A wagon with a double sprinkler was laying the dust on Main Street. It was the only thing in sight.
I was now where the houses were more scattered, and soon I would be turning into the road that followed what had once been an Indian trail* leading west toward Santa Monica, but though I watched for several minutes, I saw no one.
There were groves of oranges, walnuts, and olives near where I waited, as well as further along, but they were poor places of concealment, so why was I so jumpy?
Abruptly, answering to insinct, I turned off the braveled way and rode clown a dusty lane between two rows of orchards, past several of Hollowagges Patent mills, and into a patch of prickly pear, crossed and crisscrossed by horse trails.
Once more I stopped, watching from hiding to see if I was followed.
Riding into the prickly pear, I crossed a knoll and could see far ahead of me the cienaga, ten miles long by several miles wide over much of its area.
The grass grew green there even in the driest weather, for most of that stretch was sub-irrigated.
By a roundabout route I rode back to the old Mexicam’s home. He saw me coming, and walked out to greet me. “Come, amigo, come inside.” There is coffee.” I tied my horse at the corral, and followed him into the adobe. It was cool inside, and the view from the door was good.
ny rider approaching could be seen’for some distance.
*ationow known as Wilshire Blvd. The boy came in. “The men you seek are gone,” he said.
“I saw them find the paper I left, and when they read it they there was argument.
Later they brought out their horses and they rode from town, but Villareal did not go “I am not interested in him.” “But he is interested in Y. He went to the livery stable looking for a roan horse, and then he asked many senior.” questions. He knows what horse you ride, e “I shall not ride him any more. want to buy a horse, a good one, a tough one.” there are many here,” the old man said. comSince the cattle have become so few there are many horses. I will find you one.” “Is there a way down from the mountain behind us?
Some way that Villareal might know?, The old man shrugged. “There are ways, but he win not come close.” He gestured. . I have guinea hens, and they are very alert. If anything strange moves they set up a fearful noise.” We had guinea hens in Texas, and I knew there was no better alarm, for they were more alert than even a good watchdog. And they were scattered over the yard here and along the mountainside, feeding.
The old man saddled a horse and rode away, and I sit by the door, watching the vast open space before me.
The valley in which Los Angeles lay was fifty miles long by twenty wide, and from where I sat, much of it could be seen. Where I had stayed, the Pico House the town and the people much aware of her town and of California.
do you read, Conchita?” com.oyeg- MY mother taught me to read. She taught all of, us-papa, too.” “She was Spanish”…”…ationo, she was an Tndian.
She was a Chum-ash.” “The ones who built the red boats? And who went to Catalina and the Channel islands”…grftnddaugbter, brought me eons, placing them on a to talk to, she spoke was a bright girl, very ‘allyes. They lived sometimes there, sometimes on shore.
My mother’s people lived up the coast near Malibu.” We talked of the area, of her people, and of Los Angeles. From time to time I would get up and look around, for I wanted no one coming close to me unbeknownst.
‘The men of business are Irish or German, most of them,” she said.
“Mr. Downey is the richest man, I think.
‘We are poor people, sews but we live very well here, for there is game in the mountains, and we raise our own vegetables. My grandfather has cattle, and some horses. Sometimes on Sundays we go to the Washington Gardens in Los Angeles, or to Old Santa Monica, to swim. We like the old town best.” She was leading up to something, and not just talking at random, for I had noticed that she was a young lady of purpose, rarely given to idle talk or waste motion.
“Senior,” she said suddenly, “if you wish to remain close there is a cabin in the canyon nearby. It is higher up than this. My father built it, for one day he hoped to live there. It is a place no one knows, and if you wished to stay there and watch, it could be arranged.” “I have men to follow,” I said doubtfully, “and I must find them.” “They will come to you, semi. Villareal looks for you, and it is not for himself. I think when he finds you he will tell them.” The vague, haunted feeling stayed with me. I had an idea I had been followed, even though I had seen no indication of it.
Perhaps they had traced my actions on my previous ride … a few inquiries might have done that, for almost no one moves entirely unseen. People are curious, wondering at strangers, or curious about anyone who is seen at unlikely times or in unlikely places.
I did not want to endanger my friends. ‘This place you spoke of, Old Santa Monica?” I asked Conchita. ‘It is near the sea?” She explained that the trail to the plateau would take me there. The carriages would stop at Old Santa Monica Corral and at Frames Saloon, a large pavilion with a rustic porch running across the front. There was a brook nearby and a clump of alders.
For another hour I waited, and then the old man returned leading a line-back dun, with legs black to the knee, and black mane and tail.
“Seventy dollars,” he said, “and it is cheap.” When evening came to the valley below, and when lamps were being lit in the scattered houses, I said my good-byes and rode down the slope through the brush, turned off the trail, and cut across the grassland, losing myself in the shadows. It was chill, for when the sun goes down in that country the cold air comes, as it came now.
The dun went with a long, easy stride. Westward I rode, across the darkening plains, down the slope of the long hill and across the wide pastureland, until I could see the Santa Monica road, white in the moonlight, but I avoided it, holding to the north of it until the lights of the town were close.
I felt sure there would be little about the area that Villareal did not know. I rode over the plateau and down to Old Santa Monica, where there were lights in Franles Saloon, and the sound of the surf along the beach. Dismounting at the corral, I tied my horse, and waited there in the shadows, letting my ears get used to the rustle of the leaves, the movements of the sea, and the sound of voices from the saloon.
Only then did I cross the hard-packed clay of the yard and go up the steps to the wide porch.
There were half a dozen people in the saloon, several drinking at the bar, and two who sat at a table nearby with a bottle of country wine.
The table I chose was at one side, on the edge of the light. I sat down, put my hat on the chair beside me, and soon a waiter came over to my table.
When I had ordered a meal and coffee, I began to relax. It was an easy, pleasant place. The talk was friendly, and I sensed at once that it was a good place to be.
Frank-I supposed it to be Frank-came to my table.
‘allyou wish to stay the night? I have rooms,” he said.
‘I would.” He glanced at the pistol in its holster. ‘allyou VAII not need that here, my friend.
We are a friendly people.” ‘I am sure.” I smiled at him. “I do not carry it for you or your people,” I said, “but for others who may come along.” “You have enemies’People” “Doesn’t everyone?
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But tonight I want only to rest and listen to the sea, to eat a good dinner, to drink coffee, aud to wait. Tomorrow? It is another day, and when tomorrow comes I shall go over the mountain, I think, or follow some of the Chuxnash trails toward Venture.” “You know about the Chumasb? They were a good people, and a daring people. There are eaves in these mountains with their paintings. I have found many myself. They were not such a simple people as some would have you believe. Their lives, yes, and their customs were simple, but not their thinking.” When he had gone I ate and listened to a girl singing somewhere out of sightea.a pleasant old song in Spanish.