Chapter Twenty-five
Two miles out of Monterey, Tiburcio turned the team and wagon off the main road onto a rutted wagon road. A mile later we drew up in front of a cabin. I jumped down from the wagon and pulled the tarp back. After a moment, our hostage sat up and eased himself out of the back, careful not to get any splinters in his backside. He looked around at the surrounding hills and then at the cabin.
“This is the old Montez Place,” he said.
“I believe you and your partner paid the taxes on it and took it from the rightful owners,” Tiburcio said in a pleasant voice.
“You are Vasquez, the outlaw,” Peperich exclaimed.
“This is true. I am Vasquez and I am at your service,” Tiburcio said, smiling at the recognition, then touched his left hand to his hat brim. “However, I am not nearly the bandit you are, Mr. Peperich. Is it true you and your partner, David Jacks, swindled the good citizens of Monterey out of the thirty-thousand acres the town sits on by paying a lawyer’s lien of nine hundred ninety-one dollars and fifty cents? I am humbled in the presence of a true bandit such as yourself. You are a thief’s thief.”
“There was nothing illegal done. Perhaps you two reasonable-looking, well-dressed gentlemen could reconsider this misunderstanding and let me walk back to town. The whole incident can be forgotten, I assure you.”
“That sounds like a fair request. What do you say, Charlie? Should we let him go?”
“Not quite yet,” I replied.
“Now, both of you speak like educated men. I can see by your clothes you are civilized gentlemen. Surely we can work something out that will benefit everyone. I don’t have a great deal of money, but I can make it worth your while to turn me loose.”
“What do you say, Charlie? Should we be reasonable men and turn him loose?”
I said nothing, but indicated the lawyer should walk into the cabin. He didn’t seem to like that. He liked it even less when I directed him to sit in a stout wooden chair bound together with rawhide straps.
“I haven’t done anything wrong. I did some legal work for a client. You can’t hold that against me,” the lawyer said soothingly. “Let us forget the whole thing. This is not right by anyone’s standards.”
Neither Tiburcio nor I responded to his request for a moment, then Tiburcio spoke.
“Not only is this man a master thief, but he has balls the size of a range bull’s. You talk to us about fairness when you are about to foreclose on a dead man’s property and leave his family to beg for food.”
I had only seen good natured indifference before, but now there was a tiny red spark in Tiburcio’s eyes. Peperich saw it too and shrank back into the chair.
“This is the first time I have met either one of you. Why don’t you tell me what it is I can do to remedy this?”, he said.
“Perhaps you could tell us where the tax liens are.” I answered.
“At the county recorder’s office back in town,” he said, regaining some of the confidence in his voice.
Tiburcio went outside and came back with some papers clutched in his hand.
“These are the documents I liberated from the county courthouse last night. It is all I could find regarding Don Topo’s property.”
“How did you get those papers?”
“You called me Vasquez the bandit. If I can steal gold coins at gunpoint, I can steal papers from a file drawer. These papers don’t completely solve the dilemma we face. A man who is hated as much as your client will have copies. We need those copies.”
“Then ask him. Why bother with me?”
“When your client heard Topo died he must have felt that public sentiment would turn against him. Jacks is not a stupid man. He is nowhere to be found,” Tiburcio said.
I looked down at our guest, “According to the local newspaper, your partner David Jacks called everyone that was living on the land he stole, squatters. If a group of citizens calling themselves The Squatters League of Monterey had sent a letter to me, stating they were going to suspend my animation between heaven and hell, I might have left town myself. Jacks has left you holding the bag. Why you are still here is the question. As Tiburcio says, you must have big cojones to stay around.”
“I don’t know anything about a copy of tax papers that may or may not exist. This is ridiculous. You can’t make me tell you what I don’t know.”
“I am starting to understand the lawyer’s argument, Charlie. Shouldn’t we just let him go? If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know,” Tiburcio said.
“I agree. If there is such a thing as an innocent lawyer, he is with us in this cabin. Still, we had better get the third vote before we make a decision.”
“What third vote?” Peperich said, now more annoyed than afraid.
Tiburcio went to the corner of the cabin and picked up a length of hemp rope.
