well. Y’ seen any Chinamens yet? Ah got ma scalpin’ knife, just in case.”

“Nah,” one answered, “ Hell, what ‘a you know about scalpin’, anyway? You was still suckin’ Mama’s milk in them days.”

“Hell, Man! I say bring back the scalpin’ times, that’s what. They ought ‘a put a bounty on the Chinamens’ heads like they use to do the Redskins. Hell, Man! This’d be white man’s country again in no time.”

One of the men answered with a laugh. “Yeah, you missed out, Young’n. Them fellas up around the Mother Lode, they used to pay us a dollar a piece back then. Indians or Mexicans, didn’t matter. Ain’t that right, Singalong?”

The two older men chattered on to the kid about the old days as torchlight diminished and darkness returned to the interior of the car. The vigilante voices soon mingled with the drip and drizzle of rain, becoming garbled and inaudible, as the men moved away down the tracks, farther from the security of their comrades who huddled under the eaves of the Monterey Station House.

Raphael’s companions began to converse in their own language, which he barely understood. He did hear “sing along” mentioned several times. Finally, he hushed the men.

“Will you guys shut up, for Christ sake?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Gyp sidled over to him and gripped his arm. “Felix knows one of those guys,” he said.

“What guys? Them guys outside with the ropes and guns? Those guys who’ll lynch us if they get the chance? Just be quiet, and we’ll get out of here alive in a few minutes, if we’re lucky.”

“One of ‘em is Singalong Smith,” Gyp whispered.

Raphael didn’t answer. He noticed that everyone was quiet now, but he could see enough in the dark to know they were all watching him.

“Who the hell is Singalong Smith?”

“He killed a lot of people,” Gyp continued, “In the old days. Up around Grinding Rock.”

“Killed what people? Friends of Felix?”

“Yeah. Family. Felix knows that Singalong real well. Been waiting to find that man someday.”

“Good,” said Raphael, “now you found him, Felix. Later on you can come back here and scalp the sonofabitch. But …”

Felix said something in Miwok. Gyp translated.

“Now is the time.”

Raphael sighed and leaned back against the slats. “Shit!”

Felix eased open the door of the boxcar and dropped to the ground outside, in direct contradiction to Raphael’s plan and his orders. But the Andaluce clan was not asking for his permission, and he couldn’t stop them. Four Wild Indians on the warpath. Those white guys shouldn’t have said all that shit about scalping, right outside the car like that, where Felix and them could hear. Those white guys should have talked about something else, so they could have lived a little longer.

Raphael realized that a change of plan was necessary. He thought about what to do. They were probably going to have to shoot their way out of there. If he were going to get to San Luis to help Jorge, he’d have to make a run for it now, before the fighting started. The train could get moving at any time. Worse yet, that bunch from the station might decide to come down and check on their friends. He decided to wait a few more minutes, and then a few more, and kept postponing his move. His heart did a jump when the door was suddenly slid open.

Felix scrambled into the car and took the rope from Raphael’s hand, then lowered the stock ramp slowly and quietly. Eighteen-year-old Gyp climbed up the ramp out of breath, carrying the body of a man across his shoulders. Raphael got off his horse and helped ease the load down onto the straw. The rest of a macabre caravan followed, with two more bodies. Felix worked the rope and pulley, raising the ramp back into place, and Ignatio closed the door behind them.

Raphael groped in the dark and was relieved to discover that there was no blood. He took that as a good omen. The men were dead, however. Strangled, he supposed. Now, if the train would just get moving. With the deceased on board, the Sheriffs and Federal Marshals wouldn’t be involved right away, if the Indians could get out of the station undetected. But as soon as the white men were missed, there would be trouble. Raphael’s mind was tiptoeing on the edge of panic. Even if they got out of there, the station at San Luis would be contacted. That was the next station, and the train would be searched there for sure. They might even be stopped on the way.

“We have to dump these guys pretty soon,” Raphael announced. Nobody said anything. He wanted to ask Felix why he had killed all these guys tonight, just to make conversation. Gyp saved him the trouble.

