Chapter Eleven
We camped fifteen miles north of Monterey the first night, at a small stream which ran through a meadow. The enormity of the responsibility I had been given started to sink in. I wasn’t able to sleep much.
The grass was short, but we weren’t bothered by anyone asking us at rifle point why we were grazing off their feed. Don Topo had mapped out the route until we got north of Marysville. He also arranged pasture for the cattle most of the way. Even though it was Fall, there were many creeks still running in the country we would be traveling through. That meant the stock would be well watered.
This was the largest number of cattle than I had ever taken north. I wasn’t sure how they would line out. I planned on driving the heifers faster than I would have pushed fat steers going to Butcher Town. Heifers didn’t need to be fat because they were not going to slaughter. They were going north to raise a calf. If the heifers arrived in reasonable condition when we reached the Oregon Territory, they would fatten in the spring.
Gotch-Eyed Juan, Topo’s gunman, had ridden alongside the herd as we pushed them up the trail. He wasn’t helping to guide the herd most of the time, but, out of boredom, he did turn the heifers back onto the trail when they wandered, assisting us in-spite of himself.
The second night I stayed up to ride around the cattle. They were restless and little groups kept standing up and moving around. We weren’t far enough from their home range to insure they wouldn’t run back to their home pasture. After my nervous night on horseback trying to prevent a stampede, I was happy to see the sun rise from behind the mountains. Though the cattle were cooperating, the first conflict within the trail crew soon arose.
“I can’t eat what this boy cooks,” Lucinda said, holding her plate out to me.
“Keep your voice down. You will hurt his feelings,” I replied. The plate looked fine to me. A pile of runny, undercooked beans set on top of a tortilla. Lucinda continued to make a face.
“There may not be fresh fruit, honey and chocolate like there was back in Monterey but we will have to make due,” I said.
Lucinda handed me her cup of coffee with her nose wrinkled. I tasted it. It was a little weak, but that made the supply of coffee last longer so I didn’t see the problem. We weren’t going to eat again until evening and by then beans and tortillas would taste good, provided I wasn’t too tired to eat.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“I’ll cook if you don’t have anybody more skilled than that boy,” she replied.
I stared at her in shock. If I had suggested she do the cooking she would have taken a quirt to me.
“Why is your mouth gaping open? You don’t think I can cook?”
“I never thought of you as a cook. It will be work,” I said. I saw her eyes narrow.
“You think I am afraid of hard work?”
“If you want to do the cooking, nobody is going to stop you.”
“The kid does the dishes,” she said.
Using as much delicacy as possible, I asked the boy who was already trying to wrangle the horses and prepare the food, if he would mind if Lucinda did the cooking. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that besides staying up all night watching the horses, he would have to wash dishes. I decided to take that responsibility on myself. We would just have to postpone the cattle drive every morning until I got done scrubbing the pots and pans.
That evening, I waited until our little crew finished the meal Lucinda prepared, then collected the utensils and plates and headed down toward the creek. Lucinda watched me in amazement. When I walked to the creek she followed me.
“You can’t let the vaqueros see you washing dishes. They will lose respect for you.”
“The only respect I will get from them is if I work harder than they do,” I said.
“Those men work for you, they will do what they are told or suffer the consequences,” she said with an air of aristocratic superiority.
“They work for your father. They don’t work for me. I am only in charge in his absence. Heading cattle north isn’t exactly a challenge, but if things get tough, what is to stop them from riding back to Monterey?” I asked. Her look softened into a frown.
“You worry about everything.”
It was impossible to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“And you worry about nothing. What a perfect couple.”
“Charlie, how are you going to work harder than they do if you are so much pain you can’t even saddle your horse? This morning you sounded like an old man with gout the way you grunted and groaned. It hurts to watch you.”
“You sound sympathetic. Are you not feeling well?” I asked. She threw up her hands and walked away.
The next morning we drove the heifers twenty miles up the road to one of the ranches where we were to pick up another hundred head of Topo’s heifers. I told the vaqueros to hold our cattle up within sight of the other herd. I then climbed in the buggy so I could give my back a rest. Lucinda drove the team.
