“It’s a livin’,” Monte said. He looked from me to Jacob. “You really want me to ride over to El Monte?”
“We do. But don’t waste around. You’ll miss all the fightin’ if you do, and Johannes will have all the fun.”
Monte walked to the corral and took his rope from where his saddle lay. He went into the corral and roped a mouse-colored mustang with three white stockings. He led it out and saddled up. We sat by the fire, watching while slow smoke drifted up from the dying coals.
“You serious about that?” Jacob asked. “Horse ranching, I mean?” “I am. At least it is something I can do until I find my way. My trouble is the wild country, and there’s no money in trapping anymore. Prospecting … well, I don’t know. Since they’ve found gold up north, everybody is hunting it.” “Is it the gold? Or is it the country?”
With a small stick I poked at the coals. “The country, I guess. There’s something out there, something I’ve got to find. I feel sometimes like I’d lost something out there, but I don’t know what it is.” He got up, dusted off his pants, and looked around at me. “Will you be all right here? Monte’s ridin’ in, and I think I’ll go along and see Miss Nesselrode. I can make it back before sundown.”
“Go ahead, I’ll be all right.”
When he had gone I walked over to the corral and talked to the stallion. He had to have a name, but what would it be? Standing near the corral, I let my eyes slowly sweep the country to the south, east, and west. North and west, the mountains were close, and the timber was thicker but rarely dense. A few vague trails reached toward the canyons.
I stood my rifle near me and against the corral bars, sweeping the country again with careful attention. Many times before I had watched that country down there. The view was unbroken except for the occasional clumps of trees, and I could see anybody approaching from afar.
The trouble was that I could not keep a good watch down toward the Anza spring. From there attackers could hold to low ground and groves, coming around behind me, and there was no need to wait until dark. Many previous raids had been by daylight.
Vasquez was somewhere around, and Joaquin Jim. Joaquin seemed to be a popular name for outlaws for there were at least three by the name. Probably that was why John Rollin Ridge, the Cherokee writer whose Indian name was Yellow Bird, had chosen that for the name of his outlaw. He had written a story for The Police Gazette about an outlaw named Murietta, and many people had come to believe he was a real person.
Pancho Daniel was around, and Juan Flores, both known men, and dangerous. Three-Finger Jack, whom Ridge had attached to the so-called Murietta gang, was actually riding with Vasquez.
Far away I could see the plume of dust that would be Monte and Jacob. Taking up my rifle, I turned toward my fire.
For a moment my heart stilled; then I felt its slow, heavy beat. A man was standing by the fire, a square-shouldered man with a thick neck, a man no longer young but whose shoulders were shocking in their intimation of quiescent power.
How he had come there, I did not know, but he was standing, as if waiting. Rifle in hand, I walked toward him, walking slowly, very slowly.
Thirty-nine
He wore dungarees such as were worn by sailors on the China ships, a broad leather belt, and a white cotton shirt stretched tight over unbelievable muscles. So far as I could see, he carried no other weapon. “Good morning.” I gestured toward the pot. “Will you have some coffee?” His features had an Oriental cast but he looked unlike any Japanese or Chinese I had seen, although my knowledge of both peoples was limited. He had high cheekbones and a scar on the side of his jaw. When he got that scar, he had also lost an earlobe.
He squatted on his heels and accepted the cup I brought from an arbor we had built to add to the tree’s shade.
“I am Johannes Verne,” I said.
He tasted the coffee. “You grandson to Captain Verne?”
“Yes.”
“Captain my friend.”
“I wish I had known him. All I know is what my father told me. He sailed off the China coast for many years, I believe.”
He watched the horses moving inside the corral. We took some of them out to graze each day, returning them to the corral at night. A few of the horses had already been driven to the corral in town, others to land held by Miss Nesselrode on the old Indian trail to Santa Monica. “You have many horses.”
“If we can keep them. There are many thieves, too. I am told there are some bandits down near Anza spring.”
“Eleven,” he said.
Surprised, I said, “Eleven?”
“Yes. I count. They wait for somebody who comes from the town.”
“You know them?”
“I see them. I come by, see, go to look. I listen.”
“They did not see you?”
“Did you see me come here? I am Yacub Khan.”
Apparently that was explanation enough, and he was right, for I had not seen him until he stood at the fire. It irritated me that I had been so careless. How could I not have seen him? I was alert. I was a damned fool. He had done it, somehow. If he had, others might.
As if he read my mind, he said, “You watch good. I see it.” He emptied his cup, then stood up. He watched the horses for a few minutes, then walked to the corral. He put his hands on the bars and then called; he called to the black stallion and it came right up to him. He put his hand out and the stallion did not shy. “He is a good horse,” he said. “Yours?” “He’s unbroken. Some say he is a bad one.”
“He is good horse. Very strong. He run very far, very fast.”
“You have had experience with horses?”
“In my country everybody rides; from tiny baby, we ride. I am of Turkestan, what the Chinese call Sinkiang, We have the best horses in the world. There are no better horses than those of Karashar or Bar-Kol.” When I was a small boy my father often showed me maps and pointed out places on them, some of them places he had visited, others places he simply knew about. Turkestan I remembered because Marco Polo had crossed it. The black stallion had remained close to us, and putting out a hand, I scratched its neck.
“He is a good horse,” Yacub Khan said. “He is the best of them.”
It dawned on me suddenly. “You are from Khotan? You are the fighter?”
“I have fought.” Abruptly he turned and started away. Having no idea what to say or why he had come or why he was going, I simply stood and watched him go. When he was some fifty yards away, he turned and looked back at me. “You are strong. Become stronger.” Then he walked away, his shoulders very straight, walking with a curious flat-footed style, toes turned out.
Why had he come? He, whom I had heard was a recluse, seeing no one, wishing to see no one. Captain Laurel had said he was the best, and Liu Ch’ang agreed. Now he said: You are strong. Become stronger.
When I looked again, he was gone. Of course, he could have gone into the trees.
No doubt he had.
Eleven outlaws, he said. It was too many. For a few minutes I stood looking about me as if seeing the place for the first time. Suppose they came now to run off my horses? What would I do? What could I do? The corral, which opened on a small pasture fenced with rails, stood on a level spot among low, rolling hills close to the mountains. One of the several canyons that offered trails to the San Fernando Valley was close by, and Los Angeles was less than ten miles away. In the clear air it was not easy to judge distance. Between where I now stood and Los Angeles there were numerous clumps of brush and trees and some vast stretches of prickly pear. Against the mountains and around Anza spring, named for the explorer who stopped there on a trip to the north, there were trees.
By this time the outlaws must know I was alone, so if they attacked, how would they do it? Our fire could be seen for miles, and they would judge that I was nearby. A sudden charge might kill me and run off the horses, needing no more than minutes.
My position close to the corral was not a good one, for riders could split, ride around the corral, and take me from both sides. Thinking of that, I recalled a spot I had seen while gathering firewood.