“Why’d you have to do that, Felix?” His voice was trembling. Gyp liked to fight. He was used to winning money in bare fist matches around home. But he’d never seen anyone killed before. He’d never really associated fighting with killing, until now.

Felix, in his sixties, with gray hair that hung straight to his waist, didn’t answer. He was a man of few words, and besides, his brother-in-law, Ely, had developed the habit over the years of speaking on Felix’ behalf.

“What the hell did you do to those guys, anyway?” Raphael insisted. “The whole idea is to get to San Luis without any trouble, for Christ Sake.”

Ely answered, “Felix is pretty sure that one of these older guys is Singalong Smith. There weren’t a lot of white men with that first name who used to scalp people in the gold country. So Felix is pretty sure he got the right fella.”

“Well, as long as he’s pretty sure. So, you think this old boy killed some of your people?” Raphael knew that was a stupid question, but he felt the need to say something, “He killed someone you know?”

Felix probably just looked at him. It was too dark to tell for sure, but that’s what Felix usually did when you asked him a question. He’d just look at you with a sort of inquiring expression.

“Lots a’ people,” said Ely, after a suitable interval of silence.

“Our grandparents?” whispered Ignatio, “Is he the one killed your mother and father, Tio?”

After another seemingly eternal 30 seconds of silence, Ely said, “No. That warn’t the one. That fella’s name was Coonskin. Felix ain’t found him yet. ‘Course, they was a lot of old boys name a’ Coonskin back then.”

Soon the steam engine coughed, the whistle sounded, followed by the thunder of freight cars being jerked forward on their couplings traveled down the tracks. With great relief, Raphael felt the wheels beneath them begin to turn. The shriek of the whistle started up a chorus of coyote chatter from the surrounding meadows, as the cattle cars moved past the station house. The vigilantes had extinguished their torches and were standing around the wood stove inside the building, awaiting the return of their comrades.

The train accelerated for several minutes and then began to slow as it reached a long grade into the mountains. Felix slid the door open, allowing the rain and wind to do a whirlng performance through the car. He stood in the opening for a quarter of an hour as the trained climbed to a summit, then began to drag the corpses, one by one, to the doorway and dump them off. No one moved to assist him. Then Felix broke his silence, and began to shout into the night in his mother tongue. Raphael figured he must be praying, and this was confirmed when Gyp, who was huddled up against Raphael, crossed himself.

After a while, Felix stopped shouting, or chanting, or whatever he’d been doing, and closed the door. He turned and sat in the damp straw. Ely suddenly began reciting the Pater Noster in a nervous, high-pitched tone, and his nephews and brother-in-law responded. It was too dark to see clearly, but Raphael could hear the faint rattling of rosary beads. After a while, he joined in the prayers.

BARBARIA installment 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Two men from Jorge’s group waded through a large tide pool, gathering mussels, sea snails and abalone. Jorge and some of the others were fishing and relaxing on the beach. Since crossing the border into the U.S., south of San Diego, the band had been traveling on foot with four pack animals, following the coastline, but staying off the wagon trails to avoid hostile encounters. Rogelio Diaz and Esteban Castillo had been to California before as railroad workers, and were acting as guides. They advised camping near the beach for a few days while Jorge rode into Los Angeles to arrange for rail transport to San Francisco. The group had found a good campsite in a grove of willow by a fresh water stream about a half-mile inland. It had been raining all morning, but now the skies were clear, and the sun was a welcome sight. Two men had stayed back to watch the camp, while the rest of the travelers came downstream to the sea.

“This should be a good place to stay for a few days,” Jorge said to Angelita Torres, who was introducing herself and her naked baby boy to the Pacific Ocean.

“Yes,” she was a big woman who laughed frequently, and loved to talk. “I don’t know which is worse, walking or riding in a bumpy wagon. What will the train be like? At least the tracks don’t have all those bumps, do they?” A tiny wave splashed the baby in the face, and he squealed. Several other children were running about at the water’s edge.

