Peter Burkin got up. “Sit right here, Zack. I’ll get your gear.” He leaned his big hands on the table. “Look, Zack, I’ve found a place here. The air is good for lungers, so take a few days, anyway. Get rested, think about it, and we can talk it over. Maybe there’s an answer. You won’t help the boy by getting yourself killed.”
He paused at the door. “You loved the desert, Zack. Give it a chance.”
Peter Burkin went outside and my father stared into his coffee, then tasted it.
After a moment he drank more. He seemed to have forgotten that I was there. Behind me the window was open and I could hear a murmur of voices from near the corral.
“… takin’ his duffle off. Yeah, they’re waitin’ for him. You’ll see when you pull up at the Bella Union. Do him a favor and tell them nothing.” Farley said something I did not hear and then Peter replied, “How was he on the trip west?”
“Bad, real bad. He did his share and more, he’s that sort of man, but he was coughin’ the whole way. Got so’s we got used to it an’ scarcely noticed. I will say he’s coughed a mite less since we crossed the Colorado. I think all that desert before helped him some.”
“I’ll get his gear.”
“Burkin? What’s behind it? I know all about Spanish pride and I know Verne
wasn’t a Catholic and was a common seaman-“
“An uncommon seaman, if you ask me.”
“What’s behind it?”
“Search me. I’ve no idea. The old don’s filled with hatred, and so’s the other one, the man she was supposed to marry. Seems he’d had trouble with Verne before, and when Consuelo ran off with Verne, he was fit to be tied.” Burkin was removing gear from the wagon, and then he said, “Say nothing about it, will you?”
“I can’t vouch for the others. There’s bound to be talk.” My father finished his coffee and walked outside, and I followed. Peter Burkin waited on the stoop.
“I’ve a place for you, Zack. It’s an old adobe somebody fixed up, and if you can set a horse, you can be there in just a few minutes.” When we mounted, he led us toward the looming mountain, all black and mysterious. Peter saw me looking at it. “That’s where Tahquitz lives, boy. Or so the Injuns say.
“He stole Injun girls an’ et ‘em. Chewed ‘em right up. Some young Injuns figured that was an awful waste of girls, so they taken after him, found the cave where he slept, bones all around it. They say a young Injun walled him in. Your pa knows that story.”
“He told me. Do you believe it?”
“You get up in those mountains alone, boy, or you get out in some desert canyon, an’ you begin to believe most everything.
“There’s medicine men who can raise storms, they say, and they can make the dead walk, and some as say they can see the future or what takes place far away. Your pa knows more about such things than me, but I’ve heard talk around the campfires, spooky talk of ghouls an” ghosts, an’ like the Scotch say, ‘of things that go bump in the night.’”
The mountain loomed black against the night, with the stars hanging above, and I thought of Tahquitz and shivered. Was he up there now? Prowling in the canyons? Or was he still walled in his cavern, struggling to escape?
Eleven
Peter Burkin led the way through low sandhills to a small adobe surrounded by a living barricade of what seemed to be tall spines of cactus. “Ocotillo,” he explained, “makes the best fence ever.”
He spoke over his shoulder, as I was close upon him, and my father trailing some distance behind. “Boy? You an’ me, we got to keep your pa here. He’s a mighty sick man, but if anything can help him, this climate will. You tell him you like it here. Get him to stay on. You talk to him, boy.” He pulled up in the yard and stepped down, then lifted me from the saddle, although I could slide down and did not want to be picked up like a baby. “Do you know anyone who knows the stories about Tahquitz to be true?” I asked. He brushed his mustache with his fingers. “Well, now. Can’t say as I do, but then, the Injuns been here longer than us and they may know a lot well never learn. Knowledge isn’t a lasting thing. Not unless it’s writ down in a good many places. People die, and what they learned often dies with them. Whole races of folks that once lived are now gone, and what they knew we’ll not be able to guess at.
“I’m not a book-read man, boy. I never had no proper eddication, but I’ve listened to those who have had and to those who’ve traveled. “Take your pa, now. He’s a widely read man. He was a sailor onetime. You know that. He was a sailor on his papa’s ship, so he had access to his papa’s books, and there were times at sea when he could read. “He first went to sea when he was twelve, as cabin boy with his pa. He went to a lot of places with fancy names that just the sound of them makes you want to r’ar up an’ go. Places like Shanghai, Rangoon, Gorontalo, Capetown, and the like. Your pa had seven years at sea, mostly in foreign parts. “You’ve heard him talk. He’s got a way about him, a way with words. He can make the temple bells tinkle for you, and you can just hear them big old elephants shuff-shuffling along, the priests callin’ folks to prayer and the like. “Your pa learned a sight of things most folks never even hear of. I’ve seen scholars back off an’ look at your pa, amazed.
“You take these Injuns, now. You look at the way they live and you’ll say they don’t amount to much, but what are they thinkin’? What do they know? What memories do they have? They want different things, boy, and they consider different things important. Many a thing we’d give anything to know, they just take for granted.
“Some of these Injuns, maybe all of them, they’re in tune with something. I don’t know what. But some of them have lost touch with it, and others are losin’ touch. Goin’ the white folks’ way might seem the likely thing to do, but maybe they lose as much as they gain.”
Papa rode into the yard, sat his horse for a moment as if he was gathering strength, and then he dismounted, stepping down very carefully. “I’ll put up the horses, Zack. You’ll find a candle on the table just inside the door. To the right of the door.”
There were three rooms, two very small bedrooms and a large, square living room and kitchen combined. There was a very large fireplace, a table, benches on each side of it, and two chairs. One of the chairs was very large, almost twice the size of any I had seen.
My father stopped, lighted candle in hand, and stared at that chair. The floor was made of odd sizes of stone beautifully fitted together. No mortar had been used, but the stones were fitted with knifelike precision. “There’s nothing much here at Agua Caliente,” Peter Burkin explained when he came in. “There’s the hot springs to which the Injuns been comin’ for a couple of thousand years, I reckon. There’s a stage station, but no stages yet, and it’s a land of two-bit store an’ post office. Mail comes in ever’ once in a while, sometimes as often as ever’ two months.
“There’s two or three white men in camp, an’ there’s the Injuns, mostly Cahuillas.” He looked at me. “That’s the way they say it, Ka-wee-ya. Some folks call them Agua Calientes, from the name of the village. “There’s more of them back in the mountains. In the Santa Rosas. “They know you, Zack, so they’ll be friendly, which means you won’t see much of them, but they’ll not do you any harm, either. As long as you live in this house, none of them are likely to come around.” “What’s wrong with the house? It seems uncommonly well-made.” “You won’t find a better anywhere about. Not even in Los Angeles. The stable out back is built just as well. There’s a spring, cold water, that’s runnin’ into a fine stone basin, made by the same hands.
“Nobody’s lived here for years, though. The house is considered bad medicine.
They’ll think you a strong man for even livin’ here.”
Burkin went back outside and brought their blanket rolls into the house.
“Peter? I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank me? You done that years ago when you pulled me from under that grizzly.” He turned to me. “I was gettin’ chawed an’ clawed somethin’ fierce when your papa came along. He kilt that b’ar an’ then he taken me to his camp an’ kep’ me there until I was able to get around. I was laid up for more than a month, an’ your papa put off what he was doin’ an’ cared for me.” Peter Burkin rode away and I watched him go. Already the sky was faintly gray, and I could see the stark black outline of his figure against the white of the sand dunes. My father was lying down, and from his breathing, was asleep. Although I had been awake most of the night, I was not tired. What was it about this house? Why did no one want to live here? Again I looked at that huge chair. Was it that? Did the sight of that chair frighten people away?