valley that ducks, geese, pheasants, quail, and other birds nested there by the millions. When their bacon, beans, and flour had been consumed the southbound travelers hunted for their meals. Memories of the meager, repetitious, and at times rotten food suffered on the way to and at the gold fields faded away as they feasted on fresh meat. When they first spied the huge mountains that seemed to rise out of the valley floor as a barricade to their destination, Thomas could not contain himself.
“They remind me of the Alps!” He exclaimed after viewing them through his puffy eyes.
“They are only half as tall!” Rudolph countered. He was for continuing straight ahead over them. James pointed out that the tops of the mountains were already dusted with snow even though it was only the middle of November.
“It’ll be mighty cold going that way. I don’t know if Thomas can take it.” James shook his head. He had noticed the other’s worsening cough.
Thomas, weary of the guilt that he bore for being the reason that Rudolph had abandoned his home and future there, acquiesced and said that he could make it over the 60-mile ascent and descent into Los Angeles. He believed that he owed Rudolph anything that he could offer.
“Let’s keep going south,” he said.
Desperate, James sought a compromise. “I know you’re all fired up to get to Los Angeles so you can get on back home to New York, Mr. Rudolph. But Thomas can’t handle those mountains. That cowboy back there in Mudville said that if we follow his map and go west first the mountains are smaller and narrower and easier to get over through the pass. Then we can head south along the ocean and don’t have to worry about any more mountains.”
The longer James talked the darker Rudolph’s expression grew. His anger exploded.
“Going your way is at least 50 miles longer. I don’t care if it’s easier. I’m wasting time here. Here’s the map from that cowboy if you still want to go by the long way.” He opened his saddlebag, grabbed and then threw the map at James before urging his horse southward.
“But…” was all Thomas could manage before Rudolph was out of earshot. He glanced mournfully at James. “Maybe you should go with him. I can take the route on the map by myself. I am too much trouble.”
James took his time dismounting. “Don’t talk such foolishness. You and me have already been through too much for way too long for us to split up now. I won’t let you ride off by your lonesome. Besides I’m mighty hungry. Let’s go and find us a place to camp and finish off this elk meat. Besides the horses are all worn out after us riding them all day long. They need food and water too. Look at them.”
The horses snorted. They always sensed when James was referring to them. Thomas glanced toward where Rudolph had gone. By now he appeared to be a small ball bobbing up and down as he had forced his mount into a full gallop. He believed that Rudolph was riding out of his life forever.
“Don’t fret so much about Mr. Rudolph.” James assured him. “He’s so angry and fired up that nothing is going to keep him from making it.” He studied Thomas’s still worried expression. “Rudolph will write you a letter once he gets back home to New York.”
17
Between them, James and Thomas were able to decipher the crude map and found the pass that led from the immense valley and on through the Coast Range. Their first view of the Pacific in over a year revived memories of their voyage on the converted whaling ship. James kept reminding Thomas of how he had survived malaria when others had not as they crossed Nicaragua. The first settlement they came to on the western side of the Coast Range was Mission Santa Ines.
Founded by Father Junipero Serra and his band of Franciscans, the 21 Alta California missions were strategically located near the coast from San Diego to Sonoma, which was northeast of San Francisco on the other side of the inland bays. Mission Santa Ines had been set up in 1804. In 1833 the Mexican Congress had passed a law to secularize the missions and gave their land as grants to settlers. Most of the missions were then abandoned by the Franciscans and had fallen into varying states of disrepair. Nevertheless, they still provided enough shelter for Thomas to sleep inside away from the cool and damp weather.
Located about a day’s walk from each other, the missions proved to be logical stopping points for them because of Thomas’ condition. They moved south to Mission Santa Barbara and then to Mission San Buenaventura. They spent two days resting at each mission to allow him to regain his strength before pushing onward.