“No, no. The tracks don’t have bumps,” Jorge grinned at the baby. “I’m going to try to get us onto a comfortable car, but I don’t know. These gringos have strange ideas about Mexicans riding their trains.”

“But we have papers, no?” Angelita said. A hint of anxiety in her voice was evident.

“Oh, yes. There shouldn’t be any problems with the authorities. I just hope they don’t put us in a cattle car,” Jorge said, only half joking.

“You know, my oldest brother, Francisco…He was killed over here. The friendly smile left Angelita’s lips for just a moment, then returned.”

“I’m sorry,” Jorge said. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to stay here … in the camp, I mean… too long.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper, and she leaned toward Jorge, as though telling a secret. “We shouldn’t stay here too long.”

“What is it? What happened to your brother?”

“Ah,” she waved her hand before her face, brushing away the question like an irritating insect. “It was one of those terrible things, you know? I can’t really talk about it. But I admit, I’m afraid to be here, in El Norte.”

“But you didn’t have to come, Angelita,” Jorge protested, “Your husband will be back in a year, and he’ll be able to send you money in the meantime.”

The woman shook her head. “You are an educated man, Senor, but there is a lot you don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Jorge said, “I just meant…”

“I believe you mean well,” she said. “Your brother, Lazaro, is said to be a man of conscience. Someone to be trusted. He knows that we have lost everything. That we are doing what is necessary.”

“Lost everything? What do you mean?” Jorge hadn’t been briefed on the life circumstances of his recruited laborers. He only knew that they were reputable people who needed work.

“Our village used to hold a thousand hectares in communal land,” Angelita said. “For many generations we raised our crops, cared for our children. Until ten years ago, we had no need to leave home to make a living.”

At Cambridge, Jorge’s studies had not included the history and politics of his homeland. He said nothing.

“Now we starve,” the woman said. The child began to fuss. His mother gathered him into her arms and walked out of the water.

Her abrupt departure struck Jorge as ominous, causing him to shudder. He wanted to run behind her and tell her not to worry, that she and her family would be safe with him, with his government document; safe from politicians and bandits and Sheriffs and vigilantes and soldiers; safe from people and forces that he knew nothing about; with which he had no experience; over which he had no power. He suddenly felt like a small boy, just pretending to be a man. He wished that this woman, who was depending on him, could instead comfort him. Wished that she had not walked away, but taken him in her arms like a baby. Held him naked above the waves to hear him giggle.

There was a shout from the tide pool. One of the men was waving his arms wildly and calling for assistance. The women at once gathered the children and herded them toward the blankets on the beach, and Jorge sprinted through the shallows toward the man. He turned and ran behind a huge rock that rose from the water’s edge, where his companion was sitting on the sand, holding an unconscious child in his arms.

“Get water to drink!” he shouted, “Run. Get water. She’s dying.”

The two men had stumbled by chance upon a tangle of arms and legs heaped upon the sand, attracting the attention of hungry shore birds. The girl, who appeared to be eleven or twelve years of age, was breathing, and when fresh water finally touched her lips, she began to gulp and cough. The men carried her back to camp, and everyone gathered around to watch with some amazement as Angelita took charge of the effort to nurse the starving, dehydrated white child back to health.

Rogelio Diaz was worried. A short, stocky man in his forties, he rolled a cigarette and seated himself on a fallen log. “Someone could come looking for that girl,” he said.

Esteban was half Rogelio’s age. He was shirtless, and a wooden cross dangled on a rawhide thong around his neck. He nodded in agreement. “If she were my kid, I’d sure be looking for her.”

“I hope somebody does come along,” said Jorge. “Otherwise, we’ll have to find a doctor somewhere, or take her to a hospital in Los Angeles.”

“That could be dangerous,” said Rogelio. “Maybe somebody attacked her. Her dress is torn. She is bruised and scratched up.”

“Yeah,” said Esteban, “They could say we did it, huh?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jorge snapped, “why should….”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Rogelio cut him off, “ It’s a real possibility.”

“Christ, Rogelio,” Jorge said, “We’re not kidnappers. What should we have done? Just left her to die?”

