I wanted nothing to do with him, and after I had gone to bed I thought of him and of Meghan. She was a young woman now. Many at her age were already married. Was she married? Miss Nesselrode had said nothing of that. I sat up suddenly. She couldn’t be! Miss Nesselrode would have told me! Yet, would she? Why should she? I started to get out of bed to go ask, and then realized how foolish that would be. Besides, Miss Nesselrode would be asleep. Kelso was at the table when I came out in the morning. The hot bath I’d had made me feel better. He looked up from his coffee as I came in. “Well, now! You’ve grown some!” We talked about the horses, laying plans to break them more thoroughly, and I told him about the black stallion. “Heard about him. That’s a mean horse, boy.” He paused, and then he said, “Be careful around town. This has been a quiet week, and four men were killed. Since you’ve been gone, we hung twenty-two murderers or thieves, some were hung legal, some were just hung because they needed it.
“Down there in Sonora Town they’ll kill you for no reason at all, and believe me, it ain’t just the Mexicans. There’s fifty or sixty of the meanest Anglo outlaws you’re liable to find who hang out down there, Boston Daimwood for one.” “I’ve heard of him.”
“You’ll hear more. Vasquez is runnin’ around the country, too. The law can’t seem to catch up with him.”
As we sat over coffee, Kelso told me what had been happening in town, new businesses starting up, new people coming in from across the isthmus. “Carry your gun,” he added. “There’s renegades of all kinds driftin’ in. Some of them run out of Frisco are comin’ down here.”
West of the town, where I liked to ride, the hills were almost bare. Main and Spring streets had been laid out past First Street, but there were only a few scattered structures there, and east of Main and along that street there were many vineyards. From Spring Street west to the coast there was a wide area of swampy land, miles of tules inhabited by wild cattle, occasional deer, and great flocks of ducks and geese at certain seasons.
Nearly every house had heavy wooden shutters that could be closed and barred at night. The houses were almost all of adobe, bricks made of clay mixed with straw, and the roofs were covered with tar from the tar pits on the La Brea Rancho, now owned by a man named Hancock, whom I saw about town but did not know.
Water was still obtained from the zanjas, but it was also peddled from door to door by a waterman. If he had been there earlier, I did not remember him, but now he went from house to house filling the olios that hung in the shade of a porch. The water was cool and pleasant, even in the hottest weather. Riding about town after my long absence, I noted the changes that had been made, yet some things remained the same. Despite the laws against it, women still washed clothes in the zanjas, and more often than not some Indian children were found splashing naked in the water ditches from which the drinking water was obtained. Bill the waterman supposedly drew his water from the Los Angeles River or some of the springs he knew of in the hills around.
Thomas Fraser was no longer conducting his little school. William Wolfskill had hired teachers and opened a school for his children and those of some friends, but there was at least one other small school.
Business was slow, and I saw several storekeepers playing cards on the wide windowsills. Further along the street were several gambling houses, the El Dorado and the Montgomery being two of the busiest. Turning suddenly to go back, I caught a glimpse of the flat-nosed Mexican with the scar. A glimpse only, and the man was gone. Was I being followed?
Walking on, I turned a corner and stopped. Only a moment later, the Mexican appeared. He started around the corner, but seeing me, stopped abruptly. “Looking for someone? Maybe I can help you.” I took a step toward him.
He stood his ground. His hand was on his red sash and the hilt of his knife. “I am not a boy any longer,” I said. “You wanted to torture me once. You intended to kill me. Now you have the chance.”
“Someday,” he said.
“Why not now? I am ready.”
“Someday.” He gestured around. “You have friends. I can wait.”
“Whenever,” I said.
He turned away, then stopped, and when he looked back, his eyes were ugly. “You think you are man now,” he sneered. “You are nothing! Nothing! You think you brave? Who did you ever fight? Who did you kill? Bah! To kill you is like a kitten! A sheep! You are nothing!”
He disappeared around the comer, and I stood there hot with anger, yet as the anger cooled, my ego was pierced by a thin shaft of cool logic. Who had I fought? The flat-nosed vaquero might have had a dozen, two dozen, three dozen fights. He would be skilled with a knife, perhaps with a gun as well. Only his own caution had saved me.
Walking along the street to the book shop, I stepped inside and sat down. Long ago Jacob Finney had spoken of a man, a former boxer who lived in Sonora Town. Boxing alone would not be enough. My skill with a gun was far beyond that of the average man. Part of this was due to a natural aptitude for which I deserved no credit, and a part was due to practice. Coordination was a gift, and my physical strength, which was considerable, had been not only a birthright but also developed during those years of living with and among the Cahuillas, climbing mountains, running in the desert, and wrestling. Yet Rad Huber had already given me one lesson, and the fact that I had triumphed the second time did not fool me. I had won because he had been too ready for an easy repeat victory and my sudden attack had taken him by surprise. If we met again, as I was sure we would, he would whip me again. He had probably grown even more than I, and he, too, handled himself with natural ease. There was only one answer. I had to learn something that would give me an edge. Finney’s boxer, if he was still around, would be one way, but my father, who had traveled much in the Far East, had told me of skills each people possessed, known to them alone.
In both China and Japan as well as in Korea the fighting arts had been widely developed by various schools, each claiming its system the best, each possessing some tricks known to them alone. These included not only bare-hand fighting but fighting with all manner of ingenious weapons.
The world in which we lived was a violent one; furthermore, it had always been violent. Much as I wished to avoid trouble, it would surely come, and I must be prepared to meet it.
Sitting alone at the back of the shop, ignoring the conversation that went on, I considered myself with some irritation. People might have said I was brave to face Flat-Nose as I had, but it had been the bravery of ignorance. No doubt he had been fighting since he was a child, and in bitter win-or-die fights. He had sneered at me, treated me as a child, but he had been right and I was wrong. Had he chosen to attack, I would now be dead, and the only reason he had not attacked was that we had stood among Anglo stores and shops or places where the gente de razdn, the gentlemen of reason among the Californios, were to be found. In Sonora Town it would have been different.
When we walked home that evening, Miss Nesselrode was silent until we were almost at the door. “You are quiet,” she said. “Is something wrong?” “It is never nice to realize one has been a fool,” I said. “If you have done something foolish and realize it, then you are not quite the fool you were,” she said. “May I know what happened?” Inside, seated in that quiet room I had come to think of as home, I explained. “Your flat-nosed vaquero is a bad one. Only last week Vicente Lugo pointed him out to me as a troublemaker who had been driven out of his own town in Sonora. He uses the name of Valdez, but it is not his own. Chato Valdez is well known in Sonora Town, and much feared. You did well not to have trouble.” “He was the wise one, not I,” I replied bitterly.