The confederate 5, p.16
The Confederate 5, page 16
“By gad, sir, isn’t that what makes the world go round? Now, let us go inside ,and tend to the details.”
Chapter Nineteen
A RIPPLING KNOCK at the door to his room in the Bayview Hotel brought Griffin Stark out of the first deep, sound sleep he had enjoyed in three months. He slid into his trousers and padded barefoot across the floor, his Starr revolver cocked and ready in his left fist.
“Mornin’,” Temple Ames greeted. “This chile brang us some coffee an’ biskets to get our eyes open. Mind if it gets brought in?”
Griff chuckled pleasantly. “Not at all. But Buck is supposed to be taking us to breakfast, on Alonzo Horton, this morning before we leave with the wagons.
“This chile’s belly’s been shakin’ hands with his backbone since an hour before the sun sprang up.”
“All right, Temple. Set the tray down over there. Buck will be here in …” Griff consulted the big gold watch in the pocket of his vest. “An hour and a quarter.”
Temple poured coffee and broke open a tall, flaky, saucer-sized biscuit. From a crockery pot he produced rich, faintly yellowish butter and smeared it thickly on both halves.
“Better get busy, or it’ll all be et,” he advised Griff.
Buck met them in the lobby precisely on time. “Your horses are outside, rested, groomed, and stuffed with oats. Let’s eat here. They have the best in town.”
Once they had been seated and coffee served around, the menu surprised Griff. Along with the usual fare of eggs, sausage, bacon, and Virginia ham with red-eye gravy, the restaurant offered such tempting morsels as Eggs Benedict, shirred eggs with kippered herring, venison steak and eggs, and a staggering variety of Mexican dishes.
“I recommend you eat Mexican, Major. It’ll stick with you longer on our way up into the hills.”
Temple Ames made a face. “This chile’s seen enough things Mezkin to last him a couple of lifetimes.” Griff followed Buck’s suggestion.
While they waited for their orders to be filled, Buck sipped coffee and spoke to Temple. “Sorry you didn’t come up with any suspects last night. Though, Mr. Horton is fairly sure who the men might have been.”
“Walp, we’ll be long gone from here by the time any o’ those low-lifers will crack an eyelid. Next time around, we’ll be lay in’ for ’em.”
On close inspection, while they walked their horses from Twelfth and I Streets to the Horton pier, the bustle and boom of New Town became even more evident to Griff’s eyes. Carpenters labored everywhere. A string of telegraph poles was being erected along the main thoroughfare. Merchants opened shops and a singsong jabber of Cantonese came from the inmates of the small Chinatown that had already sprung up near the docks. A few idlers watched as a two-mule team pulled a fargo over a large, open plot of ground.
“That’s going to be Horton Square,” Buck announced. “The merchants of New Town have already voted to call it that in honor of the man who is responsible for all this.”
Bricklayers and stone masons had found ample employment, also, on three structures that announced themselves as the future homes of banks. Lighters had drawn big schooners in to the docks and cargo swung out of the holds on large booms, to be deposited on the planks for inspection and distribution. A side-wheeler steam packet stood out in the roads and belched black smoke as it defied the outgoing morning tide to make its way to the wharf.
“Are all of these buildings owned by Alonzo Horton?” Griff inquired of Buck as they strolled onto the largest pier.
“That’s right. He took the gamble, built what he had to in order to make the harbor attractive. Then he spent months plying his way between here and San Francisco to talk business friends, and even some rivals, into doing business through San Diego. So far he’s won that gamble.
“He also has the money to pay for the easements through Rancho de la Nación, Jamacha Rancho, and Jamul. With that secure, the French investors will put forth the remainder. There’s talk that the government in Washington is going to change the laws governing railroad right of ways. In particular they are arguing a limitation on the width of land that can be condemned on either side of the track. If that happens, there is a chance the French may pull out. That’s why Mr. Horton is in such a hurry to clear the titles on these parcels of land. If the board of trustees and the supervisors continue to cloud the legality of the Mexican grants the federal government upheld, Horton’s new city could turn back to the jackrabbits, sea gulls, and Indians.”
