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First edition I, Joaquin

MELVIN LITTON

This sketch of Joaquín Murrieta, featured in The Overland, November 1895, was supposedly drawn directly from his head preserved in alcohol. (Courtesy of the California State Library Rare Periodical Collection.)

Of Joaquin

From Reminiscences of a Ranger by Major Horace Bell (1830—1918)

o one will deny the assertion that Joaquin in his organizations, “Nand the successful ramifications of his various bands, his eluding capture, the secret intelligence conveyed from points remote from each other, manifested a degree of executive ability and genius that well fitted him for a more honorable position than that of chief of a band of robbers. In any country in America except the United States, the bold defiance of the power of the government, a half year’s suc- cessful resistance, a continuous conflict with the military and civil authorities and the armed populace—the writer repeats that in any other country in America other than the United States—the opera- tions of Joaquin Murrieta would have been dignified by the title of revolution, and the leader with that of rebel chief. For there is little doubt in the writer’s mind that Joaquin’s aims were higher than that of mere revenge and pillage. Educated in the school of revolution in his own country, where the line of demarcation between rebel and robber, pillager and patriot, was dimly defined, it is easy to perceive that Joaquin felt himself to be more the champion of his country- men than an outlaw and an enemy to the human race....” Note: Horace Bell rode with the southern Rangers during the hunt for Joaquín in 1853.

Prologue

—From a wanted poster printed in the Calaveras Chronicle, Feb. 23, 1853: Description—”Said Joaquin is a Mexican by birth, 5 feet 10 inches in height, black hair, black eyes, and of good address....”

—From the San Joaquin Republican, March 20, 1853: The Bandit Joaquin—”The career of this extraordinary villain is not yet brought to a close. Nobody knows what has become of him, although the evidences of his being somewhere are unmistakable....”

—May 7, 1853: His Latest Movements—”There is no doubt that Joaquin passed south, through Monterey, and probably took the road for Loretto, in lower California. The real name of the bandit is Joaquin Murriati. He speaks English fluently, and in his foraging expeditions, has always a fresh horse at hand. He was heard to say that he would never kill a Spaniard. About ten days ago, he was seen at San Luis Obispo.... He is intimately acquainted with the country, and has with him a band of some fifteen men....”

—May 21, 1853: “Captain Harry Love, who has been authorized by the legislature to raise a company for the capture of Joaquin and his gang, passed through this city yesterday. An important power has been delegated to this gentleman and we hope that he will exercise it with vigor....”

anhunters ride in silhouette beneath the moonlit sky, at times Mas a pack and presently in long defile as they follow the rim of a canyon deep in the Diablo Range. Manhunters framed in 4 MELVIN LITTON deadly league—twenty California Rangers led by Captain Love commissioned May 5, 1853 by Governor Bigler to hunt the bandit Joaquín. For two months they’ve hunted; now late July, men and horses are jaded. In the last two weeks they’ve ridden from Pacheco Pass in the north to Tejon Pass in the south, covering over 300 miles, hot on a scent. But there are so many scents, like the many trails, las veredas, crisscrossing, turning back, or dead-ending at a bluff that rises like the black-curtained night. Still they ride, sensing the shadows that leap here and there like the phantom they seek, elusive as the coyote’s taunting cry that sounds from a dozen different points at once then falls silent as the grave, only to reappear as pounding hoof beats at their back, their side, or far in the distance. Word of their coming is rushed ahead in warning by the little wolf of the West, ever watchful like the jay, awakening all to their presence, as if all were his spies, his auxiliaries. And the people as well—the Indians, Sonorans, and old Californians—give mute, blank stares in answer to questions of him. Why did they aid and hide him? Both fear and love him? Show him devotion and respect like he was a saint come to live among them? This young bandit—”San” Joaquín. Already they saw him as part avenger, part Robin Hood. To some he was “El Zorro!”—the fox who could outwit the Gringos. To others he was “El Tigre del Norte!”—one who would stand and fight. Even among the frocked monks and priests were those who prayed for his safety and gave thanks to his kind and generous hand. Like the coyotes that warned him and the wind that covered his tracks, they would not give him up. Not to threat, not to bribery. Nor would he show himself, except in rumor, or in a score of separate acts committed a hundred miles apart in the space of a week. “Murderer of the Calaveras! Horsethief of Mariposa! Scourge of the Salinas!”—this boy of no more than 22 or 23, who could ride like the wind, whose smile could beguile women, subdue and master men. His army was rumored to number in the hundreds, while his supporters were legion. With this army he planned to bring mutiny to the San Joaquin and sweep all the country south to Sonora, yet another rumor. And that was the fear: that he was more than a bandit. They had to find him and put an end to his rumor and curse. It was also rumored that his woman had been ravished by I, Joaquin 5

American miners. If so, he could not be let to ravish California in turn. Yet the thought of such a wrong done a woman gave most men pause. Few could help but admire the determined vengeance of the one they hunted. This phantom, Joaquín. Past midnight they enter a box canyon and halt an hour to rest their horses and check equipment. A dry camp. Their canteens are emptied to water their horses. The last of their food was eaten at sundown. But well hidden, down out of the wind, they are granted a fire to warm their flesh and soothe the saddle-ache. And they share a ration of whiskey carried along in a bucket to preserve the head of the one they hunt, to serve as proof and so claim the reward of $5000. Grim at the prospect, they gather around the fire, gripping their hunger, thirst, and greed—like three demons laying claim to each man’s heart. Most of the Rangers stand six foot or taller, their eyes of hazel, blue, or gray, glinting like their weapons before the flames as they check their Navy Colts, making certain the cylinders are oiled, the bullets seated, primed, and capped, and that each chamber is sealed with a dab of grease against the chance of moisture and to prevent a spark from firing all. In addition, most pack shotguns or smoothbore cavalry muskets. All except for the stout-built Ranger with square jaw and stern blue eyes who sights a breechblock carbine toward the fire to examine the rifled barrel—the polished spirals reflect like a ray of sunlight in the surrounding darkness. Satisfied the barrel is clean, he loads a cartridge, locks the breech, and slides the rifle into a leather boot strapped to his saddle. He’d won the carbine in a monte game off a veteran of the Mexican War. And unlike the others, he, William Henderson, declines the whiskey, never drinks—a Son of Temperance, he keeps a clear eye and a steady hand. Cool and sober, he can read a man like he reads his cards, knows which is deadly and which is weak. A true hunter. His eyes are as blue as the cold north wind and wolfish in aspect and wonder—wondering as he looks to the stars of the one they hunt. Close by the fire sits one whose eyes are not so clear, but just as deadly. William Byrnes thinks little of the righteous path, he swigs his whiskey and downs Henderson’s share as well. Once his hands steady he draws forth a Bowie knife and begins scraping the blade 6 MELVIN LITTON in long even sweeps on a whetting stone. Firm, deliberate, as if slicing the flesh with each stroke. Finished, he holds the blade to his eyes, turns it to the flames, then tests its edge by shaving the hair from the back of his wrist. The blade nicks his skin and he smiles in wry delight at the sight of blood, yellow teeth and spittle showing through the gape of his beard. Captain Love stands just beyond the fire, hatless, cup in hand, scanning the night. His face is haggard and scarred, rugged as the terrain, pugnacious as a boxer’s. His hair, long and tangled, catches the wind. Presently, he squares his shoulders and draws alert. He feels his blood warm and knows the hunt is close. He’s wagered all his will and his men’s strength on the night’s march, determined to trap his prey. He hates the cunning bandit like he hates all clever men, those of dash and flair who could dance and woo a woman with their smile like one had been wooed from him. Hates his charm and grace. Cold, iron-willed, disciplined, he uses his hate to hunt the bastard. Not a week before he’d nearly had him, found his branding grounds and tracked him south. But once again, beyond Tejon Pass, the phantom vanished in the wind. Suspecting he’d been given the slip, that the fox had doubled back, he led his Rangers northwest toward the old Spanish road, El Camino Real, then cut back east, windward of the prey, seeking every vantage. And this time, if the phantom took shape, they would have him. If not? Defeat was a notion he would not harbor. At the very thought he spits out his whiskey and shouts, “Lissen up!”—his voice like a hound’s deep bray above the crackle of the flames. “We find this greaser, we’re not to bring ‘im in. Not let ‘im stand trial like a fresh martyr for his people to rally round. He’ll die in the dirt and be damned! Let the wind claim ‘im. The coyotes yip his name. Let California forget there was ever such a one.” For that was the fear. That his fiery heart and defiant will would spread like a contagion, spark a ground swell, a fire storm! And he, Captain Love, aimed to scotch that fire before it engulfed all of California. “Remember, we want the head. Take the head like you take the head of any varmit to collect the bounty.” Take the head, the head!— repeated like a vow each night till it was branded in their brains. The head, the head! Like they might forget. But each was a killer eager for the kill, and needed no reminding. I, Joaquin 7

“Bring the head,” he intones, his sense of drama blunt as his Nordic brow, “and Bigler promised to double the reward.” This was something they hadn’t heard. This caught the ear and drew each eye, all suddenly keen to the scent. “That’s ten thousand dollars, men. Remember...Ten! Thousand! Dollars!” The words reverberate in the shape-shifting flames. Each face a mask of light and shadow as each sits silent, weighing the sum, calculating. That came to $500 per man. No doubt the Captain would reap the lion’s share while they squabbled over the rest. Still, as Byrnes shrewdly reasons, sheathing his knife, with the head of the bandit a man could charge a dollar a head to view it. Show it in every mining camp, settlement, and city. For a time, at least, take up to $500 a night. Now that would pay for some swank living. Make up for two months of trail-grime, hunger, and thirst. As Captain Love kicks dirt on the fire to blacken the scene, the Rangers tighten their cinches, mount up and ride out to again face the night, the wind, and the long descent to the Tulare plains. The night lengthens; the terrain lowers and broadens. Nearing dawn, thirst cakes their lips and tongues like a cruel dust. Mute, fatigued, they try not to swallow, try not to think. The pace slackens. The horses lather and blow as their heated flesh steams the air. The sky slowly lightens above the warm red dawn. The horses prick their ears, scenting water. Tendrils of camp smoke drift from beyond the near rise east. Captain Love pulls rein, looks to his men and nods. Their thirst quickens, sensing blood and battle. They draw alert and nudge their horses into a gallop, the terrible drumming of hooves muffled by the wind and terrain. Rounding a low bluff, they take an outrider by surprise; without a shot or word they take him prisoner and race towards the rise to descend as the sun lights the scene. Encamped in a low swale shaded by scant willow and cottonwood waits a small band of Mexican vaqueros, all in various stages of dress, making ready to meet the day. Several just rolling out, pulling on their boots. Two stand side by side, pissing in the dirt. A large brute of a man emerges from the brush. A youth stakes a horse. A young man kneels by the fire, smoking. He turns and stands at their approach. And none of them are yet armed. 8 MELVIN LITTON

The Rangers encircle all and brusquely herd them center. Henderson’s blue eyes focus on the one standing by the fire, noting his bold black eyes and his long black hair, that he is of fair height and dressed in fine Spanish clothes. And as they soon learn from his quick, cunning answers to Captain Love’s questions, he is certainly of good address. The hunter’s blue eyes hold steady and cold, while the eyes of his prey flash fierce and warm, daring as his smile. And in that smile is writ the drama of his life and fate.

—Headwaters of the San Joaquin, July 26, 1853: Capture of the Bandit Joaquin—”Sir: As an express is going to start from these diggings I hasten to inform you of the death of Joaquin, the robber, who has been such a curse in the country for some time....”

—From the San Joaquin Republican, August 6, 1853: Official Report— ”First Lieutenant Byrnes, of the Rangers, arrived in Stockton this evening for the purpose of procuring the necessary materials for the effectual preservation of the head of Joaquin and the hand of ‘Three Fingers Jack....’” his memoir is based on the legend of one who lived a tragic Tromance and who in fact lives on in story and song, his life cel- ebrated in many countries, his name yet voiced on many tongues, “Joaquín Murrieta,” the man, the myth, now his confessions.

PART ONE

Chapter One

In the beginning...

ome rare alchemical confluence—the jostling, the whiskey, the Smoon, the swift-passing clouds, the broad towering oaks, their deep-rooted essence—stirred to life what was dead. Bit by bit I could again see, hear, and think. Though I tried not to think, and in horror could not close my eyes. So I listened. There I focused. And I could hear the horse’s heartbeat pounding above its hooves, the fearsome rush of blood to muscle, bone, and tendon, could hear the dry grasses parting like cut sheaves falling to the wind, could hear the devil tongues of they who rode, the thoughts and sentiments of they who had slain me. And worse—for one had no thought or sentiment, none as I had known, not of passion or playful whim, ruled only by a dark inner will, grim, silent, and caustic, that drew them in and drove them on. He who led them. Captain Love. Hard-eyed men riding through the night—my head bobbing in a bucket of whiskey tied in back of a saddle, at moments submerged, then surfacing to the derisive glitter of raining stars, while shadowed limbs loomed like hands spread to shroud the recent dead, and the lesser hand, that grotesque three-fingered claw, passing like a ghost before my view. On they galloped. The terrain roughened with a quick surge and jolt. Ah!—I’d expected a sharp pain in bumping my nose against the bucket. But there was none. Only a brief arrest, then a sidling motion as my eyes reverted to the sky, my head bobbing like an apple. Gazing upward by the weighted anchor of my hair, pleased to be free of pain, I would have smiled blissfully at the stars despite their mockery had I the power of expression, as I 14 MELVIN LITTON

would have gasped as a result of the expected pain. So sensing I was free of pleasure and pain, I knew I was dead. With that troubling thought I again upended as if drawn under by the drifting claw, rolling down, down, mind and vision veiled by whiskey, its dark, intoxicating, amber film. When whiskey goes to your head it is not so bad really...if you no longer have a stomach. No, the intoxicant was thorough and magnificent.Espléndido! Even more so when I heard the others—the Gringos—retching, which they did, camped later that night, tipping a jug, fobbing off their cowardice with gusty oaths and swagger. It was not their lack of courtesy, it was their lack of grace that made them loathsome. They were not earthy; they were vulgar and cruel. They delighted not in life but in taking life, in killing. In the brutish act itself. That was their aim, or end, and so would be the end of each. Like dogs, turning at last to snarl at one another and gnaw on themselves. Oh, they knew laughter no doubt, and a portion of joy. Perhaps even love in some wretched form. But a sow would have eaten them were they her babes. For I say they were less than base. How can a panther not hate the hounds that are sent to track him? They were all kept men, the Rangers. Kept by the governor and his patrones. On occasion unleashed like hounds to hunt and kill. Nothing but dogs, yapping dogs. Trained and kenneled. Leashed to a master. Yapping fools. Whereas I...I delighted in life. And it is that delight I strive to remember and retain. I was a panther, a solitary lion. Swift, strong, powerful for my size. On the prowl, supple. Keen, unerring, calm. And laughter was my growl. I had perfect teeth. Pearly white. Flashed in delight or in warning. Did I say solitary? Sí, of necessity and instinct. Yet I was a friend among friends, a great reveler. I danced and let the music inflame me. And women, es verdad, there were many. And one that I loved. Only one. She wore such sadness at times and held it there. Perhaps she guessed my fate. But when I looked to her, she turned from her sadness, shook it off like a darkrebozo and smiled. I answered to her laughing eyes. To Rosita. Till death did us part and she fled from my ghastly corpse. Where, to where? I know not. Ah, Rosita, taken from me then and forever, and still I sense her in my I, Joaquin 15 needful memory. My first, my only love. Mi Rosa. Did she find God through her faith in the Virgin? Did she live in peace? Did she die in peace? That is my hope...but I do not know. So how is it, you ask, I know of their fates, of Captain Love and the rest? Seems I’m ever privy to those darker voices—the accursed, the terror-stricken, those murdered in the night. But only those through the environs, the regions nearby. Of the greater world I know only a trifle. The world beyond the ocean and beyond the mountains is blank and void, except in moments of great slaughter, as in war, and then the frightful murmur, the horrid acclamation of thousands dying comes to me in a shrill keening, a final plea, as the flies swarm and the ravens land to feed. There lies the birth and pang of my knowing. A knowing without benefit or cease. That which precedes the word and gives us shape, made us, you and me. A knowing without comfort or end. That simply is. Yet the happenings beyond the wall and down the street are as vivid and clear as if a hand were held before my eyes—sí, like that dreadful claw—and in that hand the card of fortune shows its face. There I am prescient and knowing, there where you curl and quake in your frightful dream of all that is yet to come, yet to be. Drawn into my ambit, you would see as I see. That mine is not a vision but a knowing. Through my dusky view plays a world of perpetual sepia, each figure amorphous, adrift, like ink dropped in a bowl of whiskey, formed of thought and dream and phantom shades. Yet I note the least, the particular, the minute—the spider mending its web at the ceiling, the tuft of fur floating breezily across the floor, the scratching of mice beyond the mopboard, the termites burrowing within. Among all discarded things I belong, cast off like a bottle in the mud or a book left closed and forgotten, covered with the dust of a century, and I the voice at the quiet center, silent before all the unseen motes like vaulted words held in murky abeyance before my knowing. And know this: of Captain Love and his hombres I will deal in due time. They who took my head, the flower of my soul, and left the broken stem of me to wither in the dust. Aieee! For me every day is the Day of the Dead—Dia de los Muertos—a festival of dancing bones, of garish masks and teeth- gnashing ballads. And being dead I know this as well, that matter 16 MELVIN LITTON yearns for life...to sense, to move, to grasp and sing. And dance, sí... like the wind upon the waves. But moreover to dream, to test an inner vision against the world, to taste the terror and joy conjured by our imaginings, our endless mania of image-making and tale- telling. What would man do had he no fire, no fat to chew, no shelter from the midnight wind or woman to embrace? But create them each as the dust turns to flesh formed of fire and clay, to take root in the bedded earth, to breathe in the sky, to bloom a day and die and return to dust. It is the oldest rhythm, the drumbeat of the soul by which we turn. By which I play. No, I am not alive, but I am aware. And the locus of my knowing resides here, in my head. Mi cabeza. The head of Joaquín. This ravaged skull, once flush with life, adrift in a potion preserving the vile flavor of my last breath. Eyes that never blink, never sleep, that gaze unbidden, mute, masking the voice within. A voice that beckons to whoever dare listen. Many have told my tale. Some spare, some extravagant, most foolishly romantic, but none as yet wholly true and unsparing, for they ceased to listen to the voice governing their hand and surrendered to their own pale, feeble renderings. Who can listen long to a ghost? One that never rests? Whose thoughts are ever present, whirling about, unfettered by words on a page as most suspect the soul is freed upon death— yet here I remain in the locus of my head, expectant, alone, asking the eternal why, why, why? And when I tire of the question I turn to memory and tell my story once more, like a child that hears the same tale again and again and never tires of the telling though it knows each word, each twist in the plot, and savors all the more for its knowing. Listen and attend my words, my thoughts as they enter yours. I live again as you sense the sights, the sounds, and the odors. Join me in this jornada of the soul as you witness my life, my death, and for a time I own your heart. And you mine. For you see, we all peer to seek an image of ourselves, whether in a mirror or at the water’s edge or in the vortex of another soul. Some would have me of Spanish blood, some Indio, others claim I was a mix. A few even say I was a güero, blond and blue-eyed. Yet I do not laugh, my flesh was drained of blood so long ago that I would gladly have any pulsing through my veins, that of a Chino, a Tejon, a I, Joaquin 17