“If I could trouble you to place your hands down at your side, the third member of our committee requested you be tied up before they arrive.”
“What third member?” Peperich said and started to get up out of the chair. Before his butt had cleared the wooden seat, he was looking at Tiburcio’s Colt Dragoon pointed at his nose. Tiburcio thumbed back the hammer.
“I find in times of stress it helps if the people you are dealing with are tied securely. I must insist.”
Peperich settled back down and Tiburcio handed me his pistol, then neatly tied the lawyer to the chair.
“I would turn you loose now but.... I can only speak for myself. I am a little frightened of our third partner. She is quite an intense woman.”
“She?” Peperich asked, sounding confused.
“Yes, the daughter of Don Topo. She feels that, through manipulation of the law, you are going to undo all of the effort her father put forth over the years to provide for his family. She erroneously believes you are stealing the inheritance her father left to her mother and sisters. I know from talking to you that are innocent of wrong doing. She will be here presently and you will have the chance to defend yourself.”
“And if I don’t convince her?”
“How fond are you of your nose? I can see from your expression that you are quite fond of it. All I can say is, your nose may not be the most important appendage she cuts off if you can’t answer her questions.”
As if on cue, the sound of approaching hoof beats could be heard in the darkness. Through the window I could see the slim form of Lucinda rein her horse into a sliding stop, then throw herself out of a side saddle onto the ground. Whether she kicked the door open with her foot, or hit it with her shoulder, the door to the small cabin blew open and crashed against the wall with the force of a thunderclap. Tiburcio had lit a candle so that the room was illuminated in the falling dusk. There was still enough evening twilight outside to silhouette Lucinda’s slight figure.
Lucinda was dressed in her black mourning dress and tendrils of black hair framed her face and spilled down her neck and back. Her face was a mask of hatred. Her normally light blue eyes were as black as ink. If ever there was an image of the angel of death, Lucinda was surely it.
She paused in the doorway as her eyes adjusted to the light. She moved quickly to the stone fireplace where she swept up a small shovel that was used to clean out the ashes. She raised the shovel shoulder high, and taking two mincing steps, let out a piercing screech and swung the shovel blade at Peperich’s head.
Tiburcio was just quick enough to get his arm around her waist and stop her forward momentum. She missed the lawyer’s skull by a whisker. Peperich threw himself back and the chair fell over onto the floor.
“Lucinda, he can’t tell you what you want to know if you break his jaw or slice open his jugular,” Tiburcio said, fighting to keep her contained.
I went over and got an arm under Peperich’s shoulder and brought him, and the chair, into an upright position. His eyes were round and all color had drained from his face. A small cut on his forehead dripped blood.
“May I suggest you come up with
a plan to get us the copies of the tax documents from David Jack? I am going to have to let the woman go sometime. It would help your immediate future if you had something to say that she wants to hear.”
“What did I do?” Peperich asked again, but this time his voice was no longer the modulated voice of a courtroom lawyer.
“What did you do?” Lucinda growled. “You and Mr. David Jacks were going to secretly pay the taxes on my father’s ranches, foreclose on them and leave my family without any way to feed themselves. If I hadn’t looked at the county records to see exactly what my father owned, and seen the paid liens, you would have gotten away with it. You Yankee leaches, you come into this country and twenty years later you have sucked it dry. No more code of honor, no more week-long fiestas and no more enjoyment of life without fearing theft of property every waking moment. The Alta Sierra that I knew as a girl is gone. You gringos walk like cockroaches across a beautiful cake. All you know how to do is cheat and steal. Before you tell me where the tax liens are, perhaps you should tell me why I should let you live.”
“I didn’t break the law in any way,” Peperich said and focused his gaze on Tiburcio. Tiburcio pointed toward Lucinda and raised his shoulders in a shrug.
“My father worked his whole life to provide for his family. If your scheme goes as planned, all his effort, his sweat and his planning will be wasted because you and the diseased, putrid dog’s anus you work for figured out a way to use the laws to your advantage.”
Tiburcio still had his arms lightly around Lucinda’s waist.
“If I let you go are you going to hurt our lawyer friend so badly he can’t talk?”