I looked around for Gotch-Eyed Juan. Topo’s gunman had ridden alongside of the herd when we were driving them. He wasn’t helping to guide the herd most of the time, but, out of boredom he did turn the heifers back onto the trail when they wandered, assisting us in-spite of himself.
The gunman never spoke unless he was asked a direct question that could be answered with a grunt. One of his eyes looked straight ahead, glowering out under a heavy brow. The other eye drifted inward. There was such a contrast between the two eyes, one the cold blooded eye of a man angry with the world and the other a clown’s visage. His appearance made me want to laugh. I didn’t laugh because Gotch-Eyed Juan held the reputation of someone who took action first and weighed the consequences later. Juan was said to be headed to the gallows before he came under the calming influence of Don Topo. He was reputed to have killed some men during the Bear Flag Rebellion but he never talked about it. His demeanor didn’t encourage questions. I certainly never asked him anything other than to pass the tortillas.
As the wagon drew closer I saw with some consternation that Don Tomasino, the man I had beaten outside the bordello in Monterey, was standing in front of a shack. He looked older and fatter than the last time I had seen him. When we drew up, he glared at me with red, watery eyes. He was unshaven and his clothes seemed threadbare. Even from where I sat in the wagon, I could smell alcohol fumes rising from his skin.
“You are going to drive this many cattle north, kid?” Tomasino asked, looking at me with exaggerated astonishment. “Topo doesn’t have any men working for him? He has to send a boy who needs a woman drive the wagon?”
The blood rose in my face but I took a deep breath. If I could withstand a few insults until the heifers Tomasino was holding were thrown in with the main herd, perhaps our trip to Oregon could resume. However, this was not to be.
“I haven’t forgotten about when you hit me on the head with a stick of firewood, perro. Today, I will repay you with interest.”
“I don’t have time for this, Don Tomasino. Let me have the cattle and we will be on our way,” I replied, shifting in my seat. I wasn’t sure, given the condition of my back, that I would be able to do much anyway. Lifting my saddle onto my horse in the morning was about all I could accomplish. Simply getting out of the wagon to address Don Tomasino was going to take a few minutes of concentrated effort. It seemed Don Tomasino had put some thought into his revenge and wasn’t going to be denied. He turned on his heel and held his hand out toward a hulking figure who stepped out of the cabin.
“You can step down off the wagon and meet Alberto Garcia like a man, or I will have him pull you off the wagon into the dirt where you belong,” Tomasino said. Alberto was a younger version of Anastasio Garcia, the noted outlaw and killer I had met when I rode into Tiburcio Vasquez’s camp in search of my mare. He was immensely thick through the shoulders and neck, with heavy forearms and large hands. His head was oversized even for his height and huge frame.
“My husb
and would be glad to deal with your ruffian, but he has been injured in a riding accident and is much diminished. Perhaps you could be generous enough to let us take the cattle to Oregon and reserve your revenge for our return?” Lucinda asked.
“I suspect your husband would not be so easy to find now that he knows what is waiting for him. Now, get out of the wagon, you worthless whelp, or I will have you dragged from the wagon. It doesn’t matter to me.”
I wondered if a beating was going to be carried out with only fists and boots or if I would be roped and dragged down the road. I carried a small knife in my belt. If I didn’t stick it through Alberto’s eye or into his throat, I would only cause him to be more exacting in his punishment. Lucinda addressed Tomasino.
“You know who I am, Don Tomasino?” Lucinda asked mildly.
In the many years since the incident, I have given much thought toward Lucinda’s attempt at diplomacy. It wasn’t her nature or her habit to be soothing. My conclusion was that Lucinda instinctively knew how bad this situation was. She was doing what she could to avoid things getting any worse.
“I know you are one of Topo’s daughters. The scandalous one I believe,” Tomasino said.
I felt Lucinda stiffen, then drop her head. When she raised her head, she was smiling.
“That is enough of that kind of talk, Tomasino,” I said in a low tone.