Gachupín, and sí...a Gringo even. Whether a son of Moctezuma or the bastard spawn of a Castilian rogue, what do I care for bloodline and origin? I am legend. A mix of stories told and retold till mine is the hybrid voice, the last and only voice. Listen, these thoughts adhere to whatever tongue you speak—though I retain some Spanish such as “sí,” for it carries a softness, a subtlety that affirms, that lingers yet on my long dead tongue—sí, I choose the words, their order, their rhythm as suits me. Mercurial as the wind, now hot, now cold, for it is my tale. I, Joaquín. Every spider spins its own web. In what year was it I arrived in California? For surely you know that is where I died. Some say in ‘48, some say in ‘44, still others suggest it was earlier. And they differ as to whether it was from Peru I sailed, or Spain, or Chile, or whether I walked up from Sonora with Rosita hand in hand and a burro in tow, or whether we came a caballo on a stolen horse, the hot wind covering our trail. And I suppose that each and all are true in part, as I am all the stories made of me. Each in its way renews and gives me life. To be honest what year, route, or origin claimed dims before the consequence of my coming. The events that gave birth to the infamous Joaquín. But the day I remember: the pine-scented air, the sun on my skin, and her laughter as I followed up the trail. We stood on the slope of a low mountain overlooking the ocean, facing a warm, blustery wind. Like an old man longing for his youth I long for that life, that day of sunlight on my flesh, that warmth within, for moments when the blood surged and the breath caught then rushed like breakers slamming ashore, when all that was dreamed had begun and fate had not yet darkened the path, when all was the act unfolding and no whisper yet mentioned an end. That day I remember and speak to its memory to savor of life, to spin the tale of the moment I lived. And if in spinning I skip about here and there to seek a thread, a beginning, as events fade one to the other like cards drawn and shuffled in an endless sleight of hand, have patience and remember: to ride a wild stallion you must hurl your soul before his in the fight for balance, take leave of direction before he paces to your will. Amid the violent agitation the sediment stirs, all is again in flux, 18 MELVIN LITTON wait a bit and let it settle, for there is rhyme and there is reason to my telling and they will soon wed. And bear in mind: when what little remains of my flesh is preserved in whiskey—aguardiente de cabeza!—how could mine not be a drunken soul? Quizzical, cursed, lucent as a dream from which I may never turn or awaken. Chapter Two

y life began as it ended, bloody. Emerging from the womb, Mfurious and struggling, I slipped from the midwife’s hands, the village curandera, and struck my head on the earthen floor. My first wail announced I would not be docile, so my mother said. And do I remember being bathed, swaddled in white cotton, lain on a mat of straw and there glancing at the surrounding forms with an uncertain, wary eye? No, my first memories are of the little lizards—cuida casas, the house guardians—watching from an open window, blinking in sly communion as if to intimate a belief that all must abide, the plants and birds, the sun and moon, the desert. A quiet rain settles the dust, giving the air a fresh aromatic bloom like a ripe melon split open. At each dawn and dusk, the fluid scrap and crush of corn being ground into flour on a stone metate; the slap of tortillas rounded and shaped for baking—all mixed with my mother’s warmth, her cradling, suckling warmth, and her humming voice enveloping the night like the sweet scent of her hand gently cupping my head. But of my mother I say little more for she is sacred. Mi madre. To speak of her may awaken and disturb her spirit. You see then, there are many things left unsaid. But of my father I will speak freely. He was always haunted and never at peace. They called him “El Loco!” He was already a ghost wandering the desert when I was born. All I knew of him were the stories told to me by Padre León DeVaca, his brother friar and our village priest, who took my mother under his care and raised me. He also had a son by her, my half-brother, Pacito. Padre León and my father had sailed together from Spain, young Franciscans filled with notions of following in the footsteps of Fray Junípero 20 MELVIN LITTON

Serra, of founding missions and converting the savage. Padre León always spoke fondly of my father and claimed he was the most promising, the most idealistic, the most athletic youth of their order, so handsome and kind, as if granted beatification at birth. Many times he described their journey around the Cape: the mist-veiled slopes of Tierra del Fuego, the terrifying passage through the Straits of Magellan, how storm after storm tossed their tiny vessel like a leaf in the wind, seas so violent they could not eat or in eating could not keep it down. “El vomito!” he’d vouch to a chorus of moans. “Even the cannons dropped their shot to the deck.” Always a favorite part and fun to mime. But laughter was seldom and brief. All quiet, he’d gaze past the candlelight to the deeper shadows, his lips barely moving as he recounted the horrid gales that gripped them. For forty days it tore at the stays and rigging and still the mainmast held. “Like the true cross,” he’d say, his palms pressed in vow. During the worst of the storms as darkening squalls blew in colder fury, sleet and hail adding to the bite, as the vessel rose on great waves then pitched to the cavernous troughs, seas rushing in over the bow, sweeping the deck of any unsecured thing—all hands crouched below in prayer while my father lashed himself to the mast and defied the tempest as the Devil’s own breath. He remained there lashed in his woolen cowl through three days and nights till the seas at last calmed and the sun like resurrection shone. “His courage and faith bore us through.” So said Padre León. But salvation is ever brief. Granted passage, sailing up the Pacific, scurvy took its frightful toll. Many a shrouded corpse plunged to the sea, buoyed briefly, then drifted slowly to the depths, insignificant as a pebble cast to the waves. None could but wonder at the cruel turn of fate—blessed one moment, then cursed. My father most of all. The effect of the storm had left him unsettled. Witnessing the scurvy, his torment deepened. Had God betrayed their faith only to send a darker fate? They voiced their doubts quietly, confiding in one another, and each night these doubts haunted their sleep. But they had the strength of youth and the true faith and each day saw their faith renewed. I, Joaquin 21

Taking on fresh supplies in Valparaíso, the sickness ceased. Flesh and spirit restored. At last they landed in San Diego, steeled to face the perils of the New World. From there they trekked south into the Sonora, destined for my mother’s village on the banks of the Magdalena which sometimes flowed and sometimes did not, depending on the season—water like so many things depended on the sun, the wind, and whatever moved them. The Mission de los Perdidos had been without a priest for many years. The young friars were to reestablish and secure the faith of the many Yaqui and Mestizo who inhabited the region. My father labored without cease, so fervent as if he’d come to make the desert bloom, bring every soul to flower. They say he was mad, mad with God. But he was not so mad and taken with God that he could not see my mother’s beauty. And before the summer had ended he’d forsaken his vow and acted as a man. Bedding her may have been the one sane act of his brief, sad life. But he lacked the courage of a great sinner, so filled with remorse at his deed that he swore penance, martyrdom if need be, to redeem himself in the eyes of God. He would go into the desert like Christ and face the Devil to shed the greater temptation of woman: she who’d lured him from his vow. On that fateful dawn, after singing the alabado, the morning hymn, he headed east toward the Sierra Madre to found a mission among the fierce Apache. Easier convince a víbora to give suck to a babe, turn venom into mother’s milk, but to my father all seemed possible, a transmutation no more miraculous than turning wine into blood. Sí, miracles are the staff of faith. So the tall gray-robed Franciscan marched forth trailed by his stout little “leather jacket,” his soldier-servant, his mozo, commonly known as El Perro for he faithfully answered to the padres like a dog licking its master’s boot. They say that El Perro kept glancing back with a fool’s faint smile, shaking his head, but his pace never faltered, he continued to tread in my father’s shadow. Followed his Quixote to the very death. A packer found their bones some months later, identified by remnants of the robe and a leather cuirass, the holy cross and an iron halberd both burnished by the sand and wind. I would guess that the buzzards plucked their eyes before their flesh ceased to quiver. For there is such scarcity, so little gleaned in the Sonora, 22 MELVIN LITTON even the buzzards are impatient to feed. So ended the life and torment of my father, Fray Miguel Murrieta. His brother friar, Padre León, was a simpler man and therefore accepted the paradox of God and man, the unfathomable law binding each to each. Felt no conflict in walking a natural path. From the day of my birth he took my mother into his care and his bed. And so it was he became a good husband and father, yet remained a priest. As I have said, he spoke often of my father. Missed him dearly. No doubt felt marooned far from his native land, alone among a people painfully ignorant if not savage. So he was prone to mope on occasion while drinking wine. He’d run a hand through his wispy hair, thinned as I imagined in the storms while rounding the cape, and let his sentiments flow. Perhaps my mother tired of his words or tired of serving him, for he’d asked her to bring a bit more cheese, or maybe she chafed because he forbade her to wear her new red petticoat, her enaguas, of which she was so proud, to church, for she was still young and pretty and preferred the favor of men’s eyes before that of God’s. Whatever, she had only set a large olla of water to the table when he asked her to fetch him another bottle of wine. He’d been speaking just then of his dear friend, my father, of his shame and consequent martyrdom at breaking his vow. Perhaps she felt a snub, for at that instant she snapped her finger and hissed that priests were all poor excuses for men. “Castrados!”—that was her word. “This fool you speak of, this El Loco, was no man. Not even this boy’s father. No!” she said, adding that the one called El Perro was really my father. He that bedded her. “And he wasn’t little at all,” she taunted, showing her teeth, “but tall and swarthy, full of vigor. The women called him El Perro because he had the dick of a dog and the fever to match. So vigorous after a night of passion he crowed like a cock at dawn. El Perro está El Gallo también! Cajones muy gratos!” This last voiced guttural in challenge. To which Padre León blanched pale as a corpse, then reddened, furious as he rose and kicked back his chair. “Jesucristo!” he exclaimed, not at all in the manner of a priest. He directed his forefinger in my mother’s face—”You low Yaqui I, Joaquin 23 perra! Hold your tongue or I’ll kick you like a perra. Not fit to be a mother. No! In truth she is not your mother,” speaking now to me: “Your mother was a highborn señorita,” he said, “daughter of a rich hidalgo, a California grandee of sangre azúl!” Fervent, as if quoting scripture, he swore that she had bore me out of wedlock and so entrusted her child to the Church— “Sí! To be raised in the true faith of La Virgen Purísima! This woman here is nothing but a wet nurse, an impudent maid. Perra ingrata!” My mother stood her ground and said nothing while her eyes narrowed and spoke a fury that could kill, an instinctual rage, a mother’s rage. She hurled the olla, dashing it into a hundred pieces, spilling water across the tiled floor. And her eyes never left him till he removed himself and his wine to the far corner of the sacristy. What caused the flare-up? I never knew. Perhaps there was no reason, simply a man and a woman reaching the boiling point and letting off steam. That’s how it was. A great flash and it ended. They never fought again. Who cleaned up the mess? Again, I never knew. I fled out the door into the night. Seemingly orphaned at a blow, confused beyond words. Pobrecito. I was maybe eight at the time. I fled to mi madrina, my godmother, Olajuaña, also the village curandera—always one to dispel perplexity, soothe a hurt. An answer, a cure for every ailment. Olajuaña pursed her withered lips, listened to all I said, then threw back her head and laughed loud and long till her toothless yap fairly howled. My puzzlement grew. Seemed the whole world had gone loco in a day. When she quieted she patted my head and said that my father was neither soldier nor priest. “He is a powerful brujo,” she said in whisper as if imparting a grave secret. “He has much magic, magia más antiguo. He can change from a stallion to a panther, and he stood in the form of the priest to gain your mother’s bed. Sí, he cast a spell to flatter the priest with the notion that he had bedded your mother and so drove him mad with the curse of a broken vow. For the brujo is a great sorcerer, and he hates the holy fathers.” “He hates Padre León?” “Sí, he hates many things,” she said. “But not himself, and not pretty young women, no.” A faint smile dimpled her wrinkled cheeks. “When finished bedding your mother, the brujo rose on the 24 MELVIN LITTON

hind legs of a huge goat, he leapt out the window and vanished in a dark wind.” Aieee! Then I was sorely confused. But that my mother was my mother, Olajuaña knew for a fact. “I plucked you from her very womb, su útero,” she softly affirmed. “Like a seed from a ripe plum. And slippery as a seed. Bounced you on the floor and heard your first wail.” Then she laughed again, explaining that it was the flash of my eyes that made her drop me. “Eyes of a tigre!” she said. “Eyes that name your father, the brujo who lives far to the east among the Apache, but is not Apache. No, they fear him too. He’s lived there a thousand years. Before the Apache or the Spanish. It was your mother’s beauty, her scent carried inland on the ocean wind that called him. He came and plucked her flower and left his seed. And only he knows his name and will not say, for to name him would kill him, and his seed. “So little brujo,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she mussed my hair, “what do you think of your father now? Would you name him? Would you dare?” To all who favor fact I say the same: Unravel the riddle of my father. Was he priest or soldier, perro or gallo—a panther, stallion, goat, or man? Or brujo? One who’s lived a thousand years and can fly on the wind, shifting shapes as quickly as you can say it. But name him not. What do I care for bloodline. I am legend. I am Joaquín.

There in a forgotten village in the Sonora, at the Mission de los Perdidos, I grew happy as any child in any time or place. The days replay as endless vignettes in motion, page after withered page. There on the sun-parched banks of the Magdalena, running half- naked beneath the great bowl of blue sky, where the world and all its rude largess were mine. The wind was a music that danced the dust and chased the rootless along to the rhythm of long vanished seas and storms unborn, yet to be. To a child each bend in the path, each rise and fall of the trail, each shrub, tree, or cactus presents a new wonder, another world potent with promise and discovery. The turn of a rock reveals the scurry of hidden creatures, each so curious and varied as if formed in the moment to distract and amuse like notes played to enliven the air at a festival, some lovely and fleeting, others sharp and I, Joaquin 25 disturbing like the ugly vinegaroon, whose stink is worse than its sting, or the hideous centipede with tentacles and pinchers to inflict its nasty bite. Or the huge spider, la tarántula! And on the wing a bluebird, a dragonfly, a bee droning above a flower. And your first encounter with a desert víbora shaking its rattle in venomous rage explodes the day in a clash of symbols like fireworks exploding the night, leaving the heart, the mind ablaze with the color of terror and awe. And that color, that fear, and your escape seem the greatest wonder yet. While to the man, the woman, all is concern and routine. The corral must be mended, the eggs gathered, the wood cut, the clothes washed. And where to find pasture, how long the drought, and the unending question: Why does my burden never ease? They cast their eyes wearily, seeking faint hope in the distance, disdaining the near at hand, all the joy once known turned to dung underfoot. Take a flower. A man may hold it to his nose and absently sniff before laying it in his lover’s hand to later gain the flower of her flesh. While she may smile in delight and place it in her hair as adornment to lure him to the shadows for her own pleasure. But a child will peer into the flower, study its every color, swirl, and texture, its discreet and golden pollen, then strip it slowly, petal by petal, stem by stem, till the stamen stands in lone mystery before its wonder. A man, a woman, use the flower. A child perceives the flower, and in perceiving conceives another world. Of graver mystery than a flower and what daily drew my eye and checked my play, turning my fancy to notions nearly kin to thought, were the dung beetles so common thereabout. The satin sheen of their humped shells gleaned like translucent gems of ancient intent and will. Tenacious, determined, fascinating as they reaped their rounded harvest home, in mute ritual, as if burying the dead. And there was always death nearby as well, and there lies the ultimate fascination. For dung, though puzzled over by a child, is common and accepted, while death fixes each with its hard, unyielding stare. Final, absolute, mystifying. To observe that which was once full of life turn to stench then to bone and sweeter dust is a fascination at once loathsome and compelling. It was perhaps a year following the outburst between my mother and Padre León. The day was hot and gusty. Dust from the desert 26 MELVIN LITTON encrusted every leaf and thorn, lay in powdery drifts about every sill and door. Our bare feet made successive puffs as we ran along the goat path east of the village toward the high bluff overlooking the Magdalena. Black scorpions, alacranes, mated rife among the rocks and cactus there and we wished to capture some. Rosita was two years younger than me, nimble and fawnlike, and often tagged along on my explorations and adventures. Though I found her annoying and treated her gruff, she persisted, so I usually let her come. Besides, she was sharp-eyed and curious and not one to shrink, not even at the thought of a black scorpion, a quick and deadly menace. “Don’t help,” she’d say, brushing off my aid as she’d snatch one in her thumb and forefinger, then hand it to me, smiling proud. “See? I can catch.” I’d shrug in answer, “So, es nada.” Still, I was impressed. And since she was not afraid I soon taught her the real trick which lay in tying a piece of yarn about their middle so you could dangle them, one before the other, and make them fight. A favorite pastime. In the village many would gather to watch, and often the shepherds and goatherds, los pastores, would place bets on which black demon would sink its spear first, hers or mine. But at the bluff that day our attention quickly turned to the dead burro. It had belonged to Lazarn, the old goatherd, and been dragged there to rot safely beyond the village. A common site for carrion, scores of bleached skeletons littered the ground. Buzzards lazily vacated their feast as I arched a rib bone to speed their flight. The burro lay bloated on its side, not yet opened up and emptied out. Legs splayed, oddly extended in comic pose. The tongue protruded to the dust, offering its last portion to the ants and flies. I fetched the rib and stabbed at the taut underbelly. At my second thrust the skin broke and death-flatus wheezed into the air, chasing us upwind as we ran laughing to escape the stench. When the wind had carried most away, we returned. Again I grasped the rib and made a circular rip, opening a bowl-size cavity in the belly. We peered in. Maggots mingled like a fetid stew, white grains of fomenting stink and froth. I stirred it with the rib and grinned. “Want a taste?” I asked, threatening to flick some at her. I, Joaquin 27

She tensed and said, “No, por favor, do not.” Out of a boy’s devilment I did so anyway. Flicked a gob that struck her cheek and shoulder. She shuddered an instant and froze, too shocked to flinch or scream, as if death had tagged her and the maggots would burrow in and putrefy her flesh as well. At a glance I saw her horror and how wrong I was. She gave a shriek, slapped the muck away, and ran. I ran after her, sped by shame, as much to flee my own act as to seek her forgiveness. I found her behind a boulder a short distance on, huddled like a frightened animal, arms clasped to her knees, eyes to the ground, willful and hurt. I knelt and touched her cheek, saying “Rosacita” to soothe her, then I took her hand and said, “Listen to me...I swear I’ll let no foul thing touch you again or harm you in any way, ever. To my death, mi Rosa”—and in swearing I fell in love. She looked to me and smiled, gave her trust and her faith. That trust, that faith would one day break my heart. Her father’s name was Don Juan Feliz, also known as “El Gitano” for his Gypsy flair and ancestry. He wore a great black mustacho and a frank and honest expression. He was the village alcalde, our mayor. A respected and sensible man, more practical than pious, he rarely set foot inside the church and was therefore sought after for advice and judgment in worldly matters. Whereas ethereal concerns were left to Padre León, his due province. It was he, El Gitano, who taught me how to thread the yarn about a scorpion, who encouraged me in my first manly task as a shepherd, who lent me the use of an old musket as defense against panther or man. And who entrusted his fair daughter to my young want and care. For there were always rumors of the Apache and Comanche. And though the Comanche seldom raided that far west, and never except in the moon of late summer, the Apache could arrive without warning in a gust of wind at dawn, in a glint of light at midday, or in the gloom and shadow of nightfall. Not knowing when made you wary. Only a year earlier Rosita and I had hid behind a yucca, peering through the stems as a party of Apache warriors passed. Gaunt, lank figures ahorse, naked except for the weapons and scalps tied at their belts, each painted in a hideous mask of death, faces blackened, limbs streaked white, skeletal, riding like 28 MELVIN LITTON the dead come to reclaim the earth. Or take us captive. And we’d heard tales of the Queen of the Dead, the old Apache squaw who often rode along and directed their raids, her lower jaw held in place by a rawhide thong, and when loosed her jaw flopped open, unleashing her voice, a harsh cackle followed by her black tongue flicking sharp commands like a víbora hissing each word while her free hand worked her jaw like a puppeteer works a puppet. Then she’d snap it shut and secure the thong, silent as she fixed her gaze and vanished in a storm of dust and wind. This among the earliest tales told to us by El Gitano and others, and whether true or not, the thought of the old witch frightened us more than the sight of the warriors and kept us mum and well hidden. Nor did I think to fire a musket, nor move a single finger. We gripped our hearts and waited, Rosita and I. Pleased to see them gone, but thrilled at our encounter and escape. The summer of my tenth year, working on a rancho just north of our village, I gripped my musket, mindful of the threat, prepared to face panther or Apache. Though I was not taken with the task of herding sheep, of being a shepherd. I dreamed of being a vaquero, a gallant charro. In boots, saddle, and great sombrero! Not a lowly pastor, a step up from a peón, dressed in white cotton with rawhide sandals strapped to my feet. But Padre León said that Christ was a shepherd of men, that a year of such would do me good, perhaps then I could think of acquiring a horse and of herding cattle. I nodded dutifully, of course, and smiled, but it was the musket from El Gitano that moved me to my task and made me feel manly. For Christ never had a great appeal to me. His one act I respected aside from his sheltering Magdalena was his whipping the money changers. Even then he should have taken the money or at least given it to the poor. Loaves and fishes we can fetch for ourselves. Money is hard to come by; the lack of it makes every day a cross to bear. As for teachings of the Church, the promise of life everlasting, it seemed to me a fine story, like so many, of passing amusement. I held another view, an older sense, that said simply, “Give me this life, this flesh, this earth, I want or need no other.” Perhaps it is this strong attachment that keeps me focused here in my lone purgatory, sleepless, knowing, ever longing for a breath, a touch, another glimpse of life. To me God is much like the notion of my father, I, Joaquin 29

evident but absent, a riddle that can never be answered. Name Him not. Rosita often joined me on the high hill at night while the sheep nestled in the valley. Nearly eight years old, a big girl now, having lost her baby teeth, her new ones filling in nicely, though one eyetooth always rode a bit high in her gum, lending a slight question to her smile as if she saw through my words to the heart of me. We’d sit together by the fire while the coals blinked and died. I’d point to the stars and name them: “Osa Mayor y Osa Menor...Estralla Polar...Oríon...los Pléyades....” She’d listen quietly till I finished then point to whatever bright star she fancied and name it “Joaquín,” and the one closest by, “Rosita,” asserted with her brave, quizzical smile that always brought me back to earth. Again silent, we’d stoke the fire and perhaps note another fire in the distance and wonder whose camp or adobe it marked. Or listen to the coyotes call across the way in their barking lingo as they scented a weak lamb or crippled ewe and considered whether it was wise to venture near. Wary little tricksters. And we shared tales of the panther, el tigre, of its fierce prowess and whether it would come down from the sierras as in times past to claim its rightful share. “El tigre?” she’d ask. “He can see in the night. Could he get us?” “Don’t worry, Rosita. I won’t let him.” “But he can kill a horse?” “So? I can kill a gato.” Amused at my bluster, her smile would flicker in the firelight then vanish. “Joaquín? You hear that?” she’d whisper, her eyes to the shadows. Sensing movement, I’d stand and fire the musket, scaring off the coyotes, their yip-yaps fading in the night. Though I rarely drew blood it was a thrill to fire the musket, and it helped dispel our fear. The pop of the cap, the thunderous roar. The flash of fire at breech and barrel. The cloud of white smoke slowly dispersing. The sweet, acrid smell of burnt powder like a sharp, warm intoxicant filling the nostrils. Nightly I’d find cause to send a ball crashing through the still silence—day improved my aim but darkness tested my skill in working my weapon, making ready for the imagined encounter with the panther, or one day a man. 30 MELVIN LITTON