At the produce warehouse, a large, rambling building that abutted to Horton’s other dockside facilities, Buck showed Griff and Temple two squat, sturdy, U.S. Army general purpose wagons. Although built along the same lines, the former Army vehicles were decidedly smaller than the Conestogas or the huge freight wagons of the teamsters. Even so, they could haul enormous loads over great distances. With a six-span of mules to pull them, they also had greater maneuverability and speed.
“Here’s our charges. We can tie our horses on behind. A relief team of drivers is coming down from Julian and can take over there. We’ll be able to make better time mounted. I’ll take the lead wagon and you follow, Major,” Buck instructed. “Temple, you ride shotgun with me.”
“Expectin’ trouble?”
“No. Only a precaution. There are still a lot of hostiles around, even though the Spanish claimed to have pacified all the Indians a hundred and fifty years ago. They don’t often jump wagons in caravan, though you can never tell.”
After securing their horses to the tailgates, Griff and Temple checked their personal arms. Temple also cracked the L. C. Smith ten-gauge that had been provided for the hauling job. He found the cartridge casings to be fresh, bright brass, marked as containing #4 buckshot. When all had been put in order, the trio climbed to the driver’s seats. Griff and Buck took reins in their hands and clucked to the mules.
The two wagons made good time up Mission Gorge, along Father Junipero Serra Trail and past Padre Dam. The elaborate, complex irrigation system that branched from the ancient Spanish dam interested Griff.
“The Santee tribe uses that system to irrigate their land. They grow some fine crops over the hill there in the valley,” Buck explained. “Someday, if Horton gets what he wants, people will be living on the Santee farms in rows of houses like New York City.”
Privately, Griff doubted that. He adjusted easily to the bump and sway of the wagons and relaxed his earlier tenseness. Anyone who wanted him dead, like the hooded assassins of the previous night, he reasoned, would now be far behind them. The load he had checked before departing seemed fairly basic: hardware; lamp oil; nails; tools; some dried, salted fish; along with several calibers of ammunition; a dozen barrels of beer; two casks of brandy and four of port wine; and a few cases of hard liquor. As the two wagon cavalcade rolled past the dam, a high-pitched voice hailed them.
Drumming frantically with the reins on the backs of a pair of lumbering oxen, a white-clad young Mexican boy hailed them again. He rode a high-centered carreta, the huge, gaily-decorated, solid wood wheels squeaking abominably as the conveyance jounced over the rough ground. As the cart drew nearer, Griff saw that the cargo consisted of sacks of locally milled flour, some fruit, and what he judged to be bags of grain for seed or feeding livestock. The excitement that shown on the boy’s face reminded Griff of the brave lads he had led so recently down in Sonora.
Yet, Griff could not forget the nature of those youngster’s elders. A frown momentarily creased his brow as he thought of the adult population of Santo Tomas debating, haggling over which right they would grudgingly risk their lives and limbs to retain, and which would be willingly yielded up to their self-appointed master, Raul Gonzales.
“Hola, Señores. Are you bound for Julian?” He pronounced the name, Hoo-li-ahn.
“Yes we are,” Buck responded in a friendly manner. “Welcome to ride along if you like.”
“I am grateful. My carreta, she is small enough to make a … how you say? … tempting target, no?”
Once again, Griff thought of the weakness of the people in Santo Tomas. For that matter, during the Mexican War, he had been told, San Diego County had surrendered to the Americans after only a few shots had been exchanged. And those in a brief battle that the Mexicans won! All the same, Griff admonished himself, the sins of the fathers should not weigh upon the sons. He put on a good face for their latest addition to the wagon train.
Through the day, the caravan passed on, nearing the foothills of the Cuyamaca Mountains. Twice they had to stop so that the wagons and the cart could ford a swiftly running stream one at a time. Temple’s woodsman’s knowledge aided them greatly. He seemed able to determine the depth of the water by spitting in it.
When they reached a ford, Temple would sit on the wagon seat a while, eyes squinted in concentration as he studied the water. Then he would work up a good cud of cut plug and spit a brown stream into the rushing freshet.
“Nigh onto four feet, near’s can be figgered,” he would announce. “Solid bottom. Might as well push on.”