Gotch-Eyed Juan rode up near the wagon. I could see the surprise in Tomasino’s face. He had been informed that Lucinda I were coming, but nobody had told him about Juan.
“Stay out of this, Juan.” Tomasino said, raising a half-hearted finger toward the gunman. Juan shrugged his shoulders and looked off, as if this wasn’t his concern.
“You are going to insist on this ruffian attacking my husband? Has the alcohol so reduced you as a man you are you afraid to fight for yourself? Have you always been that much of a coward?” she asked Tomasino in a reasonable voice.
“Pull the Yankee off the wagon, Alberto,” Tomasino said to the large man, who grinned and started toward the wagon. Lucinda turned in the wagon seat and reached behind her. She grasped a shotgun that was lying in the floor of the wagon bed. With one smooth motion, she picked up the short-barreled weapon, swung it around and cocked the hammers. Don Tomasino saw her pick up the shotgun and was in the act of fumbling for his pistol when Lucinda shot him in the middle of his chest. The buckshot knocked him off his feet.
For a second after the blast, everyone was frozen, then the big man clawed at the pistol in his belt, stepping back as he did. Lucinda aimed the other barrel at him but, as she fired, the horses pulling the wagon jumped forward. The movement caused her to miss. I watched in horror as Alberto got his pistol free of the holster and aimed it in our direction. Another round exploded. A hole appeared below Alberto’s left eye and he sank to the ground. Gotch-Eyed Juan stepped off his horse, keeping his pistol ready in case there was life left in his advisory.
My heart was pounding and I couldn’t get my breath. I looked at Lucinda. The blood had drained from her face, but her features remained composed. Don Tomasino was making high keening noises in the dust where he lay. The heels of his boots were feebly drumming in the dirt as he twitched and contorted. There was so much blood and tissue on the ground, it was clear he only had minutes to live. Alberto was not breathing.
“What should we do, Juan?” Lucinda asked. Juan was busy keeping the two corpses covered with his pistol. He didn’t have a ready answer.
“Would it be better if we loaded these pendejos into the wagon and you drive them back to Monterey? Perhaps load their saddles in the wagon as well so nobody will think we robbed them? I have heard Alberto Garcia has a reward posted for his capture. If you turn his body over to the sheriff and report that Tomasino was killed in the crossfire, that may be the end of it.”
Juan nodded his head in agreement and tied his horse to the wagon wheel in anticipation of loading the bodies into the wagon. He leaned against the wagon and placing his hand over his face, began silently talking to himself. Whether he was saying prayers for the dead men, or simply going over the story he would tell in Monterey was unclear.
“Should I return with the wagon to the cattle drive after I drop off the bodies with the Sheriff?” he asked, after his unnerving inward consultation.
Lucinda’s voice sounded so calm it amazed me.
“There may be an inquest. If you are there to present your story, and no one is around to contradict you, then it will end there. Send another man back with the wagon. We won’t be that far up the trail. Just tell him to follow the cow manure.”
The two vaqueros started toward the wagon when they heard the shots. I waved them back to the herd. The fewer people who saw what had happened, the better for all of us.
I didn’t want to be covered with Tomasino’s entrails as we hoisted him into the wagon, so I unsaddled Tomasino’s horse and laid out his blanket so I could roll his body onto it. Alberto Garcia was missing the back of his head. There wasn’t nearly as much blood though, so it was easier to avoid. I took everything we would need out of the wagon. Then, with considerable effort, the three of us loaded the two dead men into the springboard wagon and piled their weapons and saddles on top of them. With the bodies loaded in the wagon, there wasn’t much left to say. Lucinda stepped close to Juan and put her hand on his horse’s shoulder.
“Find my father and tell him exactly what happened. Then tell him what I said about bringing Alberto Garcia in for the reward and Tomasino getting killed in the crossfire. Now, go.”
I motioned to the vaqueros to bring us some horses. I could see that they wanted to ask what happened, but one look at Lucinda’s face and they stayed silent.