Strange, of that musket and the many weapons I handled in life, the guns, the knives, I recall few particulars. But their heft, their recoil, their effect on the senses all linger like a fond perfume. Have you ever struck flint to powder and watched it flash? Or taken a lead ball, felt its weight in your palm and wondered at its shape, its warmth, its subtle softness, how easy it is to press and mold? In a burst that lead means death. That I remember: the buck of the bullet leaving the barrel, the bite of it entering my flesh. And the knife, its edge, its keen relentless edge sinking in my throat to drink my blood and stop my breath. That, too, I remember. Though that was not a present concern, or thought, not even imagined. All life waited to be tasted. With each visit Rosita brought something good to eat wrapped warm in her little shawl, her blue rebozo. Some tortillas and frijoles or a bowl of olla podrida, my favorite stew. Always hungry, we shared our feast along with goat milk and cheese. Shared our food and thoughts. She’d lay her head to my shoulder, I’d pat her knee. An innocent touch, nothing more. In love, but not yet lovers. “Will we have many children, Joaquín?” “Sí, many children. But first we will each have a horse. And a rancho.” “Will there be a glass window?” “Sí, a glass window.” Lust had not entered our hearts. Only dreams. And though innocent, we knew about things—hinted at, spoken of—how animals bred, and people too. All living so proximate. Through open windows when the night was calm you could hear the lovemaking and catch the heavy musk of man and woman mixing within. Sometimes, given a hand up, we even dared to peek. In most cases it was better they were covered, but occasionally we observed a wild, lusty pairing. One that seemed almost as natural and splendid as horses in the act. A proud, physical coupling as opposed to the rut and squeal of a pigsty, a scene more often conveyed. But we, Rosita and I, were not yet ripe. Merely curious and observant. And to act without nature’s prompting, before time readies the seed and roots the flower, is the true sin—whatever the passion, love or murderous will, to act without cause is shameful and I, Joaquin 31 wrong. While I had little concern for the Church, its admonishments and teachings, I possessed great pride even as a boy. And I would not shame myself or Rosita. There was one such in our village. A man without shame. Perverse and foolish. And since I am not quite ready to speak of the panther, I will tell you his story. He was an old man who lived near the church. I will not say his name, for it is of no importance. It was his acts that marked him. One act in particular. He lived alone. And perhaps he was not all that old, but only seemed old to me. He may have been only forty or so. Though I distinctly recall his hair had grayed, or salt and peppered as they say, his beard as well. He committed a bestial act with the goat man’s nanny. Lazarn caught him red-handed, pants to his knees, loins locked to her haunches. “Like a shameless cur,” people said. “Bestial!” was the word on every lip. As a little chico, no more than five or six at the time, I had no idea what this meant, only that he must be playacting as a billy goat, “baaing” in the night and walking about on all fours. So I was careful not to run and howl like a coyote and such, for I did not want to be chastised and treated with silence and disgust for acting “bestial!” Shunned like this man. No matter, he would not mend his ways. Time and again Lazarn caught him out prowling for the nanny. Padre León even caught him once in back of the church, the nanny bleating wildly as the wretch performed his sacrilege. Padre León threatened excommunication— ”Cabrón! You will fry in Hell!” Still the man persisted, cursed by his urge. Padre León threw up his hands. While Lazarn, who was at first simply stunned, bewildered, grew darkly morose. “Por Dios, I’ll rip his egg sack and crush his huevos,” he’d declare with clinched fists, then open his palms in plea to his listener, “She’s my best milker.” And no, neither he nor anyone else would have milk tainted by an unnatural act. He even slaughtered her kids, threw the meat to the dogs, would not have the taint on his table, would not have them give suck and spread the taint to his herd. What was comical turned serious. Some even accused Olajuaña 32 MELVIN LITTON of giving the goat a potion to tempt the man. Olajuaña scoffed and said it took nothing special to make a man act like a goat. To quiet the rumors and keep the peace El Gitano called the men to meet. Lazarn stood with arms folded, eyes hard on the accused standing slumped, eyes to the ground. El Gitano looked to each man and twisted his mustache in thought. “Maybe I should do like Solomon,” he said, “threaten to cut the goat in half. But what good is that? You!” he said, pointing to the accused. “If you must have this nanny, you will pay half your corn crop to Lazarn. And Lazarn...no more bickering!” So it was agreed, by mutual nod, that the man would pay for the goat. Time passed. An autumn, a winter and spring. It became known that the man no longer sought out the nanny in his loneliness, that he no longer acted as he formerly did. It seemed that in feeding and tending the animal his bestial urges waned and left him. Finally he acted as a man to the goat and simply kicked or cursed it on occasion when it displeased him. The same as a husband to a wife, the villagers said, laughing. Sí, many are like this, once they must care for a woman they no longer desire her and would as soon beat her as bed her. Judged no longer bestial, he was again accepted, greeted kindly in daily comings and goings about the village. But I never forgot. For I watched from the campanario late one night, peering past a large brass bell, the moon lighting the scene, the spectacle of el perverso and the goat, the shadow of man and beast, their guttural interplay cast upon the far stuccoed wall.

Like judgment the panther came down from the sierras. Screams in the night announced his arrival. Hellish screams as he pounced on his victims: first a calf, a jenny, then a burro colt. Their half-eaten carcasses later found covered with limbs and leaves, cached, await- ing the panther’s return. Those who waited to trap him, trapped him not. Never any pattern, attacking here and there, night after night, miles apart. More erratic than the Apache. This chaotic man- ner added to the fright; even danger found predictable is more eas- ily faced. Terror spread like a grim contagion. No one ventured out unless they were armed. Rosita stayed in the village. I no longer fired at I, Joaquin 33

whim in the night, but kept my musket primed and ready. My second summer of shepherding and suddenly my task no longer seemed so low and boyish, nor I so dauntless. I gripped my weapon to seek my courage, but as often found my fear. The dogs were more frightened than me. They’d cower at the least sound, crowd around the fire and jump in my lap. Sheep, goats, cattle, horses—all sought the succor of man. In every pen, corral, and pasture they huddled close in fear. The scream of the panther sent a chill of cactus needles up the spine and cold sweat formed on the brow. There is a saying: None leave this earth without paying what they owe. But I am not so sure. Judgment comes in many forms, claims the innocent the same as the guilty. The first one taken near the village was the pervert’s old nanny, ancient, dry, and seldom fed, her wretched concubinage ended in a fury of fang and claw. The demon scream awakened every soul, stirred the dead deep in their graves. Candles lit, prayers spoken, men formed a hunting party to pursue the villain. “Pantera del Diablo! Mátalo! Kill him!” they shouted. “I’ll stretch his hide for my doorstep!” said one. “Curse the devil, I’ll have his ears!” said another. They traded oaths and gritos to rouse their courage as their machetes and gun barrels glistened beneath greasewood torches. Led by El Gitano, they followed the bloody trail through a long, futile night and found nothing but the goat’s head left on a high outcropping as if placed there to mock them. Dawn saw their weary return. No cheers, no cries in welcome, only silence. The following night the panther killed a yearling colt owned by Señor Caborca, lord of the vast hacienda that bordered the Magdalena south to the Concepción. Caborca was a proud hidalgo with a passion for horses. Years of breeding had gone into this colt, sired by the finest stallion, born of a select mare, seed of his future herd, immaculately tended and groomed. And snatched from under his very nose, murdered in the sanctum of its own stall, throat slashed, neck broken, left in a mangled heap by a wanton, vicious act. Flesh uneaten. An affront to life, honor, and prestige. Caborca offered a purse of gold for the head and hide of the panther. Word of the reward spread like fire before a hot wind. A 34 MELVIN LITTON professional hunter rode from the north, another from the south, hoping to gain the prize. Greed caught in every heart like red flames spreading through dry grass. Mine as well. The thought of gold smothered my fear. I would kill the panther. Then own a horse and the fine suit of a charro—boots, pantaloons, jaqueta, sombrero, all richly embroidered in golden thread. And a silver-studded saddle and a brace of pistols. And I would care no more for sheep and their bleating ways. But ride the hills, breasting the wind. Not even Rosita knew of my plan. I told no one so as not to be turned from my path. And chose a moonless night so as not to be seen. Long past sundown, after all had quieted, I headed east toward the foothills of the sierras armed with my musket and machete. My little dog, a gray speckled terrier named Busca, trotted alongside, the one trusted not to bark, that knew the meaning of hush and only lived to please. And bundled in my morral, the packsack slung over my shoulder, were two lambs carried to bait the panther. That the lambs were not mine gave me no concern, whether stolen or borrowed would not matter once I killed the panther. When all learned of that, all would be forgiven. Besides, with the reward I could easily replace the lambs. Two sacrificed for the good of all seemed a fair exchange. If not a shepherd’s duty. About five miles east of the village a deer trail led up to a low mesa, open and elevated with little to block the view, offering good terrain to draw the sight and scent of a panther. The wind grew chill and gusty as I built a greasewood fire. The flames flickered and snapped, uncertain in their burning much like my anxious heart. In the depth of night, in that far distance, my fear returned. But I squelched my fear, gripped my machete and slit the throat of the first lamb pulled from the morral. An innocent, so trusting it did not struggle as I sprinkled its blood around the fire. I pitied the lamb, but pity did not stay me. The other I tethered to a gnarly branch just upwind of the fire where it stood baaing at the loss of its brother, in fear of the blood and the night, wise beyond knowing, its instincts fully engaged. As were mine as I crouched back of a low boulder about thirty paces downwind, wrapped in my serape, my musket in hand, bien escondido, well hidden. So I thought. But nothing hides from the spirit that owns the night. My little dog sat quiet at my side, muzzle at my shoulder, his I, Joaquin 35 wary eyes darting beneath his bristly brow while the fire hissed and crackled, shooting off sparks in the wind. I watched for what seemed like an eternity, clutching my serape tighter to my shoulders against the cold, flexing my fingers grown numb from gripping my musket, nodding to my little dog to give him courage, and from time to time caught my chin nodding to my chest and jerked awake. Eyes and ears scanning the shadows, searching, listening for the phantom. At last faltering, I slept. Though I do not recall sleeping, only a grave, pressing weight upon my chest, and the frightful awakening. I smelled his breath before I saw him—a carrion breath of a hundred kills hot against my face. His merciless eyes burned like red embers, reflecting the fire and a cold inner will. Fixed by his eyes, pinned by his paws, I could not move. Dared not move. Then he screamed a scream that raised my scalp. His fangs gleamed like daggers brought low to my eyes, saliva wetting my cheek. In a flash he spun and leapt past the boulder. I sat up in time to see him snatch the lamb by the neck, snapping the tether as he wrenched it in his jaws. Blood reddened the fleece as the panther slowly turned and glanced to me as if taking note, then slunk into the night. I took a breath and reached for my musket. My little dog lay just beyond, his skull crushed in a single bite. Busca. Faithful and quiet to the end. Never made a yip or a whimper. What could I say upon my return but that I had baited the panther with the lambs and failed? That as the panther snatched the lamb I had fired and missed? That my little dog had pursued the panther and was killed? I was not judged too harshly. Old Fenéz, whose flock I tended, thought I’d acted as a good shepherd, but still expected payment for the lambs. Most thought I was brave, if not a little foolish. Only Padre León and my mother acted stern. But that lasted only a day. And I know that Rosita loved me more. And her father, El Gitano, was so proud he gave me the musket outright. Slapped me on the back and announced to all gathered: “Here, look at Joaquín. Here is one with the courage to face a panther alone.” And since the panther came no more that year, it was generally agreed that my shot had scared it off. While given no reward, I was given no punishment. And their esteem was reward enough. I told no one what really happened. Except mi madrina, Olajuaña. 36 MELVIN LITTON

She cast a knowing eye and said, “Ah sí...the father has met his son.” Aieee! That raised my hair like hearing the panther’s scream. But only for an instant, for those few words awakened the blood in me, a hot rush like I’d never known. My encounter with the panther marked the end of my childhood. From then on I acted with the daring and outlook of a man. Chapter Three

ere, Cachorrito, catch!” he said, tossing a chunk of horse dung. “H“Try to hit me. Go on, throw it hard! Más veloz! “ Eager to show my arm I hurled the missile. With a quick slap of his rough hand he dashed it to pieces. “Did it sting you?” “Sí, like a fiery grenade,” he said with a hot laugh. El Bravo, known as “the wild one,” for he was brash and ill- tempered, though kind enough to me. He called me Cachorrito, or little pup, I think with some affection. And he stood tall as a cloud to my eye. In a curious sense he was my teacher, fed me a primer of words and notions far stranger than any Padre León or El Gitano had to offer. Before taking leave of my village, I should relate my odd, singular apprenticeship which began shortly after I’d acquired my mother tongue and could range beyond my mother’s view, and which played a good part in spurring me to my destined path. He was Inglés, so he claimed. How he came to live in our village he never said. Though Olajuaña, who eyed him with grave suspicion, mentioned once that he’d come shortly after my birth and said no more. But to me he had always been there like all else in view—the sun, moon, stars, and desert—and I figured every village must have an Inglés for their blacksmith. He preferred to be called a forjador to the more common herrero, “a mere shoer of horses” in his view, for his passion and skill lay in the forging of metal, of bending it to his will, of heating it to a fine tempered edge and in fashioning clever triggers and springs for muskets and pistolas. Though he shoed horses on a daily basis, he disdained the task. He’d scowl and say, “This beast men prize and worship will one day serve for nothing 38 MELVIN LITTON

more than meat, hide, and paltry glue.” “No, El Bravo!” I’d cry in protest. “A horse can catch the wind.” “Hah! Better at breaking wind, I say.” Then he’d fart like a horse and laugh his dark, lusty laugh. Which confused both my anger and my disbelief. And though Inglés, he was not a slender güero like you’d think, but a large, swarthy man with hair as black as an Apache and eyes as fierce, and a great black beard worn long and scraggly, which further set him apart. Some thought him not a very good man, nor would Rosita go near him, for he blasphemed at every breath, swore against the Church like a dog barking at phantoms in the night. Lashed his words, forbidden words so vivid I could see their colors—red, purple, blue, green, yellow—like heated metal changing color in the forge. Mágico! Irreverente! I visited every chance I got. Much against Padre León’s wishes, but he feared El Bravo’s bite and would not come after me. Whereas I loved El Bravo’s storm and verve, his fiery gestures, better than any play of puppets staged at a festival, ever enthralled by the blinking coals, the white-hot iron, the hot bellow of forge and man. As I watched he delighted in sharing tales of his many travels and adventures, for he’d first sailed from England at age nine and learned his craft on the seven seas. “How far is England, El Bravo?” I asked. “Far as the moon travels in a day. Far as a man might walk in a year.” Aieee! So far I could not imagine, for I had yet to walk beyond sight of the village. “But why do you live so far from home, El Bravo?” “Because it suits me,” he said. “Because I despise man and the rule of law, civilization and all its trappings. Here men steal and plunder, make revolution on a whim, murder one another for a laugh. Hah! It suits me. The blood mixes, molten like precious metals cached in the mountains or borne off in ships. See this? Lead!”—weighing a ball in his palm—”No alchemist can transform its substance, make it gold. But by its deadly use you can seize all the gold you like. Silver too. With enough lead you can go into the sierras and the Indios will fear you, even the Apache. And learn Inglés, little pup. For the English rule the seas and now the world. Since Trafalgar there’s none to stop them. Know the lingo and the I, Joaquin 39 use of lead, Cachorrito, and your goal is half won. Then you can bend the will of men. Bend their backs,” he’d growl, “each vile, accursed race. How I hate them, hate them all. Dumb as brutes—” “You hate me, El Bravo?” I asked, riveted by his contradiction and rage. “No,” he said, laying his hammer aside. “You’re a child, not yet formed. And no, it’s not that I hate men. It’s that they are such fools. They forget of what they’re made. The mother that forged them. Look to the sierras, Cachorrito, there waits the mother that made you, that made all men. There waits the fire, the great forge. The iron, lead, silver, and gold. There waits your essence and your courage. Seek it and you will become a man. For I see the man to come and that man I do not hate. No, little pup, you are a vessel that waits shaping and into that vessel I pour the stout draught of truth. The pulque of blood shed in battle. Not some weak wine fit only to clear the phlegm of priests, to grip the weak-willed in the vise of faith, there hammered in the shape of fools. Latin! Bah! The papist tongue. Fit only for slaves. A squat, stupid race of half-breeds and Indios. Fools, bobos, idiotas....” On he’d rail, declaiming against all but the distant Inglés and then only to praise their great power. Yet he claimed to have fought with the Indio priests, Hidalgo and Morelos, in the war for independence against the Spanish, the hated Gachupín. But claimed nothing more and swore allegiance to no creed. From him I learned English and a clever tongue. And to be wary of all men and creeds. “There!” he’d spit on hot metal, holding it in tongs before my eyes as the white spittle danced and sizzled into nothing. “That’s what comes of all great promises and grand schemes. Like Hidalgo and Morelos, both stood up and shot. Dreamers! Bobos! Trust only what you can make and hold with your own hands. Hah!” Then he’d return to hammering and in a great sweat proclaim, “Between heaven and hell, Cachorrito, the earth was formed for those who know its use and bent.” “But what use is dung?” I asked. “Dung? Boñiga...?” “Sí, like the beetle there, with his ball of dung.” “Ah...,” he said, noting the stubborn creature wrestling a plum- sized orb past our feet. “That’s his food. He takes it to his cave like a 40 MELVIN LITTON bee gathers honey. Stows it to feed on and hatch the young. Think it strange, Cachorrito, but dung is fruit. By the sun’s alchemy it dries and sweetens. Take cow dung, boñiga de vaca, it falls flat and bakes in the sun, like sweet cake to a beetle. Or goats and sheep, their dung already shaped like chocolate balls for the beetle to carry home. That too, like candy to a beetle. And horse droppings...here!”—he snatched up a dry clump and tossed it to me, again playing our game as he thumped his chest and said, “Throw it at me! Throw it hard!” By now my arm could really whip; I fired it like a bullet. And once again he dashed it to the ground. “Good shot, Cachorrito!” he said, dusting off his hand. “Your arm is nearly ripe. Soon you’ll be strong enough to rein a horse. Sure, you love the horse,” he mused, “its fleet and noble spirit. Even its castings are sweet to smell. But hogs and chickens, no man likes that stink. Yet forked into a wagon and spread over a field or orchard, even that foul shit bears fruit. Now, there’s a transmutation men should look to, Cachorrito. Dung like lead, a raw miracle, if you know its use and bent.” Sly in his teaching, patient and cunning as el zorro, the fox, he wished to make me his apprentice. I admired his work, his words, and listened well. Ah, but he did not go a caballo. Did not ride a horse. Only shoed them. So I learned from his words and used what suited me. Followed my own bent. The village could no longer contain me. I would follow my father as Olajuaña had named him into the sierras. Fated to leave but not forget. Out of my meager wages I paid off old Fenéz and packed what little I would need in my morral: a cord of tender, my flint and steel eslabón for making fire, all wrapped dry in buckskin; a month’s supply of jerked beef and dried frijoles, cornmeal for making tortillas, a metal pan for cooking, and enough powder and lead for my musket to keep me in meat through the winter. In addition I carried a good skinning knife honed by El Bravo, plus a braided reata and a woolen blanket draped over my serape like a bandoleer. And of course I carried my musket and machete, the latter belted at my waist. All set, I filled my water gourd and bid Rosita farewell. I promised to return a caballo. And I would bring her silk upon my return. In I, Joaquin 41 three years’ time. By then she would be a woman of fourteen and I a man and we would marry. She wrapped her blue rebozo around my neck and kissed my cheek. Her eyes glistened but she did not cry. “I will light a candle each night and pray for you...so you will not forget me.” “To my death, Rosita, I will not forget.” So I promised. I was thirteen the day I left my village. My mother did not make too great a fuss. She still had Pacito to care for and was wise to the way of things. Nor did Padre León object, only looked to me in a fond way as the wind curled a wisp of his hair in question above his brow, though he did not question, gave his blessing and said, “Vaya con Dios,” as he always did upon my taking leave, adding, “May your father’s spirit watch over you.” Little did he know that my father’s spirit, his ánimo in its most feral form already guided me. Had touched me with a hand stronger than my mother or the Church and all the padre’s tender teachings—stronger even than El Bravo’s harsher tones. Though I loved them and remembered always, they did not guide or move me like that fierce paw pressed upon my heart. Olajuaña slipped some peyote buttons into my morral and told me to use them sparingly, only when I needed greater strength and endurance, or faced an obstacle or danger that required prescience. “The visions are quite strong,” she warned, “sí, más potente. And Mescalito, the spirit that dwells in peyote, he is not one to trifle with, no. Treat him with respect and he will speak to you, mi hijo, and give good advice.” She also handed me a bundle of shuck cigarros, patted my arm and said, “Take these as well, they will comfort you in the night. But smoke only un poco, or you will lose your breath and your strength.” From mi madrina I also carried many lessons and secrets of what plants to use in the Sonora. Which to eat; which would heal. Piñon nuts were plentiful in the sierras. Even the bean of the mesquite could be eaten; the berry of the madroño, or strawberry tree, though sadly tasteless, gave nourishment; and the fruit of the cactus, the tuna, was quite sweet and juicy when in season. Sí, like el coyote, it was wise to know when the prickly pear wore her yellow flower and ripened. With the Spanish dagger plant you could treat snake bite by jabbing the sharp stems into the wound to leech the poison; 42 MELVIN LITTON

