The guns lowered. Confused, the men looked from one to the other, then at Don Isidro. Kelso had drawn his gun. It was a colossal bluff, and nobody knew it better than he, but he stood quietly, waiting.
A man at the back of the group silently turned away, then another. The woman was the last to leave.
“Don Isidro.” Miss Nesselrode spoke quietly but her tone was cold and level. “If I were you, I would send a man to recall your Don Federico. I would suggest, also, that you tell him he is not your heir, and never will be. Until he knows that, your own life is not secure. He has shown himself to be a man who will stop at nothing.”
“What she says is true, my brother. Even as a boy, he tried to kill Alfredo. A few days ago he threatened me. He only pursues Johannes because he is a possible heir who might dispute his claims to your estate.” Don Isidro stared at her with sullen eyes. “If what you say is true, I have no estate. I have nothing.”
“That is true,” Elena replied, her voice low. “You have not managed well, my brother, so I have done what was needed, with Miss Nesselrode’s help, but Don Federico does not know this. You must recall him. You must recall him at once, before more damage is done.”
“According to our laws, you would be an accessory, Don Isidro,” Miss Nesselrode added. “It is your own safety you must consider.” “I have no messenger. You have sent them away.” “Write the order,” Miss Nesselrode replied. “I will see it delivered by one of those who used to work for you.”
Elena went to a desk and brought paper, ink, and a quill to him. For a moment he stared at the paper; then slowly, reluctantly, he wrote the order. He looked up at her, his eyes ugly. “You have destroyed me.” “No, my brother. I have tried to save you. You have been destroying yourself. From the first, this foolish pride and your hatred destroyed everything you were or could have been.
“You were harsh and cruel, but how much of it was due to Don Federico? A good deal, I believe. It is he who has been your evil genius, always at your elbow, advising or suggesting. I think you would have relented long ago had it not been for Federico.”
The old man shifted in his chair. “The little one,” he muttered. “He called me grandpa!”
Kelso bolstered his gun. “Ma’am, it’s late. I don’t know about you, but I was a tired man when the evening began.”
“Yes, yes, we must go.” Miss Nesselrode turned. “Elena? Will you come with us?”
“I shall stay. He will need me now.”
Peter Burkin stripped the gear from his horse at the pole corral among the pines. Through the trees he could see the gleam of water from Hidden Lake. He was later than he had planned to be and would spend the night, something he rarely did.
Hoisting a heavy burlap sack to his shoulder and gripping another sack in his hand, he started over the trail.
It was late afternoon and the sky was clear, the air cool. Twice he paused to rest. “Ain’t as young as y’used to be,” he said aloud, “or else this here trail is gittin’ steeper!”
Alfredo was sitting outside, holding his head in his huge hands.
“You all right, boy?”
Alfredo looked up. His features seemed to have grown heavier, his flesh thicker, but that was probably the way the light fell.
“No, Peter, I do not feel well. It is harder to walk now. I … I think my muscles grow weak.”
“Brought you some extry grub, some books, an’ such. I ain’t so spry on these trails, m’self. Gittin’ old, I reckon.”
Burkin looked around. “Got you a place here, boy. You surely have! Ain’t a purtier or more peaceful place anywhere.”
“I found Meghan Laurel,” he said.
“She is safe?”
“She is with the Indians. With Francisco’s woman.”
“Was there trouble?”
“Two men. One ran away. The other. I … I slapped him.”
“You slapped him?”
They were silent, watching the sun’s face grow red as it slipped beyond the mountains where the ocean was. “You all right, boy? Anything I can do for you?” “You have done too much, Peter. Without you … without you I could do nothing.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Al.” Peter took up a stick and poked at the pine needles.
“Never had nobody m’self until I met her. An’ you. “I had a lot of dreams, one time, but they come to nothin’. Never had eddication enough, an’ I wasn’t much of a hand for readin’ like you an’ them Vernes. I missed out on a lot until I met your ma.”
“She wasn’t my mother, not really.”
“I know that, boy. I know that. But she thought of herself as such, an’ so did
I. When she was dyin’, she told me you was different an’ that I should sort of look after you.”
“And you did. You’ve been the father I never experienced, Peter. You’ve been kind.”
“I’m gittin’ along, boy. That trail seems to git steeper all the while. If anything should happen to me-“ “Don’t worry about it, Peter. I don’t believe I shall be around long.” As Peter started to speak, he lifted a hand. “No, Peter, I feel it. And just as well. I am tired, you know? I’ve loved these mountains, loved them so much. And Johannes? He’s meant a lot to me.
“We talked, you know? With the books, I mean. If there was one he liked especially, he’d sort of pull it out from the rest. “I never wanted him to see me. I just wanted to be a person, a friend, like. If he saw me, he might think different of me. When I left a book for him, I could think of him reading it, and I could wonder what he thought of it. He could do the same with me.”
“He’s a nice boy. Got a good feelin’ for country.” “When they burned the house, I thought it was the worst thing could happen to me.”
“I know how it is, how you worked on that floor.” “I wanted to build something, something that would last. In some of those old books you found in the mission, it showed some mosaics. That was what I wanted to do.”
“Gittin’ late, boy. Maybe you better go in an’ lie down. Take a rest, like.” Peter Burkin sat alone after Alfredo had gone inside. Be a blessing, he told himself. Not that he wished harm to the boy, for he was all he had left. Only, that trail was getting steeper and he was getting kind of stiff in the joints and long in the tooth for the long rides.
Folks were beginning to notice, too. They’d seen him come and go, and they were asking themselves why. Someday one of them would take a notion to follow. When he went inside, Alfredo was lying on his huge bed. He was staring up at the ceiling of the cave.
“Fix you some grub,” Peter said. “You just take it easy.” He began slicing potatoes into a pan, and got out the slab of bacon he had brought with him. “Anything I can do for you, boy?”
“If you are in the San Bemardinos sometime, you can pack the best of that stuff over here. I doubt if I shall go back.”
Peter glanced at him. “That bad, eh?”
“Yes, Peter. It is an effort now. Once everything was so easy.”
“But you’re a young man!”
“Once, before we left Spain, my sister got an old woman she knew to take us to a Moorish man. As he was a Moslem, nobody went to him, but my sister heard that he knew more about medicine than anyone.
“She told him about me and he said he had known such cases, but they were rare. He told her what I could expect, so I have been ready for this.” He smiled suddenly. “And I am only a young man to you, Peter. I have not been a young man for a long time.”
“You ain’t as old as me. My pappy was one o’ them Kentucky riflemen who fought with Jackson in the Battle of New Orleans. I was born whilst he was away at war.”
Alfredo closed his eyes and rested. It felt good just to lie quiet in the half-darkness. After all, he had had a good life. All this mountain country had been his for a time, and he had learned to live as the Cahuillas did. When occasionally he encroached on their groves he had always left something in payment to acknowledge their ownership and his trespass. Often he would lie in some secure place above them and watch where they gathered their food and what plants they used. Peter Burkin and his mother-he thought of her so-had taught him even more.