“Sometimes Gringos don’t listen,” Rogelio said. “Sometimes they already have their minds made up about certain things. We need to find out who she is and what happened, before we decide what to do.”

“She probably doesn’t speak Spanish,” Esteban said. “You should be here, Jorge, if she gets better and starts talking.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Jorge said. “Probably the day after tomorrow. Three days at the most.”

“I think we’ll send Esteban with you,” Rogelio said. “If you learn anything about this kid, he can ride back here and let us know.”

Jorge and Esteban rode out of camp before dawn, heading east and following a trail beside the stream that would eventually put them on a road to Los Angeles. Well before midday, they found themselves in a crowded village. Most of the people on the main street were Mexicans. At a café Esteban asked if they could unsaddle the horses for a while, and water them. When the horses were tended to, the two men ordered something to eat and drink, and settled on a bench in front of the place.

“Should we ask someone about the girl?” asked Esteban, devouring a steaming tortilla as he spoke.

“I don’t know. Rogelio warned us to be careful about what we say when we talk about her. I’ll see if I can get a newspaper,” Jorge said. He went inside and came out with a two page Los Angeles journal that carried yesterday’s date. The girl’s story was on the back page:

The San Fernando Sheriff’s Office says they still have no clues in the disappearance from the Mission of a young American girl last week. Father Sebastian told the news reporters that he believes the child was kidnapped, since she was very happy and well treated at Mission San Fernando, and had no reason to run away. The girl’s parents are both dead, and she is an orphan with no family and nowhere to go. Father Sebastian asked the reporters to tell all the people who read about this girl to pray for her safety and for her immortal soul, and to call the Sheriff if they know where she is.

Jorge decided to return to camp with Esteban. He didn’t want to make transport arrangements until they could decide what to do about the Gringa. They finished their meal and saddled up; On the road back they passed an open pool of crude oil. Esteban dismounted, emptied one of their goatskin water bags, and filled it about half way with oil.

“I think were going to have to make a Mestiso of that girl”, he said, “I think we have to take her with us.”

* * *

Mary Hogan Devine, a U.S. Army Officer’s daughter, should have had a better life. At the age of 33, on a grand day in May 1887, beneath a sky that was a bright blue playground for swallows, Mary was buried in the churchyard of Mission San Fernando. At the edge of her open grave, rising behind a pile of fresh earth like spindly pickets of a broken fence, stood her three orphaned children.

Frances, age ten, was the oldest but not the tallest. Her nine-year-old brother, Frank Jr., already outgrowing his sister, stood at attention to her left. Six-year-old Terrance was at Frances’ right, clutching her hand and sucking his thumb rapidly. She had been telling him all day to stop, because he was too old for that now, but he would not. She needn’t have worried. The Holy Friars of the orphanage would break his habit soon enough, with numerous raps on the head.

Terrance was also quietly weeping, and his nose channeled great droplets of snot and tears over his lips and down his chin. Frances reached across to wipe the chin, and then cleaned her hand in the cotton folds of her gray funeral skirt.

Frank Jr. stood at attention, playing soldier, and would not cry. He was going to be an army colonel like his dead grandfather someday, and during this morning of prayers for his dead mother’s soul, he had been leading a fantasy brigade of Bluecoat cavalry across a distant battlefield, slaughtering Redskins.

To divert her own attention from the drone of graveside praying and the sucking sounds of Terrance at work on his thumb, Frances focused on the soaring and dipping of swallows. There were also eagles and buzzards gliding by on occasion, and high above the rolling hills to the north, the girl had spotted a wedge of migrating geese.

Mary used to tell her children that geese and swallows were birds of passage, who flew away each year to seek happiness in other places, because the darkness and cold of winter made them feel miserable.

Sometimes Mary would admonish her daughter alone, away from the boys, whispering softly, holding her close. The child cherished such moments of intimate attention, but it was seldom lost on Frances that Mother’s lectures concerning misery and birds of passage were invariably delivered when the woman was suffering greatly. After a drunken rage by Daddy, ordinarily, or when something really terrible had happened.