a heated maquey leaf applied to sprains drew off the swelling and also made a good poultice for cuts and scrapes; and the root of the yucca, which grew everywhere, had been used as soap for centuries. These but a few. Feeling well armed for whatever waited, again I headed east into that high, wild country where I so warily tread but weeks before, off to make it my haunt. It was mid-September, known as La Luna de los Comanches, the time when they traditionally rode down from the north, raiding through the Cordilleras, the Mapas, as far south as Durango and Zacatecas. If they or the Apache caught me, they would catch a tigre. Undeterred, I did not look back or waver. My mind was set. I would make my fortune in mustanging and in rounding up cimarrones, the wild cattle and strays that ranged over the rugged hogbacks and gorges, the arroyos and barrancas, the canyons, mesas, and sweeping plains that comprise that region. And I knew something of horses. I had watched the vaqueros and listened to their lively banter from the day I first saw one ride past, hooves kicking up the dust like smoke set adrift, the rider seemingly mounted to the clouds, the brim of his sombrero rolled high in back, “scorpioned” as they say. He reined about, whipped his horse and spurred, screaming his carcajada, his wild brave laugh—Aieee!—free and spirited like no shepherd ever made. He rode like a brother to the wind, barely held to the earth. Like I would one day ride. And I rode every chance I got. First on burros, any left untended, standing in the shade of a tree. I’d swing down from a limb like a young panther, kick in my heels and slap its haunches and we were off for a quick trot of maybe twenty paces. Or maybe not. Many simply gave a snort, glanced up to me and went back to swishing flies, too wise and burdened by the heat to bother with my antics. Villagers began to complain that I was a pest; that I was riling their burros and making them hard to catch. “May the Apache nab him and tie him to a cactus!” An oath commonly used to threaten a boy acting up. If there is a sacred animal in Mexico, it is the burro, granted more respect and better treatment than many people. El Bravo told me to ignore the bobos and ride as I wished. But El Gitano listened to their complaints and decided it was time I rode a real horse. “That way you can outrun the Apache if they come for you,” I, Joaquin 43 he said with a wink, then sat me on his tall dapple-gray, told me to hold the pommel, and gave the rump a slap. And I was off like I’d dreamed, mounted to the clouds, racing the wind, and not with the stiff-legged gait of a burro, but long galloping strides that covered the ground in a dazzling sweep like sunlight breaking through the clouds. At El Gitano’s whistle the horse returned and stood stomping the dust. My heart raced wild as my eyes. Even as I slept that night I rode. After that I bothered the burros no more and saw El Bravo less and less. In fact he was often gone for weeks at a time, out prospecting for silver as was his bent, while I began visiting the outlying ranchos. Whenever I could sneak a bit of sugar or a tortilla from my mother’s kitchen, I’d climb a corral post and try to coax a horse. When one came near I’d leap to its back, clutch its mane, and we were off in a mad dash and jolt. Sometimes I lasted a full turn around the corral. Sometimes not. For many were not broke, or simply green broke, “Bravos” they called them, and I’d think, “El Bravo should see me now!” as I flew through the air, pitched like a grape seed shot between a thumb and forefinger. I flew well, often further than I rode, landing ready for another thrill, another try. For I was green-limbed and willing. The vaqueros liked my spirit. “His cajones may be small,” they’d laugh, “but the chico has a big heart.” They began teaching me how better to ride and to pick my mounts. They also instructed me in the use of la reata, the lariat. Ramón was a master of the reata. It was said that with one quick snap he could break a horse’s neck, or a man’s. Like a horse he was lean in the leg and powerful in the shoulder, and sported a great black mustacho like El Gitano’s. Like I would wear once I could grow one. He could roll a shuck cigarro with one hand and spit through his teeth past the gate to the center of the corral. He taught me many tricks with the reata. Time would do the rest, gain me strength and testing. Already I could spit nearly as far as Ramón.

As the sun bent west I followed the shadows reaching east, edging into the sierras. Along the way I made practice casts, looping my reata about a limb, a rock, a cactus, giving a quick jerk, dreaming 44 MELVIN LITTON of the mustangs I would capture and tame. How I would impress Rosita, Ramón, and all with my daring. But the daring waited weeks of endurance, of empty journey, loneliness, and hunger. Often during that time I wished I had stayed—stayed and worked on the rancho with Ramón and the others. For they had offered; in a year I could have owned a horse. But my mind was set. So full of myself after facing the panther, I would be a free charro or die trying. And I nearly died. It’s not so easy tracking mustangs as I had imagined. I’d catch a glimpse of a herd moving up a distant slope like the shadow of a cloud, then lose sight of them for a week, moving ever deeper into the sierras as the autumn air grew colder and colder. Again I’d sight them watering at a shallow seep or grazing in the afternoon sun. The stallion would raise his head in my direction and shake his mane, give a gruff snort and turn to his mares, biting at their flanks and haunches to drive them away, herding from the side and rear till they were out of sight. He was an alazán, of sorrel coat and black mane and tail. The herd numbered about thirty mares with half as many foals; the yearlings would be driven off in the spring. My problem was more immediate. I’d eaten all my frijoles and cornmeal the first few weeks; my beef was long gone; and I’d used up half my powder and lead only to bag one deer. I feasted well the following week and cured a hindquarter, sliced thin and laid out on rocks to dry in the sun. By now mid-winter and I was still afoot, down to eating piñon nuts, the last of the jerked deer eaten days before. My hunger at those altitudes seemed to triple, a gnawing, needful hunger never sated. Alone against the elements, the uncertainty, many things I hadn’t counted on, hunger most of all. Beginning to starve, weakening fast, but I could not return and face the shame of failing. They would call me the son of El Loco for sure and I could not bear that. And in spite of all, I was learning, slowly learning the habits and terrain of the mustang. Each dawn warmed me, dispelling the chill of night and doubt. I sat on my haunches, gazing from a sharp ridge overlooking a sparsely timbered expanse that stretched to a distant range of blue hills, smoking the last of my shuck cigarros, savoring the flavor, slowly exhaling to again taste its warmth and gather my will. Wondering at nothing in particular, for the moment indifferent I, Joaquin 45 to circumstance and options. Crows squawked in the distance, quarreling over some matter that concerned only them and the jays. The morning calmed, I waited. A mustang mare emerged from the timber as if called by my waiting—as if I were at the center and the world at last answered to my yearning. I had the wind of her and did not move, merely watched her graze the dry grass thinly spaced amid the sagebrush, nibbling from one tuft to another. A black and white pinto. Why she was alone I could not guess. Perhaps she’d lagged behind to tend a foal or became separated from the herd during a violent storm or panther attack. Whatever the cause, she presented an opportunity. Perhaps my last. A gift for my taking if I had the strength and courage to catch her. The time had come. I crept from view and opened my morral. I counted out five peyote buttons, put them in my mouth and rolled them with my tongue, thinking of what Olajuaña had said. At a drip spring among the rocks I cupped my hands and washed them down. Three times more I drank, knowing I may not drink again that day. Then I hid my musket, my blanket and morral in a deep crevice sheltered by a sharp overhang, safe from the wind and rain, and took only my reata and skinning knife, for I must travel light and fast and no telling how far. Unburdened, in a rush of exhilaration and hope, I tracked her like a panther, leaping from rock to rock along the jagged spine that ridged the plain below. Presently, without hint of transition, the dull colors of the high desert winter sharpened, whetting my vision like springtime in flower—only more so. Every shadow, shape, or angle of a rock bore its own blossom. Clouds passed overhead like shimmering schools of exotic fish tracing ribboned rainbows through a vast blue sea. And on the bed of the sea I ran like the first man in quest, full-ribbed and unashamed. The wind blew like a thousand trumpets at festival, while my feet danced on in sync with my prey, the power of Mescalito surging through my veins. A clarity of mind and strength that owns the world for a day. I noted each change of gait and mood, each flex of muscle or twitch of tail, her neck straining as she reached to crop the grass, her head raised high, ears pricked, attempting to define a sound, its source and threat, then she’d gallop on, nostrils flared in scent. And I knew her destination—shared her sense and instinct, her 46 MELVIN LITTON quickening thirst. Late afternoon, and the only water in that range of hills lay three miles beyond through a narrow gap in the upper ridge. I raced ahead, surrendering all my strength and will to the task. A sharp incline led to the ridge. In keeping its balance a horse must lower its head, thrusting forward as it follows an upward trail. There I would set my trap. In the heat of the hunt, in my peyote fever, I hadn’t noticed the cooling air. Not until I dipped my reata in the pool before dusting it to cover my scent did I notice ice crystals starting to form. My breath fogged like the smoke tasted that morning. Even then I had no concern of the cold, only that my ruse would succeed. Quickly, I double-hitched my reata to a stout mesquite limb overhanging the trail, then dangled the noose to the proper level, just so. All set, I squatted behind a scrub oak downwind in wait, mind and flesh numb in watchful silence, while all around me the earth heaved as if breathing. And Mescalito whispered of the eternal movement and life in each and every thing, and I believed and still believe in those whisperings. When the mare appeared, trotting up the slope, my heart beat wild in anticipation. My breath caught; my muscles tensed. She slowed to a walk as the trail steepened, proceeding unperturbed, head thrust low, scenting only the water beyond. In the next instant she was snared. She reared in shock and surprise, neighed and pawed, fighting the force that held her and choked her wind. At the sight of me she made a sidelong feint, pitching backwards, landing hard—luckily, I thought, knocking the wind out of her, making her more easily subdued, giving me time to loosen the noose and fashion a jáquima, a hackamore. But she lay still, her head at a horrid angle; her neck broken in the fall. I regretted my haste and wished I had not rushed forth. But as they say, wishes are for beggars and beggars never ride. Nor would regret carry me far. And it began to snow, large wet flakes mixed with stinging sleet made sharper by the gusting wind. I knew of snow, had seen its ghostly splendor cover the sierras, always from a distance. Now it fell slantwise with the wind, hitting my flesh. A curious wonder, and a threat. Even then I could only count my blessings. What could I have done with a wild mustang, facing a freezing night, still starving, with no weapon or I, Joaquin 47 shelter and nothing to make a fire—all cached miles away? I knew what I must do. I looked to the mustang like El Bravo, looked to its meat and hide. I gripped my knife and cut its throat, draining off the blood, for the head lay lower than the body. Then I slit open its belly and gutted it. Taking the liver in both hands, I held it to my face like a blood pudding, sank my teeth and chunked it down. My eyes flowed with tears of gratitude. Heartened, fed, hands warmed by blood and entrails, I worked with alacrity and skill, finished skinning by nightfall, then cut the bulk of the meat from the hindquarters and loaded all in the hide, as much as I could carry. The meat promised life. I lashed the bundle with my reata and heaved it to my shoulders. Bent by my burden, balancing the load in either hand, I began my long journey south. A scything wind honed on ice swept from the north, bent low the trees and cut through my ragged clothes to flay my flesh and bones. My lips cracked and bled, my toes numbed, and my young cock shriveled to a brittle twig that I dared not touch or dream of kindling or it would fall away and never sprout again. Luckily, I did not face the wind—it drove me on as the snow deepened past my ankles, at times drifting to my knees. My sandals offered scant cover, and the deer hide wrappings I’d made to boot my feet lay stowed in my morral. At least my feet were partly warmed by moving. But my hands, clutched to the bundle, rapidly numbed and iced to their task. Granted no choice, my flesh surrendered to the will of the wind and cold. On I trod one foot then the other, Mescalito urging me forth through the snow. And the ache in my back was as nothing to the hunger I’d known. Far in the night the ravenous howl of wolves carried to my ears. They’d found the carcass and again I felt blessed, by then back at my cache, safely distanced. But not safe. That night was a taste of death, a long, cold purgatory. Half-frozen, hands too numb to build a fire, I could only cache myself. After using the bundled hide to barricade the opening, I wrapped my feet and curled beneath the blanket, knees to my chest, hands to my mouth to gather the warmth of my breath—in thawing, the pain shot like slivers through my palms. Later I tucked them to my groin as a young man will, but with no thought of pleasure, sought only release from the pain and a meager warmth to save my flesh, huddled as in prayer, shivering 48 MELVIN LITTON while the snow drifted over, adding warmth and silence against the hounding wind. And through that silence Mescalito whispered, “Sleep, sleep, sleep....” At last I slept, thinking it would be my final sleep. I dreamed a most vivid, frightful dream. I was battling a black stallion on a high precipice, my reata noosed his neck, the length taut, wrapped to my hands as he reared and fought, dragging me ever closer to the edge while all about me raged a fiery storm flaring from the horizon through the deep canyons, the sky a cloud of swirling smoke, the earth a burnt crust. In a sudden flash a rider appeared on the back of the stallion, cloaked in flames, without feature or form, only a distinct, malignant will wielding a long sharp sword. This thing I feared but could not flee for my hands were bound, lashed to the stallion. A slice of the sword sent my head spinning like a coin flipped through the air, though I was both in my head and on my feet running to catch my head, here and there, both at once. My vision tumbled, spiraling in vertigo while the dizziness went to my body stumbling forth, tripping as I fell, hands outstretched to catch my head falling into that deep chasm forever beyond reach. Down, down, vanishing, yet in witness of the fall. A dark, dark descent without end, head severed, forever adrift… How I wish I could dream that dream again and have it be only a dream. I awoke with a start and hit my head on the rock overhang. But much relieved. All in place, head and shoulders intact. Flesh whole. Peyote fever gone. Breaking through the snow, I was instantly blinded by the dazzling light. A brilliant sheen covered all the earth, everywhere I looked. I rose on my legs, slow and stiff as the dead, but joyous at my rebirth and the beauty and wonder of the world. And sí, I was grateful and spoke to my gratitude. To the spirit Mescalito had whispered of. By now my hands had movement enough to build a fire. I slung my morral and went in search of something that would burn. A short distance downslope stood a tall dead pine with bark peeling away like the flesh from a bone. I knelt with my knife and shaved kindling from its inner wall onto a strip of bark placed at the base for a fire-bed. Ready, I struck flint to eslabón and after several tries the shavings took. Flames soon reached to the upper limbs I, Joaquin 49 in a crackling inferno. In that fire was life and no sword reached down to take my head. Warmed through and through, I gave my best carcajada, leaned back and sang it to the sky. Then ran up and gathered the rest of my things—my musket and blanket, and the meat-filled hide. As the limbs and trunk collapsed and fell, it left a charred heap where the flames snaked and spit like a tribe of víboras swarming over the deep bed of coals. I soon had some meat staked to roast, juices dripping to the hissing brands as my mouth watered in eager wait. Wild in my craving, I ate some portions burnt and others half raw. Chewed and swallowed. Did not care. Cooked and ate and rested. Then cooked and ate some more. Later on I worked at curing the hide, using the ashes and coals, careful to stir the coals about with my machete so that they would not burn through the skin. For several days I remained camped, resting and curing the hide. At last sated, the hide cured—not so pliant as one would like, but tough and serviceable—I bundled my things and journeyed on. Snow soon left the sierras and a warm wind promised spring.

Traveling south and east through the Sierra de San Antonia, in a week’s time I arrived at a Yaqui village nestled along a feeder stream of the Rio Moctezuma. Though they are a shy people, they welcomed me for my mother was Yaqui and I spoke a bit of their language. With them I traded the hide for enough frijoles and corn- meal to see me through the spring, and another good reata which would come in handy. The frijoles were a blessing, a great comfort to sniff their familiar aroma as they fried in my little pan. It almost felt like I was home. As they say, a man who lacks frijoles lacks strength. From the Yaqui I also learned why I had seen so few cimarrones. They said a band of horsemen, caballeros, passed through not a year before, rounding up many stray and wild cattle. On the other hand they assured me that by another summer there would be plenty more ranging to the high sierras to escape the heat. But the best news was that the mustangs I sought had been sighted only two days west, heading down like they did each spring to graze the early grass greening along the Moctezuma. An old man, a viejo, used a stick to scratch the dirt, showing me by which route they 50 MELVIN LITTON traveled and just where it was best to head them off. Again, at a narrow pass that led to water, the Rio Moctezuma. I left before sundown, anxious to find them while my strength was up and theirs was still down, before the spring grasses fleshed them out and put fire in their haunches. The following afternoon I reached the pass and camped thereby, frying up frijoles and patting rounded cornmeal cakes for pan de pastor, bread of the shepherd. Soon to be bread of a vaquero. A caballero. Sí, a mounted charro. That dawn I swallowed only two peyote buttons, one for stamina and one for simpatía, keen sense and judgment, so as not to act in haste. Chaparral grew in dark clusters among the rocks along the trail. There I crouched with my reata in wait and let my senses roam. Sheer cliffs rose a thousand feet either side of the pass, the crags and fissures deeply etched in the sunlight while the granite face glazed from purple to blue and silver like a knife blade heated and dipped in oil. At the upper reaches the morning mists rose and vanished like a thin veil before the blue sky. An unblemished blue fringed by towering pines and rugged peaks. Above the cliffs an eagle soared, carried on a warm updraft, circling higher and higher. When the sun reached mid-sky the herd came into view, scattered here and there, moving slowly in the lowland heat, emerging as if from a mirage, a shimmering sea, dust billowing about their hooves. The same herd I’d tracked in autumn. As always, the older mares led the way, followed by yearlings and others. They passed at a languid pace. A few raised their heads and nickered low in scenting water, though none trotted forth, all gaunt from the winter and the long trail. I had the wind of them and watched, biding my time, the loop of my reata held loose in my right hand, awaiting the last, the alazán. He trailed several lengths back, not so alert as usual, marked by a midday lassitude, attentive solely to herd and direction. As he passed I crept out and followed directly back of his rump, for a horse cannot see behind without turning its head. Not until I ran up whirling my reata did he turn, and at that instant I sent the loop singing and snapped it taut just back of his ears where he would more easily choke down. But there was nothing easy in what followed. He lunged away and jerked me off my feet; I landed face down, nearly losing my I, Joaquin 51 breath and grip in the jolt. I shot back to my feet, my hands torn and bleeding where the reata had burned. I double-wrapped, determined not to lose him. As he reared I whipped hard with my arms and shoulders, hoping to throw him like I’d seen Ramón do, but I lacked Ramón’s size and strength. Again the alazán lunged away and again I lost my feet. This time he ran dragging me through the rocks and cactus and I could not let go, like in my dream, and were it not for my thick serape I would have lost more than the skin on my elbows and knees that day. Aieee! And there would have been many women not so happy as I left them. Though he ran furious he did not run far. My weight worked to choke him down. He soon slowed and pawed the earth, fighting for breath. I crawled to a chaparral and lashed the reata to its base, for they are a deep-rooted shrub and make a good anchor. Again on my feet, I slowly followed the reata hand over hand, keeping the line taut. His tongue hung in a froth, his eyes bulged and rolled from lack of air. At about ten paces I gave the line a snap and this time threw him hard, busting him good. I approached over his back as I’d been taught—for as Ramón had warned, “Them hooves can rip out a man’s guts and kick his cajones to the wind.” Funny at the time but not so funny when you face it. I pressed a bloody knee to his withers and leaned up and loosened the noose, giving slack, just enough to let him breathe. Then I quickly retrieved my other reata already fashioned into a jáquima, and before his frightened breath returned I had the jáquima secured over his nose and ears and knotted under his throat, the remaining length left to drag. Each time he stepped on the rope it would jerk his head and he would learn not to fight the tug of a rope—or a rein. But this gentle lesson awaited another day. He was soon back on his feet in a fury of dust, rearing and fighting the noose. Three times more that day he choked down till he lay slavering in the dirt. Each time I approached slow and calm, speaking evenly of his fight and courage, letting him know that it was my hand that gave him air. By now addressing him by name, “Alazán,” for his sorrel color and his deep red courage. All that night he lay bound by the reata to the chaparral. So disheartened, fatigued, in want of water, he would not stand. I camped close by, keeping watch, making certain he did not choke 52 MELVIN LITTON