Evening found them well up in the lush northern valley between the coastal range and the ramparts of the Cuyamacas. They camped on land of the Santa Maria Rancho, near the tiny new town of Nuevo, which consisted of only three buildings.
With the first light of dawn, Buck’s wagon once more took the lead as they started the fined leg of the journey. That day they would cross San Vincente Greek and begin the steep ascent to the distant mining boom town of Julian.
The mules had only begun to lean into their harness to take on the increased strain of the upslope when the young Mexican boy shouted and pointed toward the east.
“Riders are coming!” he cried to his companions.
“About six of them,” Griff remarked when he peered over the half-mile distance that separated the caravan from the ford of San Vincente Creek. The horsemen appeared as small dots on the far shore.
Immediately, Lazaro, the young Mexican, jumped into the back of his high-standing cart. The barrel of an aged flintlock rifle appeared at his shoulder and he bent to inspect the frizzen and pan. Buck drew his Winchester from a wagon boot and levered a round into the chamber. At his side, Temple Ames shrugged indifferently and eared back the hammers on the L. C. Smith.
Griff marveled at the scene.
Birds sang brightly in the golden sunlight, flitting from one elderly oak to another. Small animals frisked through the tall grass and cattle grazed in placid contentment. Six strangers, men whose intentions they could not know, rode toward them. Yet, tension filled the air around the halted wagons. Logic denied it, though Griff knew it for certain. Trouble approached with the distant travelers. Old habit made his nostrils flare.
Griffin Stark could clearly smell combat in the Cuyamacas.
Chapter Twenty
AT TWO HUNDRED yards, the rapid gallop of the riders slowed to a wary trot. Slowly they drew closer. The six figures resolved into seven. Hardcases, Griffin Stark made them for. A mixed lot of Mexican and white, weighted down with weapons and crossed bandoliers of ammunition. In the lead came a gaunt American, who seemed to have a jaw of native granite and eyes of the same gray, sharp-edged material. His cheeks bristled with a two-day growth of beard. He signaled for a halt when the oddly matched crew reached a point some thirty feet from the wagons. His voice, though not harsh, was brusque, his questions blunt and rude by Western standards.
“Where you bound?”
“Julian,” Buck Whitehead told him.
“What’s in them wagons?”
“Frankly, that’s none of your business,” Griff snapped.
Their interrogator’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you, Mister. T’ name’s Greene. Nelson Greene. What’s yours?”
Since the discourteous Greene had given his name, Griff felt obligated to do the same. “Griffin Stark. This is Buck Whitehead, Temple Ames, an’ the boy’s Lazaro Arnaz.”
“You boys workin’ for Horton Line?”
Griff had noticed a slight tightening around Greene’s eyes at mention of his name. It caused him to wonder. Another of the scruffy hardcases appeared to have a bulge under his shirt at the left shoulder. A wound? And where did he get it? The last question, Griff felt superfluous. Of course they worked for Horton, or they wouldn’t be driving his freight wagons. All the same, he made answer, carefully noting every flicker of emotion and change of expression.
“That’s right.”
Greene nodded, then turned slightly in the saddle and pointed at the trail the wagons followed. “The roads have drained well after them rains two days ago. Some fellers from Julian took a fargo to it and knocked down the worst ruts. Clear drivin’ from here on to Julian. S’long.”
At Greene’s direction, the six riders wheeled and started back the way they came. Instantly, Buck leaped to his feet, took an offhand stance and fired his Winchester. A fraction of a second later, Lazaro’s flintlock boomed and greasy smoke spilled over the scene.
Slammed forward by the impact of the .44-40 slug, one of the hardcases did a flip over his mount’s head and plopped, spreadeagle on the grassy turf.
Caught by surprise, the riders wheeled their horses and drew their weapons at the same time. As return fire sped toward the wagons, Griff found himself with only one choice. He opened up on the men who now charged them. Grimly, Temple joined in.
Light #4 buckshot splattered one long-rider’s chest and drove him from the saddle. Temple swung the short muzzles of the L. C. Smith and neatly decapitated another of the hardcases. Griff’s second round punched a hole in a charging man’s upper lip and blew out the back of his head.