After the cornfield flooded, Frances recalled, Mary had gone to tiresome lengths to distinguish in the minds of her children between misery and suffering. That had been three years ago. Father had been found dead in Los Angeles, and a week later a flash flood had destroyed their entire corn crop when it was too late to re-plant.

“God has allowed hardship to befall us,” she shouted over the screams of Terrance, who was only three at the time, “but that does not mean He does not love us.”

There was a long porch in front of their single story farmhouse. Mary had arranged her children in a row on the porch, and stood before them, delivering her message on the meaning of the latest disasters to be visited upon the family.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph have sent us a burden, that is all. They have allowed your father to die and our crop to be destroyed, and we must suffer for it. But,” she said with emphasis, “We are not to allow this burden of suffering to make us miserable! I’ve taught you about the birds of passage. Neither birds nor people were ever intended to be miserable. You children are never to let anyone persuade you that God wishes misery upon His creatures. Suffering, yes, misery, no.”

The Gospel according to Mary Devine had always been incomprehensible to Frances, until now. On the day of Mary’s death, Frances had discovered misery, and the need to fly away.

Father Sebastian, delivering his graveside message to fourteen souls, including three friars and two nuns from the Orphanage, noticed Frances craning her neck, staring at the swallows overhead. He gathered the skirt of his brown robe and held it above his sandals, lest he trip into the grave, then circled the hole and the pile of dirt to stand directly before the children. Terrance stopped sucking, Frank Jr. saluted, and Frances stared into the pale eyes of the priest, her jaw agape.

Speaking directly to the girl in tones a bit too resonant with compassion, Father said, “ We must all suffer and make sacrifices. That is the meaning of The Holy Cross of Our Savior.” He paused to finger the ivory and silver crucifix at his chest, and to let his words find their way into the children’s inattentive souls.

“Jesus suffered on the cross,” he told them, “but He was a person with joy in his heart, like those swallows in the sky. You have lost your dear mother. Now it is your time to suffer for God as Our Lord has suffered for all of us. But learn from the swallows, my children. Even though your suffering is great, do not let The Devil steal the joy from your heart.”

Father’s reference to the swallows delivered a much more powerful message to young Frances than the priest had intended. The synchronicity of the moment made her feel that her mother, Mary, had spoken directly to her from Heaven, using the voice of the priest. The words did not make her feel good, but they gave her a shred of irrational, sustaining hope. Nonetheless she was to remain cruelly miserable after her mother’s death, and at the orphanage, all traces of joy did in fact disappear from her heart.

In a deal brokered by a local bank and the County Juvenile Court, Frances and her brothers had been traded to the Mission Orphanage in exchange for the deed to the Devine farm. The female orphans worked every day either in the kitchen or the laundry, while the boys did farm work. Through the winter, Frances was assigned to clean up duty in the kitchen. She washed pots and pans, swept floors, and mopped.

All around the Mission Compound, including the orphanage, the eaves of the buildings were encrusted with the mud of swallows’ nests. In early spring, the birds began to fly incessantly back and forth between nests and fields during the day, and each evening at sunset the mission grounds was clouded with birds returning home for the night. After Vespers in the chapel each evening, Frances liked to climb the stairs to her dormitory, to sit on her bed and watch the birds at work on their nests outside her window.

Frances knew that in summer the young would appear, teetering on the edges of their tiny mud doorways in the morning, encouraged by frantic adults to leap into the air and begin to fly. She also knew that in the fall the nests would empty. The swallows would depart for another winter, and would not return until the next spring.

Just after the first appearance of the swallows, Frances was rotated to laundry duty, and given the job of stirring bubbling tubs of dirty clothing for three hours each day, under the direct supervision of Friar Mark. The work was physically difficult as well as monotonous. Frances asked Friar Mark, after a few days, if there were some other chores that she could perform to alleviate her boredom. He lectured her on the importance of obedience and duty, and then suggested that at some later date he would be willing to make a more suitable arrangement for her.