or get tangled in the line and crippled. He hardly stirred, merely stared into the fire while the shadows cast by the flames leapt and reared on the shank of the cliff. By and by several mares gathered and stood in a semicircle at the far edge of the firelight, their eyes flashing red as they gazed on the fallen stallion. They nickered in question and waited. As he did not answer they quietly turned away and moved on. If I’d had another reata I might have caught one. If I were not so tired and sore and my hands so wounded. If, if...a word that could fill the ocean and number the stars. I was glad enough to have a full belly of frijoles. Lulled by the wind I lay back and slept. Morning saw him standing. By now wise to the reata, careful to give slack, learning to respect its harsh hold and grip. He made dry, raspy coughs from the effects of choking and thirst. I went to the river and fetched him a pan of water, moving with care for my wounds were scabbed and painful. I set the water within reach and flicked some with my fingers so he could scent it in the air. “Come Alazán,” I called softly, moving away, “come, come and drink.” In a short while he walked over and sniffed, still wary, then lowered his lips and slurped it dry. Twice more that morning I fetched him water. Each time he grew more curious and less fearful. The next water I carried for myself, placed it on a stone by the fire to heat a maguey leaf. Once heated I split the leaf with my knife and pressed it to my knees as a poultice; next I held it to each elbow, then clasped it prayer-like between my hands, letting its healing warmth flow to my wounds. And always speaking to Alazán, speaking of my wounds and his. “We had us some fight, no? What? Think you were a bit rough on me? Perhaps, but not so bad, about tit for tat, esto por eso.” He’d prick his ears and listen. “Sí, you gave me a nasty ride through the dirt, cut my hands and knees, but I got your neck, blistered it good. How’s that? You hold no grudge? Bueno, me neither. Soon we will be good amigos and catch many mustangs. Then I’ll buy you a fine saddle.” A good listener, he’d consider my words and nod as I told him all I planned. For two days more I fetched him water, talking as I tended my I, Joaquin 53

wounds. He’d raise his head and nicker to me. On the third day he let me approach, took cornmeal from my hand. I stroked his neck, loosened the noose, and gently pressed a maguey leaf to the raw flesh back of his ears. But the noose remained—and he grew intent watching me untie the reata then slowly coil it till I reached to have him lead. That’s when he thought to bite me. I cuffed his nose and jerked the noose. “That’s not so friendly...no como amigos,” I said. And sí, he soon agreed. While I had his attention, I pulled up his lip and checked his teeth. By the wear of his uppers and a hook tooth just coming in, I judged him no more than a five year old. He stood fifteen hands, of good line and bone, proud but tractable. At a slight tug he stepped right out. I led him down to the river and let him drink. Finished, he raised his head and gazed about, perhaps in puzzlement at not finding his herd. I let him look till the question left his eye. From there I led him to a grassy bottom and let him graze. But only for a short while; I would keep him weak till I rode him, then flesh him out. We held to this pattern for a week or so. Each dawn and dusk I led him to the river, let him graze briefly, then led him back to camp. As he came to know my hands, my voice, my manner, I trimmed his mane and tail to weave a hair-rope, cabestro, to stake him by, for el coyote will chew through a reata. Of course he’d try me from time to time. A kick, a nip. Answered by a quick jerk of the noose, a sharp jab to the nose. He’d toss his head in a vigorous nod as if to say, “Sí, señor Joaquín...you are boss. I had forgotten. How foolish of me.” He had a broad intelligent forehead and remembered well enough. But he also had great pride, and that pride I let him keep. Each day I added something new to his back. First the blanket, to feel its presence, then my serape, and on the third day my morral loaded with rocks for weight. Initially curious, he soon grew accustomed to each and continued our routine unperturbed. The fourth day I lashed my musket crosswise of his withers by drawing the dragrope snug about his chest in the manner of a cinch, then dangled my machete and morral on either side and banged my pan against the barrel. At this rude clank he gave a start, but feeling the noose tighten he decided it was not so bad after all, this clanking. 54 MELVIN LITTON

And so we continued through midday, my leading him about, occasionally banging the pan till he paid it no mind. Finally, I added myself. Hopped up and bellied over his back. After a brief sidling trot he turned his head and rolled his eye at me. I lay still, softly coaxing him, stroking his lower shoulder and loin. He kept his eye on me, never looked away, but never bucked or reared. I gave him time to think it over, eased to the ground, then grasped his mane and hopped back up. Only this time I swung about and straddled him like a rider. Gently pressed my heels. Again he turned his head and looked at me, no doubt wondering at my game, wondering what was next. But as I did nothing he soon lowered his head and took a step or two as if testing for himself the weight and feel of me. That evening I fashioned reins and a rawhide bit to add to the jáquima. On the fifth day I rode. On Alazán. And he answered to the bit as directed through the reins; if he did not answer or was slow or hesitant, I jerked the reins and his head rose high and he promptly answered. If you wonder why a horse answers to a bit, press a finger directly under your nose at the point between your nostrils, press hard and feel your head rise with the pain—a sharp pain that everyone answers to. So it is with a horse and a bit. Its mouth is tender to the pain. When its head raises it stops and cannot move till its head lowers, for the movement of its head governs its forelegs, and the rider through the reins governs the movement of its head. But I did not jerk him often, for it is not good to jerk a horse’s head. Mine was a gentle hand, more gentle than most. Also more ruthless and unrelenting. Riding Alazán was my first real triumph. Surviving the winter was an act of necessity, a mere given, a man either lives or dies. In riding Alazán I was transformed. And growing fast, another year would see a man’s frame. Chapter Four

hrough a whirlwind of dust and sun we rode, his mane lashing Tmy eyes as we rushed in pursuit of the mustang mare. Our shadows cast from the high bank to the foreground in a sudden shift of terrain, lunging down an arroyo with weightless thrust then up again. I whipped my reata, yipped and cried as Alazán drove the mare in ever-tighter circles until she tired and I looped her neck. All the while I flexed my body, legs, and heels, tapping a surge and rhythm that transports and transcends. A rider is at once of the earth and free of the earth, placed on a higher plane, made more far-seeing, swift, and deadly. And more aware of death. Many times I had to grip the mane to check my balance as Alazán cut and turned. Other times I fell, landing on my back and lay dazed, fighting for breath. As rider, los viejos say, always looks into an open grave and therefore mounts en el nombre de Dios. I too observed the ritual, though later I would mount in my name only. I, Joaquín. For it was through “my” will that I rode and lived! But that waits. Still a boy, speaking through that part of me that knew the worth and wonder of each being, the sky’s full measure of stars, before my heart grew hard and tainted by grief and bloodletting. Still innocent, but I knew this, a mustang is never tame. Alazán often required a quick jerk of the rein to remind him who rode and by whose hand he watered and grazed. For he also wished to abide by his own will. And his greatest will was to reclaim his herd. He trailed them with a passion and one by one made them his, and mine. But not all and not so fast. By summer I had three mares broke to lead. To market them 56 MELVIN LITTON

I had to travel west across a great chasm in the sierras—the route pointed out to me by a muleteer then driving a train of mules east to Chihuahua City. The chasm formed, it seemed, in the great upheaval at the mountains’ birth, the first fire and violent kneading that raised the Sierra Madres to their fierce eminence and in that long baking the earth cracked open leaving giant canyons that plummeted to the very bowels of creation. No, not a bottomless pit like in my dream where my head tumbled in endless descent, though I recalled my terror at every step along those sheer heights, following a hanging-wall trail no wider in places than a man or mule could traverse, wondering how many hundreds of hooves and sandaled feet had edged that thousand-foot precipice, how many fallen to that depth, what final thoughts rang out in their plunge? Horses are not surefooted as mules and I was grateful that neither Alazán nor the mares chose to balk along the way. They tracked in admirable fashion, like wary veterans. Even so I swore that next time I would find another route to market. Free of the chasm I followed a high plateau that gradually descended in a series of hogbacks to the Rio Matape valley. I had only sighted the church bells of San Marcial glistening in the sunlight ten miles distant when three horsemen rode out blocking the trail. Their aspect not at all friendly. Apparent even to my young eyes they were bandits. I kept my pace and proceeded to meet them. They waited, los ladrones, confidant in number and manner. The lead rider sat his saddle like a vulture, his shoulders hunched up about his ugly head, his face pocked like he’d been pecked a hundred times in frenzy to feed. His dark clothing fit him like long black feathers caked by trail dust. His sombrero, pulled low, shaded the beak of his nose and hooded his eyes, but not their hungry gleam. His left hand gripped the silver pommel of his saddle over which his right hand lay relaxed, dangling a pistol. His two amigos stayed back of him to either side and peered around in their cowardly way, grinning, anxious for easy pickings. Looking to have some fun with me. On my lap lay my musket, crosswise of the withers. “Hey! Muchacho!” he barked, showing his teeth. “Where you from?” “From the Sonora,” I answered, my expression blank. I, Joaquin 57

“The Sonora is a very big place,” he said. “And you are not so big.” He licked his lips, studying me. “Those fine horses. Where you git them? Huh?” “In the mountains.” Again I answered simply. “Ah! The mountains are a big place also. Full of Apache!” Then looking to his partners, he laughed, “But not so many as before. Hey! Amigos!” A half dozen scalps hung from his belt. “You, muchacho, your hair is long….” His words hung like smoke in the still air. A threat, though spoken softly. Bounty on scalps was a hundred pesos for warriors and fifty for squaws and children. Lacking a sombrero, I’d let my hair grow long in protection from the sun. I knew his meaning but gave no answer. He narrowed his eyes like a sleepy lizard and tilted his head, attempting to pierce my calm. I betrayed no fear. He raised the brim of his sombrero with his pistol and said, “I think you will give us your horses, muchacho.” “Sí, señor,” I answered, finding my panther courage, “I will give you this—” I raised my barrel and fired not three feet from his chest. In a blast of smoke and dust the bullet ripped a red gash through his heart, his lips formed a big “O” in surprise, and his eyes went blank as when a candle is snuffed and there is only darkness. He plumped to the ground like a grain sack torn at the seam, oozing blood— face to the dirt, lips curled, nose pinched like something stunk. Before the day was out it surely did. At that range the bullet had blown out half his back, splattering his amigos with his black heart, sending them into flight—those who’d thought to play me riding hard, followed by a panicked horse and a new ghost screaming to the wind. I steadied Alazán and glanced down. The pistol lay in the outstretched hand as if offered to me. But there is an old law of fortune and fate that says never accept a gift from an enemy, alive or dead, neither weapon nor horse, for it will only bring bad luck. This law I obeyed, always; so I left him his pistol and kept my horses. Only kept what I had freely won, and later what I freely stole. Nudging my heels to Alazán, I rode on. Part of me knew I was not so innocent as when the day began. But I had no regret in killing this man. No shame. Nor did I feel any sense of triumph. It was like 58 MELVIN LITTON surviving the winter. An act of necessity. And I acted first. As I have said, mine was a kinder hand than many, also more ruthless.

In trading no less so. I knew my worth and knew my needs. I asked for no more and would accept no less. But the horse trader thought he had a fool kid, a green twig he could bend any way he liked. He offered an old saddle. I would not bend. He said he would give no more for my sorry nags. “Besides,” he trumped, “there is no place else to trade.” “There is always a place,” I answered. Riding on, an honest hombre who’d overheard our exchange delayed me. He said I should take the road heading west, at the first rancho beyond the river ask for Don Pablo Gustazo, a fair man. I said gracias, and rode west. Don Pablo was indeed a fair man. About fifty years of age, amiable and stout. Stood no taller than me at that time. He had a whole covey of daughters. Mi manada, my herd, he called them. Unfortunately, they were all nearly as stout as he. No, not at all quail-like, but full of girlish nature. They stood giggling, watching from the portico as he gave my mustangs a once over. “They’re a hardy breed,” he said, weighing their virtue and worth. “My herd can use new blood. Sí, they make good working mounts.” Then he turned his keen eyes to me and asked, “What of you, joven, would you stay and ride herd? The wage is not much but mamacita and the girls will see you eat well. What would you say to that?” “I say gracias but no. My work is in the mountains, capturing mustangs.” “As you wish, but keep it in mind. Always wise to keep an egg in the nest.” “Sí, I will do that.” “Very well then,” he said, clasping my hand firmly, “for these three I will see you well equipped and well provisioned.” Good to his word we rode back into San Marcial that very day and he saw to my needs. He bought a used saddle for Alazán, nothing fancy, but fit him well on his fine new horse blanket. And with reins and bridle to match he looked to me like a steed caparisoned for a king. My tattered rags were soon replaced by a good cotton I, Joaquin 59

shirt, vaquero pantaloons and jaqueta, and a pair of chaparreras— leather leggings worn in protection against thorns, cactus needles, chaparral, and the cold bite of winter—all chosen for a loose fit. “Best to get the good of them as you grow into them,” Don Pablo advised. “I can judge boy-flesh as well as horse-flesh, and I bet a stone to a feather you have a good six inches to go.” Likewise with my boots, we chose a larger size and stuffed an extra pair of socks into each toe to make them fit. While I could walk tolerably well, and they fit perfectly in my stirrup and tapadero, for walking I still preferred my sandals. Sí, and I was happy to have my hair cut so as not to be mistaken for an Apache. With a little paper stuffed in the lining, my sombrero fit well enough—of tough brown felt, no silver buckle, only a braided- leather banding, but plenty of embroidery as on all sombreros. Don Pablo fit it to the back of my head. “Always wear it like this,” he said, “a media cabeza, for it tells all the world that you walk with pride and a clear conscience.” Then looking deep in my eyes, he nodded, “Sí, an expression and spiritedness, joven, that you already show.” Of course his fatherly concern and calling me joven for “young man” went beyond mere business. During those few days I was there Don Pablo treated me like the son he never had, and I was grateful, in spite of my experiences, still young and in need of guidance. Lastly we traded my musket for a good carbine with a rifled barrel, of far greater range, accuracy, and rate of fire. Both shorter and lighter, it felt good in my hands, firm and potent, like the bandoleer of bullets strapped to my chest. Much to my surprise he added a brace of pistols, an older make, single shot, cap and ball— not the new deadly revolvers of which I could only dream, for they were much too pricey, costing a good horse or two each. Still I was pleased. As Don Pablo said, they would prove handy should I meet with Indios or ladrones, give me three quick shots, and three shots were often enough to discourage an attack. I simply nodded and said nothing of my recent encounter. Glad of the pistols, testing their heft and balance, knew I would not always be so lucky to meet with cowards who flee at the first shot. That night I took supper with Don Pablo and his family—fawned 60 MELVIN LITTON over and served by his plump wife and seven daughters. I ate my fill of olla podrida, roast chicken, cakes and melons, and took a glass of aguardiente to deepen my sleep. And slept content on a bed with pillow and sheets. Next morning before leaving I ate a breakfast of huevos, frijoles, chili colorado, and wheat tortillas all washed down with several cups of chocolate mixed with hot milk. Even now, long dead and disembodied, just thinking the words, I can almost taste the fond flavors, the sweetness, the heat, the spice and texture, long for that rich nourishment and filling warmth as I long for life and a body and the admiring eyes of young girls no matter how stoutly fleshed. In mounting to leave I was further fed by the smiles and waves of his seven daughters. Don Pablo reached up and shook my hand. “Do not forget us, joven, and remember you are always welcome.” “Sí, Don Pablo,” I answered, “I will not forget. And I will return.” Then spurring Alazán, for I now had spurs, I reined northeast for the mountains, saddlebags filled with provisions, a sack of grain and four reatas tied to my pommel, carbine slung over my back and one pistol tucked in my belt, the other holstered front of my saddle above my machete. All that remained of my old apparel were my serape, good for the mountain cold, kept wrapped in my bedroll, and Rosita’s blue rebozo tied to my neck. I thought of her then, let her memory feed my longing, then cast her vision aside before the ache in my heart grew too great.

As planned I gradually ranged east, hunting mustangs, hoping to have a string to sell in Chihuahua City by late summer, and from there return to the Sierra Madre, to the far western slope by September when the Comanche rode down from the north in a storm of dust and drumming hooves, painted and feathered like rude angels of death risen from the deserts of El Llano Estacado, naked except for their draped hides and weapons, their bows and arrows, bull-hide shields and lances, preying on one and all, par- ticularly those with horses. So there was always need and a good market for horses in Chihuahua. And for some, as I would learn, an even better market for scalps. Luckily there were few ladrones in the wilds where I rode, and while they were often brutal and merciless they were a mere I, Joaquin 61 shadow to the Apache and Comanche. The Indios slaughtered men and women, took children captive, made squaws of the females and turned the boys into warriors, stripped the land of horses, left villages and haciendas burned till people feared to leave the walled protection of towns and cities. To check these bloody forays, the northern states of Sonora, Coahuila, Chihuahua, and Durango all passed what became known as the Ley Quinto, the Fifth Law, placing a bounty on the savages. Money paid for scalps. As El Bravo often said, “The padres want prayer and peonage. Sí, they profess to love the Indio, those they convert. But if any stand by their own belief, sooner or later the padres will want their scalp. And will pay the Devil to have it!” Among those who answered the call were two Gringos, Kirker and Glanton, their names as infamous for butchery as that of the Comanche war chief, Bajo del Sol, who feared nothing under the sun as he made all fear him, his name, the murmur of his coming, his shadow upon the wind. But I too was fearless, the son of a panther. Through all that summer, from the rugged fastness and hidden valleys of the grand sierras onto the lower plateaus and barren plains of central Chihuahua, I rode in hunt of mustangs. Various herds scattered here and there roamed at will like bands of soldiers cut off and abandoned in the wake of a great assault. And there was that as well, a war being waged against the powerful Gringos to the north. But I saw none or it, heard only vague rumor and rumblings. Kept my eyes peeled for mustangs and Apache. One afternoon while leaving a mountain pool after filling my canteen and letting Alazán drink, I had just entered a stand of cedar when four Apache warriors emerged from the timber across the way. With sharp quirt and war cry they gave chase. Good that I had just watered and they hadn’t. Good that Alazán was fleet, for one yelled to me in fair Spanish that they would make a tasty snack of my cajones. “Roast them over the fire and let the vultures make a puta of you!” he jeered. I did not care for such talk. I spurred hard and heard little more, soon out of earshot, but not out of rifle shot. Good that my carbine had the range and bite of lightning. Upon gaining the high ground I quickly dismounted and took aim, let them taste that range and 62 MELVIN LITTON bite. The lead warrior pitched from his saddle and rolled in the dust as the report echoed away. The others reined in and circled, looking to my vantage. He clutched the red mush of his arm and struggled to his feet. “How do you like the taste of my cajones?” I shouted down. My turn to taunt. He looked up and answered gamely, “I don’t much like your cajones, hombre, you keep them.” They all laughed, me too, at the deadly game we played. Seeing that I was not a rabbit so easily run to ground but a hawk with long reach and sharp talon, they helped their wounded brother mount up and rode back the way they came. And seeing that they had a greater taste for water than for blood, I held my fire. Did not wish to start a blood vendetta and have every Apache in the sierras after me. Scalps did not tempt me, only mustangs. To that end I placed all my courage, my cunning and skill. I’d capture one, break it to lead, then track another. By mid-August I had a string of eight, all green broke and ready to market. The day I entered Chihuahua City a brass band led a parade of prominent citizens: merchants, bankers, the governor, the bishop and many priests, and mounted soldiers carrying banners and flags. Along route men and women stood dressed in colorful array, tossing flowers and cheering as the grand festival wound past the alameda and on through the plaza. There were even greater huzzahs shouted from beyond. I rode closer to get a look, curious of the cause for such fanfare and celebration. What I saw stopped me cold, gripped my heart. At the entrance of the great Cathedral of Chihuahua, the pride and glory of the city, on the very facade where stood the twelve apostles in solemn, stone-eyed witness, pendant from the portals hung a hundred and sixty Apache scalps. An entire tribe, men, women, and children, taken at one treacherous blow. Invited “en pas” to market day in Galeana. And arriving “in peace,” in trust, without weapons, they were set upon by the townsfolk and the Gringo scalphunters led by the one named Kirker. No one was spared or given quarter—a woman sought sanctuary in the church only to have her baby sliced from her womb then christened with holy water before its brains were dashed out on the stone altar. All this I later learned, for some were I, Joaquin 63 not so proud and pleased by the spectacle. And the murderers were there, Kirker and his men, heroes of the hour, honored in the very midst of the plaza, front of the Cathedral, sullen and silent in stark contrast to the festive swirl surrounding them, marked by their acts. Grim, rugged horsemen, mostly Gringos, some black-skinned, and all bearded and black-hearted, weighted with weapons and their Judas bounty of silver and gold. Staged before their trophies and cheered for a day. But they would soon be hunted and feared, for they turned their bloody hands to killing Mexicans for the bounty. No, never cheer their kind, and never call the hound to guard the hen. The wind played through the strands of butchered hair, softly blending length to length as if the breath snuffed that day still haunted the scalps, their souls restless and unatoned. Evidence of a cruel and total conversion gracing the walls of the sacred church. El Bravo’s lusty laugh echoed in wry note, while the blood of my father the priest stood appalled at the affront to his life, his death, his belief. And that of my father the panther grew wary, anxious to flee, for murder so wanton and wholesale could one day claim us all. And Mescalito said nothing for therein the spirit ceased to move. By such acts men become desalmada, unsouled. Though I am muerte, long dead, I am not unsouled. But no...there is a spirit that moves even there. A spirit we all know and carry. A spirit that prefers darkness, cruelty, and death. When it gains the upper hand we are no longer men. We are a plague. I have known that hand, the surge of darkness and death-dealing—have held and been held by its grip. But no...not then, not yet. Answering to the blood of my fathers, I too turned away and rode from the scene. Soon found a horse trader and sold my mustangs for a hundred pesos each, the same as a warrior’s scalp. For three hundred pesos and my old pistols in trade I bought two new revolvers, blued and polished, six shots each, worn holstered on either hip. They and my carbine would make me as well armed as any. I liked my hair where it was, and after purchasing a mule and supplies I still had three hundred pesos, a fortune to carry. The mule was a tall gray named Plata for his silver coat, and broke to ride, but I fit him with anaparejo , a packing saddle, to lighten Alazán and make us that much faster. 64 MELVIN LITTON

I rode out at sundown anxious to distance myself from Chihuahua City, thereafter branded in my mind as the City of Scalps. I could hear the liquid rip of hair being pulled from a living skull, that sinewy kiss of flesh forever parting. For I had skinned many animals and knew the sound. And I wonder still, was that the last sound I heard in life, the liquid kiss of my head being ripped from my shoulders?