By the third mission Thomas had become too sick to ride his horse any further. For a week James scoured the homes near the mission and bargained with their inhabitants to rent them a wagon for the final trip to Mission San Fernando Rey de Espana in Los Angeles. The wagon’s owner insisted on acting as a guide, not because the trail was hard to follow but to ensure that he got his wagon back in a timely manner from these two odd looking gringos. By the time that they reached the mission and Los Angeles, Thomas had lapsed into a state of fitful sleep alternating with periods of semi-consciousness.
James quickly sent for McBride. He feared that with Thomas saying, “You were right, Dr. McBride,” over and over in his delirium, the doctor might be Thomas’ last hope of survival. He arrived at the mission a few moments after midnight.
“Well, you must be James, then,” he said as he was ushered into Thomas’ sickroom. “What’s that smell?”
“The padre put a poultice of onions and mustard on Thomas chest.” James pointed at the sticky mess. “He’s also been giving him dandelion tea to drink.”
McBride felt Thomas’ hot forehead. He then rolled his patient over onto his side and listened with his stethoscope to his lungs. He quivered as he placed the instrument back into his bag.
“It’s no wonder his breathing is so weak. His lungs sound like they’re swimming in water. Help me prop him up so he can breathe easier. There’s no medicine that can cure pneumonia. And he’s so bad off I don’t think bloodletting will help him out. Seems like most my patients get worse when I bleed them anyway. Maybe the poultice will help.”
James helped the doctor place pillows and blankets under Thomas’ head and upper back until it was higher than his lungs.
“I’m afraid that he’s more dead than alive, James. If you be a praying man, you best be praying for Thomas now. He’s so sick I can’t even move him to my house. I’m afraid he might die on the way there.”
18
They placed Thomas in the care of a Franciscan who had returned to the mission in hopes that the United States would allow the order to regain control of it. He checked on Thomas hourly and changed his poultice three times a day. During his momentary times of lucidness, Thomas was served soup, tea and wine made from dandelion, or other liquids. When not caring for him the Franciscan prayed on his behalf. Though raised Lutheran, Thomas now cared little that it was a Catholic whom he heard praying for him. Hovering between life and death, he was willing to accept prayers on his behalf from any who said them in faith. At one point the shivering patient pulled out his flint and handed it to his caregiver so that he could start a fire. It would be two weeks before the still weak Thomas could move to convalesce with the doctor at his home for the next six months. As he left the mission he pushed the flint into the padre’s hand and asked McBride to explain that it was to thank him for all of his care.
“Vaya con Dios,” the padre said as they left.
McBride had hosted James at his small adobe house. The thickness of its walls and the simplicity of its structure fascinated him. He was even more dumbfounded at how the house would stay warm when the nights turned cold but would remain cool during the warm days.
“Sure better than any house built of wood, eh?” McBride beamed. “Not so hard to build either.”
James had been even more amazed to find Rudolph still there. He had assumed that his and Thomas’ slow pace would mean that Rudolph would be on the trail that headed east by the time they arrived in Los Angeles. Instead he found him at work on a house a short distance from McBride’s.
“Can’t say I expected to ever see you again.” James said to greet him as they met for the first time in weeks.
Rudolph lay a hammer down and motioned for James to sit. “It’s a long story.” He sighed. “If you help me build this house I’ll tell it to you.” He paused. “I am sorry for the way I treated you and Thomas. I was in pain.” He pointed at his right leg, which was missing from below the knee. “I guess that bullet did more damage than we thought. Dr. McBride said I had gangrene and that if he didn’t take the leg off right away I would die.”
James had not noticed the missing portion of the limb. Now he understood why Rudolph had been leaning against the wall’s frame as he swung the hammer. The empty pant leg hid the amputation; only if one stared at where Rudolph’s foot should be did it become apparent that there was only one boot instead of two. James picked up a saw and went to work.
In exchange Rudolph told his tale. Finding a pass through the mountains at first had proved difficult. Seemingly promising routes often had ended in box canyons or suddenly twisted to the east or west. During his second day in the labyrinth of gullies, hills, mountains, trees, and brush, he had stumbled onto a trail that appeared to head to the south. It had been worn down enough to make it easy to follow, until it had brought him into the