Blood, bone, and pulp formed a pink-tinged cloud behind the upright corpse, which continued to gallop toward the wagons, until it went slack and slid from the saddle. Lazaro’s flintlock squirrel rifle boomed again and its small .31 ball split a rib on a Mexican gunhawk before it punched into his heart.
Greene and his remaining henchman broke off the attack. They rode low and hard away from the slaughter, clots of turf flying from behind their animals’ hoofs. As they disappeared over a low swale, Buck jumped from the wagon seat and started to strip the bodies. He stacked their firearms to one side and checked the contents of their pockets. Behind him, Griff also dismounted, mouth thinned to a grim line.
“Why did you shoot that man in the back?” he coldly demanded.
“Because Nelson Greene is a hired killer for Thomas Dawes. He is boss of the mine guards at the Youngman. No reason for them to be riding down here, except to intercept us. This wasn’t any chance meeting. And, you noticed, those lowlife bastards rode off in the same direction they came from. Way I saw it, they were settin’ us up for an ambush. So I figured we oughta turn the tables, kill them before they had a chance to kill us.”
“Can’t fault your judgement on that,” Griff allowed. “Though I’m not too keen on backshooting a man.”
While they talked, Lazaro had been rummaging among the corpses. He loaded the remaining weapons and ammunition in his arms, and stacked them in his cart. Then he dashed across the pasture to where Greene’s horse had reared before the leader had given up the fight. He bent low and came back toward Griff with a scrap of off-white paper in his hand.
“I saw this fall from the gringo ladróns vest pocket, Señor. It is important, maybe?”
Griff took it and read:
‘Greene,
Kill Buck Whitehead and the man called Griffin Stark. They’ll be riding a Horton Freight Wagon.”
Griff repeated it aloud and added his own comments. “It’s not signed. Greene must have lost it in the fight. Looks like your idea’s proved out, Buck. Would Dawes have known to send this?”
“I doubt it. He rarely comes down from Julian. My bet is David Oliver Lewis. It also means there is a leak inside Mr. Horton’s organization. I have a strong suspicion that Greene led the men who attacked Horton Hall two nights ago.”
“They would have had to ride all night to get ahead of us and come down as though from Julian,” Griff observed.
“Greene hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. He’s somewhat of a dandy, so that doesn’t fit. If he’d been in the saddle for a long time …” Buck let the speculation hang.
“We didn’t talk about this trip until after the assault. That adds a lot of weight to your suggestion about an informer. Who, though?”
“I … don’t know at this point.”
“This chile’ figgers it wouldn’t hurt to take a li’l scout ahead to see if there’s any more fellers with a reception in mind fer us,” Temple Ames remarked as he walked up.
“Good idea, Temple,” Griff agreed.
“We’ll not make much time today,” Buck observed. “There’s a big grassy meadow about halfway up the grade. We can make camp there tonight and ride into Julian early tomorrow.”
“That should give Temple a chance to give everything a thorough check,” Griff concluded.
With labored progress, slowed by the oxen, the small caravan made way up the grade. They passed the three-thousand-foot mark and Buck pointed ahead to a bowl-shaped depression, rich in tall grass, shaded in places by spreading scrub oak and tall, fragrant pines.
“That’s where well stop,” he informed Griff.
Another two hours had passed before they reached the sheltered spot that gave a spectacular view of the soaring ridges of the Cuyamacha Range. It looked so close, Griff marveled, the thin, clear mountain air deceptive to his eyes. Lazaro unhitched his oxen, wiped them down and took them to water. Then he set about gathering windfall wood for a fire, while Griff and Buck cared for the mules and their own horses.
A small stream meandered through the edge of the glade and, after other chores had been accomplished, the trio in camp shed their clothes and soothed their sunbaked bodies in the chill mountain water. Lazaro yelled and splashed like the small boy he was, while Griff eased into the creek and scrubbed away dust and sweat. Buck rolled over against the sandy bottom and flopped about like a frisky trout. Ablutions completed, they gathered around the fire to prepare the evening meal.