Traveling mostly at night to escape the blazing heat and the riled Apache, in two weeks’ time, by la luna de los Comanche, I was well distanced in the high sanctum of the Sierra Madres, listening for the “blood bellow” of wild cimarrones. Tall, rangy beasts with horn spans as wide as a man could reach. And they were savvy to man, wily, not the least ready to leave their cool mountain homes. Swift runners, amazingly hard to catch. To draw them out it was best to kill one, then use its bloody hide to bait the rest. This I did—tied the hide to my reata and rode dragging it through the brush and chaparral. When another caught the scent it would let out a “blood bellow” and show itself. Good that I wore chaparreras in chasing them for the devils dove through the worst of the thickets: the claw-like limbs of the uña de gato that grew thick in the ravines and barrancas etching those valleys. But pressing hard, I rode them down and winded them, let them feel the lash of my reata and Alazán’s bite, at which they quickly recalled their domestic nature and began to graze and herd like well-tended cattle. They seemed not to mind my presence as I neither drove them far nor long, kept them moving at a leisurely pace in a southwesterly direction and planned to market them in Hermosillo by winter. I soon had a dozen head and any more would prove too hard to handle, especially at river crossings and such. Already they filled the rope corral as I closed them in each night to guard against panthers and wolves. Not to mention the thought of how to get them past the ladrones who were sure to be watching the lower passes leading out of the mountains. My only choice would be to guard by day, herd by night, and hope to sneak them through. But this was hardly the question in my mind that morning in mid- autumn as I spurred Alazán toward the rise, my carbine held ready. I, Joaquin 65

I’d heard a bellow far more blood-chilling than a cimarrone’s—the angry bellow of a charging bear answered by the shrill neigh of a panicked horse. The drama suddenly played not thirty paces from where I drew rein. Two vaqueros not much older than I and twice as foolish had roped a bear, a large male grizzly. A dangerous sport and best played by more than two. In the ensuing melee the bear broke the reata of one and was now charging the tug of the other. In one rapid movement he rushed forth, rose to his hind legs and lunged at the horse and rider in a furious thrust of fang and claw that flayed his victim at a blow, toppling the horse as he grabbed the man in his hot grasp like a rag on which to wipe his paws. The other horse shied and fought the reins while the rider held firm and fired a pistol point-blank, which only worked to anger the bear more as he flung the one aside and spun to attack the other. But my bullet struck the base of his skull and the great beast froze, slowly folded and lay like a heap of earth. A breathless moment, not a sound through all the mountains. The other glanced to me in numb surprise like I was a figment or mirage barely noticed. He slid from his saddle and knelt, cradling his compañero whose chest lay open from his belly to his throat. In the rude cavity his ribs shone like a white claw against the gray mix of his bowels. He raised his head in fight for breath; at each gasp a froth of blood spilled from his throat. His eyes blinked once... twice...then blinked no more. Meanwhile the horse stood trembling pitifully, its guts distended like a dragrope, a back hoof planted squarely on the coiled length. I walked over and raised my pistol to its eye and fired, ending its misery. The vaquero, startled from his grief by my shot and reacting solely to the moment and the shock of what he’d seen, drew his pistol and cocked it at me. “Do not...move,” he warned, his voice unsteady as his hand. “I-I will shoot.” I slipped my pistol back in its holster and held my hands open at my side. “If I had wished you harm, amigo,” I explained, “I would have let the bear take you, no? Now you can shoot me and have me dead like your compañero, or you can take my offer of friendship and have a new compañero.” I waited a moment then told him my 66 MELVIN LITTON name. “Joaquín, sí...and I mean you no harm,” I assured. “I’m after cimarrones.” At this he too lowered his pistol, eased the other to the ground, then slowly stood. “I am Luis...Vulvia,” he said, attempting a smile as he reached to shake my hand. “And gracias, Joaquín. I owe you my life. He, mi compañero—” he paused, blinking back his tears. “He was...his name was Jesús Monté. He loved the mountains.” “Well then,” I said, “Jesús will have a good burial. Right here in the mountains. He was a brave hombre and died well, did not cry out or whimper.” Of course he could not cry out or utter a sound with his throat torn away, but I knew enough to leave the dead their pride and give the living a sacred memory. So with our machetes we dug a shallow grave and covered him over. Piled on a heap of stones to secure his peace, then rode on. Said nothing. Neither of us were priests. It was enough to declare him a brave hombre and remember his courage. I learned that day I had a gift for gauging men—knew what to say, how to gain their trust, how to turn them from their stumbling path and lead them. Luis proved a good compañero. He and Jesús had also come to the mountains hunting cimarrones. They’d gathered a herd of nearly twenty, and teamed up we governed thirty head fairly well. Luis stood slightly taller than me and was two years older, already had a handsome black mustache gracing his upper lip. And though foolish once in roping a bear, as even the wise were once foolish, he would not be so foolish again. He had good horse sense and worked cattle like a true vaquero. Showed me many tricks—how to rope their legs and toss them by the tail, then tie them down for branding. The same trick used in gelding horses. Plus he held another gun against the threat of ladrones. My concern lessened, for one could always watch while the other slept. He owed me his life and I trusted him with mine. He had not run from the bear but stood his ground to save his friend. I asked him one evening if he had ever shot a man. “No,” he answered carefully, “but I fired on some...in the night. To scare them off. Ladrones who came up like wolves to sniff the cattle.” “Ah, but what if they lay in wait like rattlers?” I said in jest. “What then?” “Then I’ll shoot them where they lay,” he laughed. “Have faith, I, Joaquin 67 if any come to take what’s mine, I’ll shoot them like I did the bear. A dos manos!” Sí, he who faced a bear could readily face a man. A good compañero. While Luis stood watch I slept well. By late autumn each night brought the nip of winter and each dawn found a glaze of ice along the streams. Our breath frosted like the brittle grass and a chill wind whipped the fire as we gulped our coffee, broke camp, and hurried on. We started moving down from the sierras with the first snowfall, a brief, white flurry that freshened the air and glistened on the pine and cedar like silver tinsel falling before the breaking sun. Early winter and early manhood. I had grown. My clothes now fit me. And the toes of my boots had room only for my toes—both pairs of socks worn to warm my feet booted in the stirrups. I too sported a mustache, not so fine as Luis’, but feathering in like a black down, like nature paints on some women in its confusion and to theirs. And to my confusion I felt a burning urge for a woman, unlike my tender feelings for Rosita, this a hunger, a craving, my cajones swollen in ache like new fruit bursting with life and longing. The ache drove against my saddle, pounding with Alazán’s gallop and gait. At night by the campfire the questions gnawed at me. “Have you...ever had a woman?” I asked Luis, hesitant, less bold than usual. “Sí,” he nodded. “But a whore. She was...not so good. And maybe not so bad. Next time I’ll pay double and take my pick. And you... you ride a filly?” “No, not yet,” I answered. “But I dream, like I once dreamed of riding.” “Dreams...sí, dreams are sometimes good.” “And when I did ride, it was even better than I dreamed.” “Next time will be better...a pretty one,” he said, speaking to his own urge. Then we’d sit and gaze to the flames, tempted by their dance and heat. Each day I caught myself wondering of Don Pablo’s daughters, of their flashing eyes and blossomy lips, finding their plumpness more and more to my liking. And each night shivering in my blanket on the cold ground by the fire, I thought of the bed and the pillow, the softness and warmth, all the tasty hot food and the chocolate 68 MELVIN LITTON and aguardiente. And I thought of Don Pablo, of his kindness and generosity, thought I should pay him a visit and maybe work for him on his rancho through the winter. For I had wintered in the sierras and nearly starved and did not wish to again. Surely Don Pablo needed me, such was the reason I gave myself, while the siren call of women whispered in my ear, turning me from Mescalito and the fierce freedom I had known. When Luis and I escaped the mountains and threat of ladrones and delivered our thirty head in Hermosillo, we split the profits and parted—he no doubt to a bordello then on to his father’s rancho near Mazatán, and I south to San Marcial. Like true compañeros we said our fond farewells and pledged to meet again, as indeed we did in a few years’ time far north in California where the rumor of gold called many. Though neither of us knew the future nor dared guess the many twists in the trail to come, simply reined to the present and rode like all youths, hot to taste the chocolate.

Don Pablo and his family welcomed me with open arms. I arrived in time for La Navidad. To help celebrate the birth of El Niño Dios. Like a gallant charro I bore gifts. New rebozos for the señora and her daughters—and a box of cigarros and a bottle of aguardiente for Don Pablo. A happy occasion, full of feasting and singing. Joy and innocence. And I the wolf in their midst. As Don Pablo had pre- dicted, I was now much taller than he. “I swear you’ve grown the length of your boots!” he declared. “And handsome,” his wife teased. “If his mustacho ever grows as long as his eyelashes, he’ll turn the señoritas’ heads till they fall from their shoulders and swoon at his feet.” What joking, what laughter as she rolled her eyes in mock faint. Poor woman, the señora. Had she only known. How often a prophecy made in jest comes back to haunt the jester. I behaved myself that winter, acted with honor. The two middle girls, Corina and Felisa, often accompanied me to the stables to groom and grain the horses, sharing the chores. Sí, I acted the good son and brother, but I was neither. One in particular, Corina fetched my eye, and I hers. She blushed at first and I glanced away, both still green and hesitant. Day by day, week by week, our eyes grew bolder, in fever and want, studying one another, waiting our I, Joaquin 69 chance. Sweet Corina, aged fourteen, a bit younger than me, and no longer plump. Now quite shapely and buxom. No doubt she would one day fatten like her mother and older sisters. But my care, my want was wholly present, like her flesh, her smile, her black eyes asking me to come, to follow; the rise and fall of her breasts and her budding nipples asking me to cover them, to press and knead their flow; her swinging hips like a sassy filly in heat promising to reveal the lush swell of her ass for me to mount and plumb. She was a flower in bloom wafting with nectar and my nostrils flared in scent. The first flirtation was hers. An old hen stubborn of its place roasted in the far corner stall. Corina would smile as she passed in gathering the eggs. One day she held up a fresh pair in her open hand and said, “Dos huevos, hmmm?” Sí, in a tempting way, leaving me to wonder. Then one day she rushed from the stall and leaned to me. “There was a snake,” she said, her breath sweet with fright. “A black snake.” Often snakes in a barn, praised for killing rats, cursed for filching eggs. From then on she had me check for her and each time asked if there was no snake. A week passed as I played her game, slipping eggs from under the hens and placing them in her warm hand, so soft and acceptant, her blouse like white feathers against her skin. Till one evening she happened by late in gathering the eggs and asked if I’d found a snake. “Sí…,” I grasped her hand and moved it to my trousers. She touched. I had only mucked out the stable and pitched in fresh straw. Her eyes looked to mine and I drew her to the shadows. Our lips met, then our bodies, our hands, our flesh. Soon her dress, blouse, and petticoat were cast up, open, and aside, all in disarray as I searched, fumbling lost at the silky tassel between her thighs—what seemed so easy in dreams and imaginings now seemed an impenetrable mystery closed to my anxious thrusts. Then for mercy she grasped my cock and placed me there and all gave way and parted as I plunged ever deeper into her juicy warmth while her quivering thighs spread wide in want and yearning. So sweet and moist her inner fruit, so tempting that I could not temper my fierce assault, 70 MELVIN LITTON

driving deeper and deeper till lost again, only lost in that urgent fire about to burst at the nub of my being till all I felt was fire in the clutch of her. Opening my eyes, I found myself fallen on her breasts, face down in the sweaty mat of her hair like a swimmer having swum a violent current, gasping for breath while the surge of her hips continued tugging at me like a seductive tide. I stiffened and plunged again to soothe my fiery ache. Ah, Don Pablo, forgive me, but I could not help myself. It was the panther, the stallion, the brujo, the goat all thrusting and plowing, planting their seed. My father the priest turned his back, could not bear to watch, shocked at the sight of his seed seeding another; but the others drove on in mixed grunt, growl, and neigh, at one with the flesh and the act. Corina and I did it all that spring. She was soon pregnant as the full moon in May. All aglow. Aieee! And told her mama. Next day Don Pablo stood before me asking of my intentions, his eyes expressive of his wish that I join his family. “Well, joven?” he asked, smiling hopeful. “Are you ready to be a man?” “Sí, Don Pablo, I would be a man,” I said. “But I cannot marry Corina. There is someone...I have promised. To the death, I promised.” “So,” he said, his smile fading as he clenched his fist, “you take pleasure with my daughter and save another for your heart. Bastardo! Hear me, if it’s a boy I may let you live. If not, I will hunt you down, diablo. To the death! Go now, go before I change my mind and kill you here. Shoot you like a dog! Perro maldito!” I could not look Don Pablo in the eye, pulled my sombrero low like a cowardly ladrón and rode away. I lacked the heart, the courage to tell him that yet another was pregnant—la hemanita, spicy Felisa, shadowing her sister, a year younger and as ripe to the act, loved to play “dos huevos and the snake.” But not as far along, kept the secret to herself, shared only with me that day in leaving, patting her belly in bright smile as I rode past the corral where she stood barefoot, carrying water to the horses. Then I did set my sombrero to the back of my head, a media cabeza, and once beyond the river set my spurs and let out my best carcajada, scattering the jays through the trees, proud that my fresh seed took in so bountiful and fertile a plowing. In woman’s flesh, planted my seed, mi anímo, where it sprouted and grew, forming life. To plow I, Joaquin 71 and plant in woman, there is farming for a man. The only farming I ever cared for. And those who say I came to California to farm are fools! Idiotas! Bobos! For you see, that’s just the thing, why I could not let Don Pablo see my eyes—I was not ashamed and he would see my pride, and my pride would shame him. That I did not want. Not his shame or mine. So I cloaked my pride and later let it sing. And later I learned that Corina and Felisa both had boys—I hope they were good boys and grew to love Don Pablo as did I. And I think Don Pablo was not so unhappy with me after all. Aieee! Two grandsons from a double plowing. Thanks to me. I, Joaquín. My stallion blood was awakened and once awakened wanted more. Chapter Five

rom fair to festival, town to town, I traveled—to Empalme, FGuaymas, Obregon, Navojoa, Los Mocjis, eventually all the way to the coastal tropics of Mazatlán to taste the many fruits, the mangoes and papayas, the limes, oranges, and avocados. Drifting ever southward, enrapt, in quest of stranger, richer sights and sensations, and women more select and refined, more silky, lithe, and flavorful, their heat, their sweat, their musky sweetness like the very air held captive beneath the emerald canopies where parrots and other exotic birds spread their rainbow plumes. And I, a panther on the prowl. I earned my way in breaking horses and contesting my skill with horse and reata at rousing fiestas and rodeos. Traveled with a caravan of entertainers, un carnaval, and they had no problems with ladrones for most were ladrones themselves, only more subtle, worldly, and wise. A dizzy whirl from night to day in endless fandango, like jumping astride a pitching bronco, in brief balance then thrown, landing hard to fix your eye on a further spectacle, curiosity, or circus freak. All the fantastic oddities and marvels of human kind there grouped and brought to the fore—dwarfs and midgets, legless acrobats, an albino fire-eater, and a fish-scaled lady. And Gypsy crones spinning webs of clairvoyance, deceit, and grave foreboding, their rheumy eyes focused on cards of fate and floating mists held captive in crystal balls. There too the mágico’s sleight of hand, his sweeping cape, fire at his fingertips, and suddenly a dove that vanishes in the wave of his hand and in the hand is held its beating heart, a shudder at death, and in a wink and flutter the dove as suddenly reappears and flies away. How? you ask—then cast your eye to the sultans of I, Joaquin 73 chance, their shrewd dealing at dice, faro, and monte, the whole placed and arranged to delight, distract, and detain—”Try your luck, señor? How about the cards? No? Then try the dice, carved of African ivory. See how nicely they fit the hand, now watch them roll. Ah, snakes eyes! The eyes are full of luck, afortunado....” Sí, every word and act a shell game played by seductive thieves and conjuradors bent on skinning the wayfarer, each and all in a lively harvest without beginning or end. Through the midst I prowled, scenting here and there, feasting among the many. Soon reaching my full height, taller than average, I could peer over the withers of a horse standing sixteen hands. Not so strong as some, but I was quick and sleek as any, now dressed in the fancy suit of a true charro: black velveteen pants with silver buttons down the outer seams that flared from the knee to the heel of my polished boots spurred with silver rowels; a red sash tied fast at my waist, a white ruffled shirt, and a richly embroidered jaqueta; and to top it off a black, silver-buckled sombrero. Likewise, Alazán was caparisoned with a fringed blanket and a silver-studded saddle, his hooves shod for prancing the stone-paved squares and the tree- lined boulevards where I rode, back straight, head held high like a raptor or conquistador come to claim my prize. Each evening we joined the promenade and rode through the plaza and alameda, gazing on all the splendid mansions, their balconied windows and red-tiled roofs, their thick adobe walls guarded by ornate wooden doors and wrought-iron gates that opened for lamp-lit carriages then closed. My eyes followed to the patios, the gardens and fountains, the dark corridors and arching columns, to the high-born señoritas in their lavish gowns making their furtive exit and entry, their beauty enhanced by laced mantillas and beckoning fans, proud, poised, and painted to allure. Yet what do I recall foremost from all the blur and whirl and pageantry? First, last, and always, Ella Gorda, the fat one, the Gilded Goddess. Diosa de Oro. She, who her skinny rat-faced pimp swore could cure any man, restore his potency. And for a potent sum. “But there is no price so cruel, no pain more grievous than a fallen 74 MELVIN LITTON sword,” he would shill. “Life without pleasure of woman is no life. And if your sword has not fallen, señor, if it shines yet, it can shine still more, sí...in a grand thrusting posture. Come hombres, señors, gents de razón,” he sang, drawing them in, “a few minutes with Ella Gorda, la Diosa de Oro, can restore a man to his rightful place and princely sway, and rule over woman to his every want and desire. Like gods we are when we lay with la Diosa de Oro. Come, come see for yourselves!” he called as she stepped from the shadows into the torchlight, her entire flesh painted gold, its massive glimmer and glory thinly veiled by a wispy blue gown. “Her hips are quite round and abundant, no? Muy vibrante, muy potente, like a cask of powder. Put your match to the bunghole, señors, you’ll get a mighty blast. Poderoso! What divine fire! What explosive flesh! Diosa de Oro!” And the crowd would gasp as one, wholly mesmerized. While I imagined that all who went to her there vanished, swallowed up, utterly consumed like a match by the flame as her massive weight rolled over in a storm of flesh, muting their vain appeals in a thunderous assault. Not for me, no. I wanted to embrace an exquisite flesh, ripe and supple, not have my passion smothered like a vein of gold hidden deep in the bowels of a mountain, snuffed, carried off in a flash, a torrent, down a gorge in rapid descent like my head hurling down that sheer chasm to a darkening depth with no end or escape. No, not for me. I liked hips, but hers plunged to her knees, her thighs sagged to her ankles where her feet broadened and blistered in vein-popping labor to support the whole. And her breasts hung like huge wineskins to the great folds of her belly, the encircling barrancas leading to who knows where? Or what? A grotesque, sensuous mass. Sí, alluring as are all freaks. I and others at once intrigued and repulsed. Her eyes, her lips, her luxuriant hair were truly wondrous and beautiful. A gargantuan beauty. Compared to her Don Pablo’s wife was a shrimp, a twig. Ella Gorda was incomparable, a mass of flesh equal to the weight of a horse, a kingdom unto herself as she lay each night on the throne of her bed, the door of her brightly painted wagon latched open to any who wished to enter. Like her flesh, always open and naked to the heat, to any who wished to pay. And many paid to I, Joaquin 75 visit Ella Gorda, la Diosa de Oro, to lose themselves therein and savor their rebirth. Her tongue could taunt and titillate, and many days I rode alongside her wagon, trading barbs and jests through the open door. And many nights her earthy voice and attentive caresses lured me in, up the steps, past the threshold, found me seated on her bed where she teased, tempted, and tutored me about women. “You’re the handsome one, Joaquín,” she’d say, twisting my ear. “Sí, quite the charro. But not the stallion you think you are, no, not till you’ve ridden the Goddess, Ella Gorda, Diosa de Oro.” “Don’t flatter yourself fat one, you’re no goddess.” “Come, muchacho,” she’d persist, “let Ella Gorda sharpen your blade, give it a final honing and lasting temper. Or do you wish to remain a runt of a horse forever?” My stallion blood rose in challenge—“Bah! Diosa de Bobos! Keep your mountain of fat and fool’s gold, good for fools and idiotas,” I’d declare, stomping out. But I always returned, entranced, bewitched, curious. One night, plied with mescal, pulque, and tequila, all her bottled enticements and her usual gibes and charms, I fell to her, held it seemed in the very press of her palms. Like a rabbit I kicked to break free, struggling for breath, drowning in the oceanic musk that swathed her, a thousand-orchid aroma, a sample from every continent, every island, every pungent essence ever offered up by flower, stem, or stream—foul or fragrant—stored in her glands, oozed and mixed in her scent. Into her cavernous sex I was soon lowered and stoved, held captive in her thighs and enfolding flesh as the whole of her heaved and puffed like a giant bellows, a scorching wind that teared my eyes and singed my skin as if staked before the desert sun, spitted, turned, and basted in Ella Gorda’s quaking vat of hot oil, a white heat that set my steel and tempered my blade to an ever more painful point. At last she cast me off like the grizzly did Jesús, and I fell crumpled to the floor, nearly as dead. Ella Gorda leaned to her arm and gazed down from her throne, her face ablaze like the Aztec sun pleased with the sacrifice. “Now you have ridden Ella Gorda!” she proclaimed. “Now you are a man!” 76 MELVIN LITTON