Lucinda answered with a grunt and Tiburcio released her. She smoothed her skirt and straightened her black jacket.
“Go outside. He will tell me all I need to know.”
“Tied or not, I don’t want to leave you in the room by yourself with him,” I said.
“You are saying Tiburcio doesn’t know how to tie someone up? Stand outside the door. If I yell for you, come rescue me. If he yells for you, he hasn’t told me what I need to know.”
Peperich’s already wide eyes got even wider. Tiburcio and I walked through the cabin door out onto the porch. Lucinda shut the door.
Tiburcio took a pouch filled with small cigars from his coat. He reached into the pouch and pulled one out and then offered me the pouch. I declined, took a kitchen match out of my vest pocket and lit Tiburcio’s cigarillo. A shrill, piercing scream came from inside the cabin. Tiburcio looked sharply at me and stepped back inside. I followed him.
The smell of Peperich’s blood and fear filled the room. One side of the lawyer’s face was soaked red. A v shaped notch had been cut in his left ear. Lucinda had earmarked the lawyer the way the vaqueros earmarked a calf at a branding. Peperich let out little raspy squeals with each breath.
“What did you do that for?” I asked.
“You suggested it,” she replied.
“I was kidding. You can’t just slice him up,” I said in exasperation. Vasquez stood back, smiling at the argument between Lucinda and myself
“He was telling me he didn’t know anything about the papers Jacks has. I just wanted to introduce him to the first thing that happens when an unmarked bull is caught by vaqueros. A notch is cut in the ear, then a brand is applied to his hide and finally the bull loses his huevos. Of course, if the lawyer can come up with a plan to give me the papers I need, we can stop with the ear mark. If not, I’ve brought a cinch ring that I can heat in the fireplace and continue with the branding. If he still wants my father’s ranch, we can start by burning the Topo brand on his cheek.”
“For the love of God, get me out of here,” Peperich cried, looking to me.
Tiburcio continued to act as if he found this exchange amusing.
“Lucinda hates to do domestic chores. My advice is to tell her what she wants to know before she builds the fire. If she has to go to the trouble of building the fire she will most likely brand you whether you talk or not. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if you still refuse to help,” Tiburcio said.
“Listen, I don’t know where Jacks keeps any of his paperwork. He has a big safe at his house. I would guess the papers are there,” Peperich replied, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.
“What is the combination to this big safe?” Lucinda asked.
“Why would I know? Jacks doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust anyone. Try his wife’s birthday. Try his first child's birthday. You’re the robbers. Blow the damn safe open.”
The three of us looked at him.
“I don’t know the combination. Kill me if you must, but keep that woman away,” he pleaded.
“Come, let us go to Jacks’ home. I spent eighteen months in San Quentin with a thief who talked a great deal about how to crack a safe. It is at least worth a chance.”
Tiburcio quizzed the lawyer about where the safe was located in Jacks’ house. He asked if there were any other people living in the house and if Jacks had taken his family with him when he left Monterey.
“You stay with Lawyer Peperich and keep him safe.” Lucinda said to me. I agreed. Tiburcio and Lucinda climbed in the wagon and headed back to town.
“That woman is crazy.” Peperich exclaimed when he heard the heavy wagon making its way down the rutted road.
Leaning against the wall, I felt in my pocket for the packet of papers that Dõna Inez had given me. I pulled them out and undid the string.
“You aren’t going to let that crazy woman come back and use her knife on me, are you?” Peperich said, pleading.
“It will depend on whether they can open the safe. If they can’t they will probably want more ideas.”
“For the love of God, you have to talk some sense into her.”
“I have known her all my life and I have never seen anyone change her mind. She has killed two men in front of me, so her threats to mutilate you are real enough. She fears nothing and draws no lines when it comes to violence. Perhaps you should say your prayers that Tiburcio learned how to properly open a safe when he was in prison.”