Frances had been working in the laundry for about a week, when her supervisor appeared at the beginning of her shift one day with a young, hairless bunny procured from a nest in the Mission livestock compound. He showed it to Frances, and she protested that the creature was too young to be removed from the nest.

“Begging your pardon, Friar,” Frances said, “ but you oughtn’t to touch a bunny so young. The mother could kick it from the nest, after this. Or she may even destroy all of the litter. We’ve had them do that at home.”

The holy monk ignored the child’s protests, and proceeded to explain that the soaking vats contained lye, and to instruct the girl, in the interest of her safety, concerning the caustic properties of lye. For that lesson he had devised a special teaching technique.

Friar Mark was a dark, hairy man of forty years, with a huge chest and powerful arms. The son of a Mexican caballero and a Swedish prostitute, he had been delivered to the orphanage shortly after birth, and had seldom been outside its walls since. There was little he did not know about raising rabbits and manipulating children.

“Come with me,” he said, turning and climbing four steps up to a stirring platform alongside of one of the laundry vats. Frances hesitated, and he barked at her, “Get up here now, girl. Do as you’re told.”

Frances climbed the steps and stood beside him. He grinned at the girl, and took a length of twine from his tunic pocket. He tied one end of the string around the bunny’s middle and, as Frances watched in horror, dangled the creature above the vat. For a moment, he held the bunny at the surface of the bubbling liquid, allowing it to squeal with pain before he dipped it in all the way. Frances began to back away from the man, but he gripped her arm with his free hand, and lifted the dead animal out of the laundry water and held it aloft.

“You see, child, how its skin is now bright red and blistered? Do you see what terrible burns you can receive from these tubs?” He swung the grotesque object before her face and chuckled, then moved his hand quickly from her arm to the back of her neck. He began to push her slowly forward, bending her over the guardrail above the liquid.

Friar Mark then warned the girl in a hoarse whisper to be very quiet, and not to scream. He dropped the dead rabbit into the vat, reached under her skirt, and began to massage her crotch. Then he forced her hand under his tunic and instructed her to return the favor.

A few days later, Frances’ brother, Frank, told his sister that he didn’t want to escape. He liked the mission, because the friars let him and young Terry ride horses, and the boys didn’t have to work in the laundry.

The next morning before dawn, Frances climbed over a low wall of the compound and began walking west. Terrified of capture, the girl avoided roads and walked through rocky hills and woodlands, eventually losing all sense of direction. After several days she came at random upon the Pacific Ocean, and lay down to die.

While she was dying, Frances’ mother approached her, walking out of the waves at the edge of the sea.

“Frances,” Mary Hogan said to her daughter, “you have fallen from the sky like an injured bird. You must have broken a wing.”

The girl was filled with joy to see her mother again. “No, Mama,” she said, “I have no wings. Only legs and arms, and I can’t fly at all. I’ve tried, but I can’t fly. Can you lift me up, Mommy? Can you take me with you into the water?”

“Of course, my love,” Mary reached down and touched her child’s swollen face, “But first let my friends take care of your injuries. Can you see them? Over there beyond the rocks. Here, let me hold you so you can see them.” She lifted the child above the rocks and pointed out a group of people down the beach. “See that man, there, standing with the woman in the water? See him? The very dark man?”

Frances had trouble paying attention, because she was so happy to be with her mother again. She wrapped her arms around Mary’s neck and kissed her face and began to cry. “I’ve missed you so much, Mommy,” she said.

Mary comforted her and smiled. Frances relaxed, and her mother asked her again, “Do you see him? The dark man over there with the woman? This time Frances looked very hard and saw clearly. “Yes, Mama, I see him. Who is he?

“He will speak to you soon. The woman will treat your injuries, and the man will speak to you. I have arranged for him to take care of you, so don’t worry. You have some distance yet to fly, but you and I will be together very soon.

“Are you going to leave me again?

Mary didn’t reply. She embraced her child and kissed her, then returned her to the place where she had fallen. Frances watched her mother walk away up the beach, then drifted off to sleep.