Roused from my stupor by her broad throaty laugh, I shook my head and found it well attached, then stood full before her—my cock, blood-gorged and swollen, stiff and pulsing, hardening to a rigid pain that pierced its length like a cactus needle stabbed and slowly drawn. Sweat drenched my brow. In trembling fever and spasm I clenched my teeth, longing for release. She reached out and stroked it, then hungrily sucked its fire into her mouth. The pain turned to pleasure, a long ecstatic flow that both soothed and emptied me. I sank to the floor, knelt and clasped her hand. “Gracias, Ella Gorda,” I said. “Gracias, gracias. You are truly a goddess.” And I thank her still. She gave me an uncanny sense, a confidence and will over women. Told me to go and gather my herd, take my pick, that I was now a stallion full and prime. “With the cock of a stallion!” she boasted. Aieee! It was true. My cock hung enlarged, blotched black and pink. A rebirth, a transformation. A forging like none El Bravo ever mentioned. Ella Gorda was a force of nature, a goddess of the flesh, gave me a hammering, a honing, a final christening. But much like my winter alone in the sierras, once with her was enough. My desire doubled—I longed for conquest and daring, temptation and greater delight.

While guitarists strummed and played and lanterns lit the square and the moon rose like a great beacon drawing lovers to its light, I danced with señoritas to sweet and lusty songs of love and war and murderous passions. I dressed as well as any and danced to the envy of all. And dancing draws the eyes of women, betrays their want. One rare beauty bestowed her gaze and held it as I whirled another and another, slowly advancing her way. Despite her dueña’s stern warning, she stepped forth and accepted my offer to dance. Her imperious air softened at my touch. She smiled, her eyes dark orbs of wonder, moist and gravitating, her lips like rose petals freshly parted. Her sleek auburn hair drawn back by a tortoise shell comb fell in a cascade of curls to her slender waist; and above her ear a white orchid, a diamond brooch upon her breast, and her shoulders bare but for the sheer mantilla webbing them. She wore a black silk gown trimmed and bowed in lace and on her there was nothing funeral in its aspect, but a flowering, a blossoming of the blackest I, Joaquin 77 petals clothing her ivory form. Her flesh glowed, sweetened by an inner perfume that brought a warm surge to my loins. I held her closer and in a heady swirl danced on, leading her further from her dueña, her circle of friends, dancing to my gait, my will. Danced her like I rode my horse, at a smooth paso. She followed like a shadow, a wisp, her grace nearly weightless. Her name was Selena Mariana Montéya-Espanoza. I knew the name—her father owned half the silver mines in the sierras and a vast hacienda on the borders of Durango and Zacatecas. A powerful hidalgo with many ties throughout Mexico and Spain. This she told me then asked of my father—an icy cunning hidden in her voice, her beauty. “My father rules all the Sierra Madre from Sonora to Chihuahua south to Durango. And to him,” I said, “your father and others pay tribute.” “Oh? Is he a Comanche marauder?” she asked. “Or a mere ladrón?” Her head held high in cool contempt, marking me for an Indio, her lip curled in a Castilian smirk. “No,” I answered, letting her feel the pain of my grip. “He is a brujo, a thousand years old, and a panther, and a stallion.” “Surely...you jest,” she stammered, yielding to the pain and the magic of my words. “Look into my eyes. You think I’m joking? Come to me tonight, Selena Mariana. Later, by the fountain in the alameda, and I’ll reveal them all...the brujo, the panther, the stallion.” This shut her up, my challenge, my boldness. “Meet me,” I whispered. Her eyes wavered. Her body grew more pliant in my arms. She glanced to her dueña, clearly intrigued, tempted. “I cannot,” she answered. “But you can.” My voice firm, insistent, like my grip on her hand, my arm at her waist, my loins pressing her. “Meet me,” I urged. “I cannot.” “But you can. If you will it”—appealing to her pride, her blood, to conquer her virtue and doubt, to circumvent her dueña. I danced on in silence, letting the music, the rhythm and my body persuade her. Soon she answered. “Come to my gate.” Her eyes flashed defiant, willful. “Come past midnight. I’ll leave it unlocked. Come if you dare.” Her turn to 78 MELVIN LITTON challenge. What? Think I would not brave the gate of a rich hidalgo to make his smug daughter mine? Think I am not the son of a brujo, a panther, a stallion? I told her to be waiting. I would come. As promised the gate opened at my touch. And though it creaked in closing like a cat’s harsh complaint, the panther paid no heed but entered with stealth and vigor. She waited in a shadowed corridor and we embraced as the moonlight found us there, then we moved quickly to the deeper shadows to remain unseen. Her sweet breath came in a rush, pleading for me to be patient, but all pleading ceased as I wrenched her by the hair and found her throat, savoring the cream of her flesh. Each time unfastening a maiden’s blouse, her bodice, viewing her breasts, their fresh unblemished splendor, is a revelation. Like seeing the sunrise above the mountains after a cold night in the timber. Your flesh is suddenly warmed, moved by gratitude, a joy inexpressible, as then, cupping Selena’s dancing breasts each in my palms. And I took her like a brujo, a panther, a stallion—held her pressed to the wall, lifted her gown and fed her my cock, its full pulse and length. I was not her first, I could tell by her ready, practiced want. And what a lovely Magdalena, so slender and lush, tapered and curved, as she lifted her thigh and arched to receive me; a bit timid and fearful of the stallion, then hot and lively, squirming to me with the tremulous shudder of a trout on a hook, leaping with fierce abandon to achieve her utter release and subjugation. And the hook was in the loins, and the loins were mine thrusting to hers, anxious not to lose her taut, tempting depth, to pinion her, take her captive, for all her wealth and pride for a night make her mine as a fisherman takes his catch, holds it up to savor and admire like I held her then, my hands clawing her flanks in a thrall of delight and hunger. Locked together, sweat soaking our clothes, sighing and panting in urgent silence at the edge of the patio, our passion cooled as our flesh dried in the warm wind, the briny foam of its climax and wake rushing back once more beneath the waves. We held still, waited till our breathing calmed, then I eased her down and cut a lock of her hair. Yet again her father paid tribute to mine. Then the panther exited as quiet as he came. Many times I came and went that winter to her and others, but to her most of all. Selena Mariana. And her smugness withered I, Joaquin 79

as her want grew, came to me like tallow to the flame, burning with heat and passion. The air always warm and sultry and each day undíafestivo in that city above the coast. We met as well in the hills beyond the city where the air was cooler. There we rode, I on Alazán and she on her tall palomino named Lucero, or “Morning Star,” for the white on his forehead and his golden mane and tail. A magnificent, spirited stallion. Too much horse for most women. But she liked strength and excitement and handled him well. In truth I coveted her and her stallion. Sí, even asked of his price one day. “Dream on, Joaquín,” she said as if to a fool. “My father would more readily sell me. Besides...Lucero is worth his weight in gold. A sum beyond all hope.” “Ah well,” I smiled, “no harm in asking.” No, nor in wanting. There were many rumors that winter. Always rumors in the wind like migrating birds alighting here and there to feed and water, to nest a season and perhaps leave a seed in passing. Word was that the war with the Gringos had ended, lost with all the territories north of the Rio Bravo and the Gila, the treaty named for Our Lady of Guadalupe. Why her name? I wondered. This seemed to me the greater question, for the war and its rumor held little interest like the birds briefly noted then gone. What rang in my ears and raced in my thoughts, sounding like bells in reverberation, were rumors of gold in California. My blood quickened to the call of adventure and wealth. Gold! Oro! There for the picking. Open to all. Not by right of conquest but by one’s own claim and labor. El Dorado del Norte! Rumors fed to me by Ella Gorda, la Diosa de Oro; as I told her of my conquests, she told me of hers. And to her came rumors from all the continent like rivers flowing to the sea. But rumor was rumor and though my blood was awakened, my candle lit, California remained only a name, distant as the farthest star, and I was young and hungry, the night warm, and Selena waited near and willing. But that night we did not meet, nor ever again. In crossing the plaza, heading toward her street, I was met by two men. Large, burly men, judging by their silhouettes. Their shadows stretched my way like daggers in threat. But I would not be turned. I stepped to the edge of their shadows, stopped and met their stares. Both 80 MELVIN LITTON stood heavily armed, scowling—bandoleers of bullets crisscrossed their chests, their pistols and knives arrayed for quick use, and each had enough for a half dozen men. The larger one stepped forth and demanded, “You! You are Joaquín?” Did not ask, you see, but demanded. I did not like his tone or manner. “Sí,” I nodded, “I am Joaquín. And you are a big ox blocking my path.” He stood a moment, silent, like he hadn’t heard, then answered with a great fist. Ridged knuckles bashed my face, pitching me back head over heels, knocked senseless in motion but instinct rolled me to my feet, pistol drawn and ready. This checked him, gave him pause and gave me time to remember what I was about—that he’d hit me as was his right for I had mocked him, his right to kill me even if he could. And mine to kill him. “You are some gallo,” he grunted, a note of respect. “Muy veloz. Sí. Cocked, combed, and spurred to fight. Well we have word for you young rooster.” “Ah caramba,” I said, “more words, more rumors.” “Listen bufón, this is no rumor. Our patrón, Señor Montéya- Espanoza, says you are not to see his daughter. If we catch you near her again, you will die slow, very slow.” “Ay dí mi!” I laughed. “Well spoken for a dumb ox. And since you speak so well, tell señor what’s-his-name that Joaquín Murrieta will die slow for no man. If he wished me dead you should have shot me. A little slap and words will not scare me or keep me from his daughter. Now go, pig—” But I had already talked too long, learned that night that when men declare you their enemy it’s best to speak to their corpse, for in the next instant his amigo drew a pistol. I shot first but too late to stop the other from lunging with his knife. I parried but the blade pierced my ribs as I raised my pistol to his whiskered chin and fired, blasting his brains into the crown of his sombrero while his eyes popped out of their sockets in rude surprise to us both. Caught in his embrace I followed in his fall and knelt as if waltzing the dead. I peeled his grip from the knife still lodged in my side. Nearby his amigo lay doubled up, clutching his belly, emitting deep rasps and blood bubbles. Dying slow, I hoped. I, Joaquin 81

My own wound was not so bad, and not so good. The knife pained me as I stood. More so as I walked to Alazán—and much more so when I mounted and rode, spurring hard for Ella Gorda before the bleeding emptied my head of all want and concern. She would know what to do. My only hope. At the sight of me Ella Gorda snapped alert, urgent, heft herself from her bed and bade me lay. “Ohhh, hijo, what have they done,” she moaned, then called for Rata, her pimp, to fetch Gallina. “Quickly now! Pronto!” she shouted. “Before I break your skinny legs.” And they were skinny, his arms too, skinny as a rat’s tail as he flew out the door. Gallina soon hopped up and entered, old and shriveled, but quick and precise, a Gypsy fortune-teller and also a curandera like Olajuaña. They called her “Gallina,” the hen, for she constantly brooded and cackled, flipping through her cards or casting the bones, studying, sifting, attempting to divine, like an old hen scratching at the dirt in search of a grain to add to her craw. Eyes slightly crossed like a hen’s in looking at you as they were now, bearing down, intent, hypnotic, seemed to look through and beyond and hence to the future, an oddly convincing, authoritative gaze. “Wise you left the knife in, that slows the bleeding,” she noted, eyes and hands darting as quick as a fly and seemingly as quizzical. “But you have kept it long enough. No?” Before I guessed her intent she freed the knife with one swift jerk. At that sharp exit and pain I gave a wordless gasp, my every fiber tensed. “Lay still,” she hushed. “You wiggle like a virgin that’s just been stuck!” Aieee! If that’s how it feels I’m twice grateful to be a man. “How so twice?” she asked, reading my thoughts. “Once to do the sticking and once not to be stuck!” “Hah!” she scoffed, doubting the worth of either. “But for sure you bleed like a virgin.” And she tarried not, in a wink had my jaqueta and shirt open and was probing the wound with her gnarly fingers to staunch the flow. She asked Ella Gorda for lamp oil, then poured some in the wound. Before I could ask why or what she touched the lamp flame there. Aieee! That is one pain I remember still—that fire in my gut and the stink of burning flesh! Ella Gorda 82 MELVIN LITTON

held me down as I kicked and raged. Gallina simply wrinkled her nose and said I stunk worse than Ella Gorda, hands aflutter, fanning away the stench and smoke to examine the wound. Lips pursed in scrutiny. “Ah ha!” her mouth gaped wide in a toothless smile. “You will bleed no more. It has branded full and deep.” Whew! I was only happy to have it over and done with. While I rested, Ella Gorda hovered over me like a mother oak, vast and shading, voice purring like rustling leaves as she wiped me clean. Gallina brewed a tea she said would further heal and give me strength. “The Herb of Life,” she called it, urging me to drink, first one cup then another, so scalding hot it burned my tongue but quickly soothed the burning in my wound. I felt cleansed, restored. My head cleared. “You will need the strength of a stallion, the eyes of an owl, the nose of a wolf,” she observed, “for you must ride far, go tonight, before they come hunting you.” She spoke true. With two dead there would be no more words in warning. She took her pearly bones from a black silk cloth stained by eighty years of soothsaying and cast them on the pillow by my head, then peered close, seeking a fuller portent. She squinted her eyes, screwed her lips, and tilted her head one way then another as if to gain focus. At last she held fixed and firm, as certain as her voice. “So it is and shall be,” she intoned. “Yours will be a violent life. Sí, mucho violencia. And as I guessed...you are the colt of the brujo who has lived forever and cannot be named. No, you will not die so soon or so easily. Eh-heh-heh-hee! Maybe never!” she cackled, leaving her jest unexplained. “But here...here is one who has died that you know.” I tensed as when she pulled out the knife. “El Gitano. I see an Apache arrow whiz to his chest. His head fallen in the sand, there seized and scalped!” “When?” I asked. “How long ago?” She shrugged. “A moon has passed. Maybe two. Buzzards have picked him clean. A snake curls in his bones.” Then her head cocked and her cross-eyes widened. “Ah! There is more. And this is not so sad. His daughter, his Rosa, is to wed. A very rich man. A Señor Caborca.” “No!” My heart awakened at the thought of Rosita, having all but forgotten. I, Joaquin 83

“Es verdad!” Gallina affirmed. “The bones speak true!” “NO!” I shot to my feet in protest. “Rosita is mine and I hers!” Gallina danced about flapping her arms—”Heh-heh-hee!”— cackling like a hen that had just laid an egg. Proud of her power. Proud to see me standing, ready to ride. “Go now,” she said and pinched my cheeks for luck. Ella Gorda buried me in a big hug and wept, “Hijo, mi hijo....” I gave each a kiss goodbye and in gratitude left them El Plata, my mule. For that night I meant to travel far and fast and not be burdened with a load. But first I needed another horse. I knew just which one and what ruse to play.

Approaching the grand stables of Señor Montéya-Espanoza, I spurred Alazán at a swift gallop then reined him in, shouting for the old caballerizo who tended the horses to show himself. The watchdog circled in a fierce yip and howl as the old man appeared, rubbing his weary eyes, asking what I wanted at that late hour. “Call off your dog!” I ordered, reining Alazán from the snapping jaws. At the old man’s kick the dog slunk into the shadows. “The señorita has taken sick,” I explained. “El vomito! The señor is out of his mind with worry. Sent me to fetch the French doctor staying at the finca. Said to take Lucero!” What concern for the patrón and his daughter. What urgency of voice and manner. While the old man knew me from prior comings and goings, still he scratched his head in doubt and began to balk. “Sí, but... Señor Joaquín, I don’t—” “Quick fool, saddle him! Before the patrón comes and whips us both!” This convinced him. He crossed himself and exclaimed, “Válgame Dios!” and made straight for his task, fearful of his master’s lash and tongue. Soon, he had Lucero saddled and handed me the reins. And I was off. Left Señor Montéya-Espanoza his daughter and took his horse. Took by bluff what I paid for in blood. And left something more. For the señorita had indeed complained of sickness a day or two before. Morning sickness. She’d already missed one moon. Though I never learned if she had a son, I’m sure their blood was improved thereby—the Gachupín are not so clever and mighty as they think. 84 MELVIN LITTON

I took Lucero and rode swift as the wind and the rumor of gold. But gold was not my fever just then. The thought of Rosita pounded in my blood with every hoof beat. With every breath I vowed my love, her name. Chapter Six

he land slowly lightened in the red dawn like a vast canvas Tcoming alive. Vivid colors and movement emerged from shadow as I changed mounts in stride and coursed the trail. A flock of hens pecking gravel by the way scattered at our approach like water splashed to the sunlight. But I was deaf to their squawk and flutter, blind to all but the image of Rosita carried in my heart and the urgent hooves reaching to close the distance between us. Three years—forever it seemed since I’d chipped from my shell and flown away, still a fledgling, to seek a height and discern a path. I had seized the world, tasted its variety and richness and made it mine—so I thought. Yet nothing and no one compared to Rosita, the thought of her called me back like a proud young hawk to the nest where the many never leave but remain captive to the form and manner fated them. Of me and my life Gallina had declared, Violencia! All I knew or cared to know was that Rosita was fated me—my heart to hers. And what rich man could buy her heart? If so, I would seize her in my talons and bear her away, if it meant her blood and mine. That was my will. I, Joaquín. Riding night and day, my will spurred each horse, Lucero and Alazán, stopping briefly to rest and to let them graze, then riding on, past rivers and gorges, jagged peaks, plateaus and valleys, mindless of the peons gathering maize in their milpas, of their burros bearing firewood back to their grass-roofed jacales. Blind to the vaqueros taking siesta in the portico of an adobe-walled rancho, though keen to each grand hacienda as if my enemy lurked within—otherwise indifferent to all the villages, towns, and coastal cities, like so many 86 MELVIN LITTON trees, chaparral, and cactus receding in a blur before the image of Rosita held in my mind’s eye. Trying to imagine how she’d grown and formed. And imagining her hand offered to another, I cried out and whipped my horses on, enraged, inflamed, in fever. Rode over five hundred miles in less than a week. Any suspect riders grouped in my path were met with my pistols drawn, and they reined away like scattered hens. Young in flesh but my passion was as old as man, passed from mother to child, from seed to womb in an endless cycle, be it love of women, of land, of pride or race, ever affirmed and avenged, acted on like its kindred, odio—hate. What I hated most at that moment was the distance and time that held us separate, both formed and set by my will and choosing—a time and distance I meant to bridge. I no longer dreamed of her dressed in silk, but wanted her as she was, in a red and yellow petticoat, a white chemisette loose and bare at her shoulders, sashed tight at her waist, a rebozo draping her black hair. And her lithe calves and feet, bare or sandaled, lightly dancing, skipping, fond of the earth, its hot sand and eternal dust, and the hard-beaten paths winding from scarce water to meager pasture, from birth to death, from decay to life again. Ah Rosita, mi Rosa. Compared to her, the high-born Selena paled like the fruit of the madroña—so beautiful to see and to touch, but once plucked and tasted, found somehow lacking, hardly worth the effort. Whereas Rosita, a lowborn Mestiza, remained intimate with the soil like the true strawberry, bedded in the earth, ripened by the sun— so succulent and sweet was her memory that my lips quivered in longing to taste, in want, in fever of her. Arriving at the banks of the Magdalena, I observed the muddy current ripple and eddy, carried forth and turning back, swirling hesitant and uncertain as was I, yet flowing on despite the snags, the narrow bends, the sandy shoals, as if its course was set from the very beginning. I too drifted on, nudged Alazán with my heels and followed the river through the final leg of my journey, keeping pace with its current, my blood astir with the sediment of those I’d known and the one I loved.

