“Why not?”
“And you?”
“I shall stay. I have friends here. I like it.”
A woman appeared in the doorway and stood waiting. Elena looked up. “Yes?”
“There is word. The Senorita Laurel is with Senor Verne. They are coming home.” “That is good news indeed.” Elena never asked how they knew, for the word came by devious means, one person to another, and often with such swiftness it was hard to believe.
The woman still stood there, and Elena asked, There is more?”
“Si, senora. The Big One is dead.”
She disappeared from the door, and for a long time there was silence in the room. At last Don Isidro spoke. “Did she mean Alfredo?” “Yes.”
“I wonder how they know? How could they know? I thought … I believed him dead long ago.”
“The woman loved him.” And then she added, raising her eyes to him, “They know everything, Isidro. They always know. There are no secrets in the great houses. We delude ourselves in believing otherwise.”
He stared blindly out across the patio. All so useless! So foolish! Back there in the desert, when the boy said so bravely, “Good-bye, Grandpa!” I should have gathered him in my arms and taken him home. The thought faded and he leaned his head back against the chair. After a few moments Elena arose, crossed the room, and covered him with a blanket.
She must send word to Miss Nesselrode, for she would be worried. At the reading room Miss Nesselrode looked at the boxes of books newly arrived by ship. There were three, two from New York and one from London. Now was the time she needed Johannes. He had always enjoyed opening the boxes and putting the books on the shelves.
So much was happening. Ben Wilson and some others were putting in a power plant to light the city with gas. It would stand, she believed, opposite the Pico House. New streets were being laid out and some of the roads leading into the town were being improved, and they needed it.
The door opened and she looked up. It was Alexis Murchison. He hesitated just inside the door. He was, she thought absently, a remarkably handsome man. “May I come in?” He spoke hesitantly.
“It seems you are already in. What can I do for you?” “I just wanted to tell you that I have decided to remain. I mean, I am going to stay in California.”
She put down her pen. “And what will you do here?” “I shall work for a firm of commission and forwarding merchants. In fact,” he added, “I shall be managing the business.”
“You should do well. You speak Russian, and no doubt French as well. You will be dealing with a variety of shipmasters as well as local businessmen. Do you speak Spanish?”
“A little.”
“You will find it an asset. Much of your business will always be done in Spanish.” She took up her pen. “Well, this is news, indeed. Congratulations. I believe you have made a wise decision.”
“Miss Nesselrode? I was wondering if I might call upon you?” Her eyes were cool and appraising. “You are calling, Mr. Murchison. Please come again.”
He hesitated, then turned and went out, closing the door behind him. She stared at the door, frowning a little, then took up her pen again. After a moment, unable to coordinate her thoughts, she put down the pen. She got up and walked to the back to look in the mirror.
“You do need a new dress,” she told herself irritably. “It has been months since you’ve done any shopping.” She paused, thinking of it. She would recruit Elena to go with her. Elena would be pleased. She got out too rarely. Yet it was not Alexis Murchison of whom she was thinking, although he had been, oddly enough, responsible for her train of thought. There were others, and one who would be returning from the sea. And there would be, she was sure, Meghan’s wedding to Johannes. She had made her mind up, whether they had or not. The Flores Cantina, near Spanish Town on the trail from San Bernardino, was a place frequented by travelers. After the flood which had destroyed many houses and part of the town, this place had been built and had done a modest business. Who Flores had been, no one remembered. He had the idea and had started the work, and then disappeared into limbo, which in this case was probably Sonora. It was a place shadowed by trees, with a hitching rail. There was an inner room where drinks were served, and meals also if the chef was in the mood. Outside there was a small patio with a few tables.
To one of these tables, seeking shade because the sun was high, came Don Federico. In his pocket was a letter from Don Isidro, recalling him from the hunt, but disowning him also. The letter was in his pocket; a burning anger was in his brain.
Seated in the shade, he ordered a bottle of tequila and a glass. There he was joined by Chato, so he ordered another glass. A few hours ago he would not have considered sitting with Chato; now his anger had made him less particular. And they shared a hatred.
At a nearby table sat two Anglos, both of them vaguely familiar. Fletcher had grown older and a bit heavier. He was known as a businessman who gambled. The business to which he devoted his time was buying horses, cattle, and other tilings, and he asked no questions as to their origin or previous owners. Glancing at the two who had just entered, he asked his companion, “Know them?” “Uh-huh. The one with the flat nose, that’s Chato. Thief, murderer. He’ll do whatever it takes, and they say he’s a mean fighter.” “And the other?”
“Don Federico. You should know him.”
“I do, but it has been some time, and I wished to be sure. By their looks I’d say things had gone wrong for them, very wrong.” Fletcher refilled his glass. Don Federico, it was said, had money, and no sooner did Fletcher come by such information than he began to try to discover ways in which he could get some of it. Preferably, all of it. “Last I heard,” Fletcher commented, “he was hiring men to guard water holes against Johannes Verne and offering big money to anybody who killed him.” “If I’d known there was money in it, I’d have killed him myself. I never did like him.” He glanced over at Fletcher. “We went to school together. He used the name of Vickery then. He’d just come around the Horn from the East.” “He never came around the Horn,” Fletcher said. “He and his pa were in the same wagon with me. Them an’ that Nesselrode woman.” “She’s one of the wealthiest women anywhere, or that’s what I hear.”
“She’s done all right,” Fletcher admitted grudgingly. “She’s a smart woman, and tough.” He told his companion about her killing the Indian on the way west.
“So he never come around the Horn after all! I figured him for a liar. I wonder if ol’ Fraser ever knew?”
“He knew. He was in the wagon with us.”
“What about that?” Rad Huber was angry. “That double-dealin’ pen-pusher knew all the time!”
They sat silent, waiting for their food. There was silence at the other table, too. Fletcher glanced at Don Federico and then said, “He got away from you, did he?”
Don Federico’s head snapped around, his eyes angry. “I do not know of what you speak,” he said. “Nor do I know you, or wish to.” Fletcher was amused. “No reason why you should have known me before,” he said, “but there is now. I want him dead as much as you do. Almost as much,” he amended.
Actually, it was not true. Fletcher had never liked Johannes or his father; neither did he have any great animosity against them, but always alert for an idea that meant money, he had just the glimmerings of an idea. “Come over an’ join us,” he invited. “I think we should talk. Might be to mutual advantage, if you get what I mean.”
Federico hesitated, then shrugged and moved across to the other table, Chato following.
“Heard it said you were his heir,” Fletcher suggested. “I was. I am not so now.” He took out the letter from Don Isidro and passed it over to Fletcher.
Fletcher studied it, then turned to Huber. “Rad? See if you can borrow a sheet of paper in there, will you? I want to show these gents something.” When he had the paper, he studied Don Isidro’s note for a moment, and then wrote in a quick, flowing hand, an exact imitation of Don Isidro’s writing:
I, Don Isidro, being of sound mind, do give and bequeath all my goods and chattels, as well as all lands and properties to my beloved heir, Don Federico. Then he signed an exact duplicate of Don Isidro’s signature. Federico stared, looked up at Fletcher, then stared again. The note and the signature were flawless. He, who had seen as much of Don Isidro’s handwriting as anyone, could detect no difference. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Half,” Fletcher replied. “Half! You are insane!”