The package of papers contained a letter that Don Topo must have been in the process of writing to me when he fell over dead from the stroke or heart attack, that killed him. I read the letter, which started out referencing the effects of the drought and the management and marketing of the cattle in Oregon. It was detailed, drawn out and meandering. I often thought while reading Topo’s letters that he was exploring his options through correspondence. Toward the end of the letter, my father-in-law said he was afraid his health was failing and that he had included a very important piece of information. He emphasized that I was not to lose the attached note.
“Why am I being persecuted for helping to change how things are done in California? Doesn’t that crazy woman know property taxes are needed for public schools and bridge construction? Am I to be branded and castrated for simply paying taxes?” Peperich was getting his courtroom voice back.
I put down Topo’s letter. “I won’t use my knife on you for paying taxes, but I might stick a horse turd in your mouth and secure it with a handkerchief if you talk to me like I am stupid or refer to my wife as a crazy woman again,” I replied.
“Your wife?” Peperich said, his eyes bulging.
A small piece of paper fell out of the packet onto the ground. I stooped over and picked up the paper. It had writing on it that I couldn’t make it out.
Peperich opened with a new argument. “The Spanish treated the California Indians much worse than Americans have ever treated the decedents of the Spaniards. That was the true injustice. There were hundreds of thousands of Indians, maybe millions of Indians in this state before the Spaniards brought Small Pox and Cholera to the region. The native Indians that didn’t die of disease were made into slaves for the Missions. The women were taken as concubines, or simply raped by the Spanish soldiers and their culture destroyed. How can anyone of Spanish decent be outraged by the Ameri
cans after the horror they perpetrated on the Indians? At least if you pay your taxes you can keep your land. The Indians kept nothing. How can a Spaniard blame me when they have done much worse?”
“You must have been a lawyer for a long time. It seems impossible for you to shut up.”
Peperich didn’t seem to hear me. His nerves were so jangled he babbled on.
“Not that the Spanish were wrong in taking the land from the Indians. Always, the stronger and smarter will take from the weak. I don’t mean to say that the Spanish were weak, it’s just that things always evolve. I should not be held accountable for being part of the change. Please, for the love of God, let me go.”
I continued to look at the slip of paper. In the poor light, I couldn’t tell what the scribbling meant. I turned the paper sideways and then upside down. Suddenly it struck me and I grinned. Don Topo had left me a great secret on the little scrap of paper. He had reached from beyond the grave to assure me I still had his trust. Peperich’s blathering intruded on my thoughts.
“Despite what you say, I am a good man. Am I to be killed over a political misunderstanding?”
I went to a shelf and took down a kerosene lantern. It had a small amount of fluid that I poured in a circle around Peperich’s chair. The lawyer must have envisioned himself on fire, because his screams reached a soprano pitch. A putrid smell filled the cabin as his bowels let loose.
I drew my knife from the back of my belt and advanced toward Peperich. He shrieked one last time and drew back as far as he could without tipping the chair over.
“You are right. I need to shut up. Consider it done.”
Grabbing a handful of his thick brown hair, I held it up and put the blade of the knife against his scalp. Peperich shrieked again.
“You seem to be an intelligent fellow. At least a well-dressed fellow. Let’s see if you can grasp something important to your health. Tiburcio Vasquez is a famous bandit with little to lose. Killing an unpopular lawyer would only add to his legend. Remember, he rides with a gang and has many contacts in the criminal world who would jump at the chance to do him a favor. He has companeros from Los Angeles to San Francisco and every wide spot in the road in between. If any of them catch you, then you will find yourself in a chair ringed with kerosene and a bunch of miscreants gathered around you playing with matches.”
“What are you saying?” Peperich cried.
“That as long as you are in California, your life is forfeit. You can never step outside your house at night, or have a drink in a saloon, or visit your girlfriend without the very real possibility that a shotgun or pistol will be emptied into your face. In that circumstance a man such as yourself might find leaving the Alto Sierra the best choice. Do you agree?”
“Does this mean you are letting me go?”
“Only if I feel you understand that leaving the area is your only option. Don’t stop to change your underwear, don’t say goodbye to anyone and don’t let the morning sun find you in Monterey,’” I said and let the point of my knife penetrate the skin on his scalp.
“Let me go and you will never see me again,” Peperich said, and so I took the knife from his head and cut the ropes.
Scent of Tears