After we were mounted, I pushed the extra hundred head of heifers into the main bunch and we headed them back on the road. In a mile or two, the heifers seemed to line out and I rode off to the side of the trail. I had managed to keep most of the blood off my clothing when loading the bodies, except for a large spot on my sleeve. I climbed off my horse and got down on my knees and tried to rub enough sand into the area to make it a dirty stain on the shirt. I could still hear the pitiful groans and see the blood and entrails of Don Tomasino in my mind. I imagined I could still smell his exploded guts as I sat on the ground. My eyes started to water and I blew out some exaggerated breaths through my nose, but it was no use. I started heaving but nothing came out.
“Charlie, we had no choice,” I heard Lucinda say. I hadn’t heard her ride up but I was now sitting in the shadow of her horse. I wasn’t sure what she meant by we. I had sat there frozen in place while the killings took place.
“I wish no one had been killed,” I said, as I wiped my mouth with my forearm.
Lucinda unstrapped a canteen from her saddle horn, reached down and let it swing into my hat. I reached up and took it from her.
“You feel sorry for those men, Charlie?”
I got back up to my feet and looked at her. She sat perfectly erect. She still looked pale but her features were relaxed. I felt like a timid Mission Indian in the presence of a Spanish Lancer. Uncorking the canteen, I let the water spill into my throat, then spit it out.
“They may not deserve pity, Lucinda, but vendetta killings die an ugly death. Years ago Tomasino was going to hurt my horse, Luna, and I tried to stab him. He hit me in the face with his quirt. Later, when I caught him drunk outside a whorehouse, I beat him with a piece of firewood. Now, because of my actions, two men have been killed. Do you really think this will end there?”
“Tomasino was a pig,” she replied.
“Maybe so, but he was a pig with relatives. Even if no one is interested in avenging him, how about Alberto? We both know he has many relatives. Big, strong, active ones who are dead shots.”
“Juan killed him, not me. Other than our vaqueros, no one knows what happened.”
“But they will. Nothing you do in this life stays hidden,” I said, and wanted to finish my sentence with a profanity. I knew it was best t
o limit what I said while I was upset, but today Lucinda’s arrogance overwhelmed me.
“Too many people saw the killings. Soon, people will know you killed Tomasino with a shotgun. If they don’t think it was you, they will think it was me. I don’t know which is worse.”
“Tomasino called me scandalous. I saw his words bothered you.”
“You are scandalous. Even if it bothered me, it didn’t bother me enough to kill him.”
“He said you beat him with a piece of firewood outside of a bordello,” she said. She sounded curious.
“I asked him for my father’s knife back and he refused me. Look where it brought us. A knife isn’t worth two lives. What about Gotch-Eyed Juan? Don’t you think one of the Garcias will try to kill him over this?” I asked.
“My father says Juan has been looking for death since he first looked in a mirror. He just hasn’t found it yet,” Lucinda replied and stood on her toes in the saddle, scanning the heifers as they meandered up the trail. She held the canteen out to me again.
“Do you want another drink of water, Charlie?” she asked.
I put my hand on my saddle horn, overcome with the enormity of what had happened.
“Charlie, do you really think you were only going to take a beating? You would have been stomped to death or at the very least crippled so badly you couldn’t get on a horse. Then what? I’m left to drive the cattle to Oregon by myself? I did what I had to do, which is what people of my blood have been doing as long as they have been in the Alto Sierra. My father needs you. I wasn’t going to let that coarse, drunken old man take your services from my family.”
I looked at her in shock. She had reducing my position to that of a servant, a dog that she had prevented a stranger from whipping.
Finally, I said, “Maybe just hold him off with a shotgun while we gathered the cattle would have been enough?”
“There were two of them. Tomasino was drunk. There is no point in trying to gain cooperation from a drunk, especially when they insult you.”
I contemplated climbing back on my horse and riding back to Monterey but the air seemed to have left my body.
“Come on, Charlie. Get back in the saddle. Those cattle aren’t going to find their own way to Oregon.”
Scent of Tears