The sun set. The moon rode well up in the sky, its bright reflection riffling in the current like a beacon leading home, intermittently I, Joaquin 87 veiled by the dark tapestry of willows and reeds shading the sloughs, or vanishing briefly before a sharp cut bank to reappear beyond a bend, beckoning like a maiden’s fingertips dimpling the surface. A seductive glimmer that soon defined her very flesh in answer to my longing. She stood bathing in the shallows a short distance up from the village where the women commonly came. Her two companions fled at the sight of a horseman on the ridge, the silhouette ofa mounted charro cast against the sky, halted to watch them bathe and frolic. My heart beat like a low drum in anticipation. Even at a distance I knew it was she, in her glistening flesh I saw the girl now formed a woman. And when they called for her once they made the bank, gathering up their clothes, giggling behind the bushes, I knew for certain. “Come quickly, Rosita!” they cried. “He may be a ladrón, a bad man. Vamos!” But she did not answer, lingered still, standing proud in the moonlight, the water braceleting her knees while they ran for the village, too shy and modest for the game being played. I rode forth leading Lucero, letting Alazán pick the way down the winding goat path to the river. She stood poised, undaunted at my approach, and when she spoke her words were as soft and precise as I remembered them. “You are a shameless one not to let a maiden bathe.” “My horses needed water,” I said. “I’ve ridden far and fast. Besides, it is night and the moon reveals only hints and shadows.” “Oh? Only?” she answered with a sweeping splash that caused Lucero to rear and neigh. “That’s for the maggots, Joaquín!”— laughing now, enjoying my struggle in calming the horse. “I knew it was you there on the ridge. Your silver buttons shining like stars that named Joaquín. You said you would return a mounted charro. So? Have you brought me silk?” “No, Rosita. Something better.” I said nothing more; let her wait. “Hmmm,” she considered, eying me closely. “You have grown tall,” she smiled, “and I like your mustacho.” Sí, my mustache was now full, like her breasts. But no, not the same or even similar. A mustache is a mere token, an ornament of manhood. A maiden’s breasts are the promise of passion, the fruit of life and life giving. 88 MELVIN LITTON

And hers were like young melons ripe for the hand, softly sculpted in the moonlight. Moist with pearly beads of water. Nipples large and dark as plums. “It is handsome like my father’s,” she added, interrupting my thoughts. And at the thought of her father I saddened and said I was sorry to hear of El Gitano’s death. “What?” she gasped, amused and astonished. “Why, he was very much alive at supper. He pinched my mother and got a slap for his pinching.” “But I heard he was killed by the Apache?” “You heard an Apache ghost wishing him dead. For he killed one not a month ago when he and Don Pedro were attacked. They hid under a carreta and fought them off.” In a rush of joy I asked more: Was she not to marry Señor Caborca? At which she was even more astonished. “Why would I?” she frowned. “He is old and ugly. Who has been feeding you these tales?” Gallina! That cross-eyed old hen had read my thoughts and spoke to my memory, to my deep, deep longing. Used her intuition and guile to speed me home, could see in my memory that Rosita was a beauty and knew that fruit once ripened would not wait, but be plucked and tasted by whoever met her favor and reached first. Sí, the coyote always knows when the fruit is ready. Aieee! And El Gitano was not dead! The crafty old hen only meant to get my attention. Be careful of soothsayers and curanderas, careful of their wiles and potions. But it is well I listened, for as Rosita quickly explained, it was me they thought was dead. “Three years and no word!” she asserted. “How many nights I cried for you. And I grew tired of crying. Sí, Señor Caborca has a nephew, a handsome young man named Fernando who has been to Mexico City and who has talked to my mother and father of marriage. And who I would gladly marry....” Silent now, she awaited my answer. Her chin raised in question, in challenge. “I have come for you, mi Rosa. You know that.” “Sí,” she nodded, “I know that.” Her voice ever quiet but daring, like her smile poised in question or possibility, a hint of something I, Joaquin 89 wild that runs counter to the purely human that was always in her smile, her first and rightful smile that would one day be taken from her but which she gave to me that night. Her brows drawn sharp and straight, her eyes flashed dark and determined, ready, willing to follow wherever. Her face a lovely oval, more feline than fawn- like as befit a panther’s mate, her black hair falling in wet curls to her waist, strands springing dry in the wind. Her tender neck and square shoulders, her proud breasts and their dark nipples echoing the darker inundation of her navel set like a jewel in the soft dip of her belly to draw the eye to the finer edge of her maiden silk. The saddle of her waist cinched at the swell of her hips, her long smooth thighs tapering to her knees and slender calves. Rosita, fourteen and fully a woman. Bronzed and aglow in the moonlight. The vision of her standing there made the greater world seem a broken shell from which I’d hatched and flown. “So?” she asked, lending a coy, gentle sway. “What have you brought me that’s better than silk?” “Not so fast,” I teased, holding her in suspense. “Be a good girl and get dressed before I forget myself and ravage you here and now.” “Go ahead. Forget yourself,” she mocked. “Like you forgot me for three years. But I’m not moving from this river till you tell me.” “Very well then,” as anxious to tell as she was to hear. “See this golden stallion. He’s a palomino, the pride of his breed. Worth his weight in gold. His name is Lucero. And he is yours, Rosita. As am I.” “But how? What did you pay for such a horse?” “I paid enough. And no more.” “In gold?” “No, Rosita. Something more precious. I paid in blood.” At this she questioned no more. Walked to Lucero and stroked his nose. And Lucero answered to her soft touch, her quiet voice. As did I.

Ever ride a galloping horse at night on a high hill next to the sky with nothing to impede its thrusting rhythm, your senses enhanced by the darkness, the starlight, and a speed that seems to double or triple? What was distant is near, then past, and all is urgent, your breath, your pulse. 90 MELVIN LITTON

Rosita and I rode double on Lucero, breasting the wind, clutching the reins and one another. Letting her thrill at his grace and power while held by my firm hand. Letting them each learn the other’s scent and manner before she rode alone. At the crest we dismounted and sat gazing to the stars while the horses nibbled the grass nearby. There on the hill where I had been a shepherd so long ago. Once boy and girl, now man and woman. We watched the constellations in their slow arch and glide, and in that endless pattern and swirl sought to define and name ourselves like she had named me. Star figures of Rosita and Joaquín, eternal forms fated to embrace. “Look there!” she said. “A falling star. When I see one falling through the sky I feel my heart go with it, falling to earth....” And she fell back laughing, her eyes to the heavens, her hair to the grass. The breeze played a strand across her face. I reached and brushed it past her ear, traced my finger to her throat, felt her quickened pulse, her rising breath. She turned her eyes to mine, deep watery jewels that sparkled with life, and I felt my heart fall to her like that which fell from the sky. In a dizzying rush I covered her. My breath, her breath, our lips, our flesh, merging, galloping in reflex, in fever, without thought or knowing, only want, the want of birth and air as I forced her flesh and with fearsome thrusts we mated. Our eyes held open, half-crazed, terrified at the pleasure, the pain and wonder. And the blood: her virgin blood that spilled from our loins onto the grass. Her flesh trembled. I embraced her gently, remaining staved in the sweet depth of her thighs, my heart held fast to hers like our flesh melded one to the other. Mi Rosa, my one and true love. At last we parted and lay. I used my red sash to wipe her clean, her blood on her and me. Then she took the sash and neatly folded it and said it would be her silk from me, that she would keep it always in sacred memory of this night. I drew my knife and cut my hand and with my blood marked a cross on her palm and said, “Soy el suyo...I am yours.” To mine she did the same. “Soy el suyo....” And so by the knife we were wed. In preparing to mount she asked to ride alone. I gave her a hand up. And though Lucero reared, snorting at the scent of fresh blood, Rosita steadied him and rode more fiercely than Selena ever dared. I, Joaquin 91

On Alazán I could not catch them till she slowed and reined about laughing with lusty joy. Her eyes, her teeth aglitter, her flesh aglow, her raven hair feathering like wings past her shoulders, draping to the saddle. “You ride like a warrior woman,” I said. “Un Amazona. Like Queen Calafia!” And I told her that we would go to California. To that mythical land we’d heard of since childhood. Tales written at the time of the Conquest read to us by candlelight that told of a race of warrior women whose weapons were of gold and who inhabited an island near the Terrestrial Paradise. Where pearls washed ashore like beads of foam on the sandy playas. Where gold shone in the mountains like sun-glazed ice. “Golden peaks, Rosita!” I cried. “Like the City of Gold! El Dorado! Golden spires reaching the sky!” She answered with a trilling grito—”Ay-ay-ayieee!”—and reined Lucero. To California, to the land of many griffins we would ride and make that gold, that paradise, ours, hers and mine. With that dream and fever we whipped our horses and rode for the river to again bathe and cool our wanton heat. Others were already there. Some ahorse, some afoot, their torches lighting the river bank in desperate search for the missing Rosita. El Gitano, his wife, and half the village in panic at her absence, fearing her abducted or worse. At our approach a voice cried out: “Alto! Quién es?” Rifles raised, hammers cocked, machetes flashed ready. I halted Alazán and answered, “Easy, amigos, she is safe. It is I... Joaquín. I have returned.” Then Rosita rode into the light, wild-eyed and smiling, and no, not looking at all innocent. But fierce, proud, and mated. El Gitano sighed, much relieved to see his daughter, but his poor wife, Doña Dolores, looked twice shocked. “Virgen Purísima!” she exclaimed. “What has happened?” “Nothing and everything,” I answered truthfully. “We have wed on the hillside.” This was ever the Indio way and quite natural. “Ave Maria!” she cringed, hands to her face—while El Gitano merely nodded, “Ohhh,” in a tone that bespoke understanding and acceptance. In the next instant Doña Dolores shrieked that she 92 MELVIN LITTON would have my cajones and crush them on her metate! Aieee! Her anger like a gust of wind; torches flared and men shrank to the shadows. But El Gitano hushed her with the solemn reminder that many are thus wed. At his words she quieted, seized with quiet, like a babe given suck. Rolled her eyes heavenward and pressed her palms together, praying he’d say no more. “But what of Hernando?” she gasped. “And Señor Caborca? And the pledge to marry?”—like so many feigning pleas to heaven while coveting earthly gain. El Gitano shrugged, threw up his hands. “The chick is out of its egg. What is done cannot be undone.” Then he laughed to all, saying, “Looks like Hernando lost out. He is not so cunning a coyote as our Joaquín. Huh?” Beaming with pride, happy I’d come to claim his daughter. El Gitano was a good and wise alcalde, knew how to keep the peace, how to smooth the feathers. “We’ll have a wedding in three days,” he announced. “With feast and dancing. All are invited. Come now!” he waved, herding all to the village, “Let’s get some sleep. The night is short. The rooster soon crows. And mañana there is much to plan.” Of course Rosita returned with her mother. Doña Dolores fetched her by the hand and marched her home. No more bathing in the river, no more midnight rides. Kept her under lock and key until the wedding. Her chastity somewhat restored thereby, I suppose. But she was not sorry, nor was I. We were already wed. And after three years, what were three days? It is well I left and stayed away so long, for we were too much friends, Rosita and I, to become lovers. Time changed and formed us anew. Now man and woman, strangers to one another, yet fond and familiar. Our passion was instant and lasting. And virgin or no, she appeared an angel in her white cotton gown. Taking her hand in vow, I felt again my knife, our blood, and in that touch felt our souls go one to the other. The only sacred moments I have known were with her. There is a saying, “After God there is only you.” For me there was Rosita only. While Padre León chanted his Latin in a spirited, lilting tone, my mother offered us her smile, admiring her son, so tall and handsome in her eyes, my black charro suit freshly cleaned and pressed, the silver buttons polished, boots shined, a new white I, Joaquin 93

shirt and red silk sash—and standing on the tile floor of the old adobe church, arm in arm with my bride, I rivaled any Grandee at the threshold of Rome. So she said later, giving us her blessing. For her and for them, for I loved my people, we were wed in church. But for God, no. To God I never turned, except once, and He did not answer. Of that I have yet to speak, it will come soon enough. The wedding was a joyous day, un día fiesta. Pacito, thirteen, stood next to our mother, his hair wet and combed, smiling big, all teeth and ears and eyes, so skinny that he looked taller, though still only eye level with our mother. And Rosita’s older brother, Reyes Féliz, a year older than me and equally tall but stout like their father, stood with a sly grin whispering something to Ramón who answered with an elbow to the ribs, both laughing, sharing some jest on me. What did I care? Happy to see them laugh. Ramón was itching to go to California as well. Others had already gone and returned for their families. So the rumors of gold were true. Perhaps that was where El Bravo had gone. For he was not to be found and when I asked of him Ramón said the Inglés had vanished shortly after I’d gone into the sierras. “He left no word, only his forja. Now Carlo does the shoeing. Quién sabe?” he shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of luck and the Apache got him.” Maybe so. Still, I could not imagine El Bravo dead. He had too much venom. We’d talked the day before, Ramón and I, our horses hitched in the shade of the cantina where we stood smoking shuck cigarros and drinking pulque. He praised my horsemanship and spoke highly of Alazán. But he could not speak enough of Lucero. What lines, what bones, what flesh and breeding! “Qué caballo! Magnífico!” he enthused. “But...how did you come by him?” “A fair trade,” I said and said no more. Ramón elbowed me in the ribs and laughed. “El Gitano was right. You are a sly coyote, Joaquín. You know when the fruit is ripe and when not to speak. Not many are so wise so young—” Our banter cut short as he raised his eyes to the horseman across the way. 94 MELVIN LITTON

“Better look to your guns,” he noted. “That one is Fernando, the nephew of Señor Caborca.” No doubt he’d come to sniff out his rival in hope to scare me off, or perhaps even kill me to soothe his wounded pride. I stepped out and faced him, my pistols worn ready to use, my sombrero a media cabeza, my eyes fearing nothing and no man. He checked his horse at thirty paces, met my eyes and glanced away. It seemed his pistols were not so ready as mine. He pulled his sombrero low, reined about and rode off, perhaps thinking there were women in Mexico City more appreciative of his fine manners and wealth. Besides, the chick was out of its egg. And no, it is not so easy to scare off one whose heart has been touched by a panther, who has survived a winter alone in the sierras and tracked mustang through the land of the Apache while trading bullets with braves and ladrones, and who has paid in blood for a golden stallion to bestow as a token of his love. But this is nothing, this encounter, mere spit in the dust, the bluster of men. It is to my bride and our wedding I speak. A great feast and much dancing as El Gitano had promised. In three days he gathered the finest food, drink, and musicians from fifty miles around. Nearly everyone owed El Gitano for some favor or trade. He never asked more than they could pay and all he asked now was that they come share the feast of his daughter’s wedding day. Old Lazarn, the goat man, slaughtered three young billies and would not take payment, no. Had them dressed, spitted, and roasting over an open pit before sunrise. Another added a pig, another some lambs, and somehow a young calf—sí, tender, juicy veal—found its way to the table, having strayed from Señor Caborca’s herd, compliments of Ramón among others. Chickens plucked and baked, turkey and tiny quail. Black kettles of steaming frijoles, scores of tortillas served fresh from the ovens, chili colorado and chili con carne, olla podrida and mole de guajalote, and maize and melons ripe from the milpas along with tomatoes and all the fruits in season—limes, lemons, grapes, and oranges. Wine by the gallons flowed deep red. There was also aguardiente, mescal, tequila, and pulque. A rich, colorful bounty of food and drink laid out on linen- draped tables in the dry shade of three grand poplars and lesser willows and shrubs, where milled men and women, children and I, Joaquin 95 dogs, goats, burros, mules and horses, some tethered and hobbled, others let to browse and graze. In that heady mix I stood refilling my cup, aswoon with wine and love and the favor and attention of all those I’d known and loved. I felt a tug at my sleeve and there stood Olajuaña, mi madrina. I picked her up and spun her around light as a sack of husks. Dizzy from drink and laughter she begged me to set her down—which I did, gently, to steady her. Then I filled her cup. Olajuaña drank like the desert, her tongue always dry. And she hadn’t aged a day, leathery and spry, would live a century, well preserved by the Sonora’s hot sun and wind like the many roots, seeds, and herbs she gathered. She always smelled fresh as a root just pulled from the earth. “You still have the eyes of a brujo,” she said, giving me that deep look of hers, nodding with her toothless smile, never had her nippers to my knowing. “I see the panther returns to pick his mate. They say you are headed north for California. North for the oro! Careful you don’t get northed! Norteao...!” she laughed, wagging her finger in warning that I not get lost. As abruptly her laughter ceased, her eyes squinted and teared over as if catching dust. She blinked away. “Something the matter, Olajuaña?” I asked. “No, nothing, Joaquín,” her voice suddenly vague and feeble. “Sometimes my eyes pain me is all.” “Then let’s get you to the shade,” I said, leading her toward the willows. “La sombra, sí...,” she answered faintly, gripping my arm with fevered hand. Now I know she was pained by what she saw, by things to come. At the time I thought she was merely old, her eyes failing. Thought nothing more, heard the call of music—la música!—and in the rush and spur of love caught Rosita by the waist and returned to dancing. There in front of five guitarists strumming in the shade of the tall poplars where young gallants paired off with their señoritas, strutting in the dust with swift kicks and turns, hand claps and high-pitched carcajadas, prancing like so many stallions before a herd of fillies. Mine the flashiest steps of all—fast-paced, balanced, spinning in a blink. Rosita smiled in admiration. 96 MELVIN LITTON

“I see you are well practiced,” she said. “Have you known many señoritas?” “Sí, a whole manada,” I winked. “At least enough to become a fair dancer.” But seeing her sadden, I drew her close and said, “Don’t mind them, Rosita. They are like the birds, glanced at and gone. You are the risen sun that lights my day and warms my heart, the blessed moon, the glory and promise of my dreams. I thought I had been everywhere, done everything, till returning here and seeing you in the moonlight by the river. Now I know I have only begun to see, to dance, to love....” We danced on, she and I, late into the night, vowing never to sadden, never to part. So much beginning, so much would end. Had I known what Olajuaña knew, I would gladly have died that night, happy and whole. PART TWO

Chapter Seven

any joined in the journey to Alta California, to the land of griffins Mnow ruled by Gringos. But gold waited for whoever knew its secrets, for those with the lust and will to draw it forth. To Mexicans mining was in the blood, the soul. The Spanish had mined the sierras for centuries and the Indio for centuries before that: the Yaqui for silver, the Aztec for gold. Though I had never mined nor searched for gold, I soon learned of its nature and habits shared by others along the trail, each swearing by their own method: “You got to cradle it like a baby till it cries out to you, sí....” “No, no,” another would say, “you swirl it in a pan and get dizzy at the sight....” “Bah! You fools. Best to use mercurio, build a sluice and catch it in the riffles....” “Ah, but how do know it’s not fool’s gold? Oro de bobos?” “You’ll know when you find it, amigo. It’ll warm to your touch like a woman’s flesh and give you a fever to match!” Then all would share a fevered laugh. Sí, united in quest as we never were in war: some would dig, some would blast, some would run it through a hundred-foot sluice and trap it with quicksilver. “So the Gringos took the land!” they’d shout. “We’ll take the gold!” Hundreds trekked north through the Sonora, whole families, entire villages even. But there were only five in our group: Rosita and I, her older brother Reyes, our friend Ramón, and shadowing along behind, urging his burro alongside our two pack mules, rode Pacito. He had begged to go. “Please, Joaquín,” he pleaded, so earnest, the eyes of a saint 100 MELVIN LITTON suffering in want to go. “I will be your faithful mozo. I will not be a burden or slow you down. See, I am nimble as a goat and eat very little.” And our mother, fearing he would run away in any case, held him tearfully and gave her permission. Made me promise to look after him. “Make him eat more,” she said. “He’s all skin and bones, he needs his frijoles.” I cuffed his ear and drew him to me. “Come hermanito,” I said, “I’ll show you how to pack an aparejo.” I knew his urge, had left home no older than he—but I had a panther’s blood and he a lamb’s. Still, we were brothers, hermanos, born of one mother and shared every youth’s dream of growing rich and never growing old. And that’s just it, you see, I promised her, our mother, that I would look out for Pacito. Promised her. Thought I could do anything, face any man or menace, listen for Mescalito’s whisper and know the answer. Heal any wound, armed with Olajuaña’s salve. So confident and bold that others took faith in my ardor and spirit. Even Padre León, who had hoped to see Pacito a priest, consented and gave him the burro to ride. Gave his true son to my care. Standing in front of the church, next to my mother, he blessed us both with the sign of the cross and said: “Vaya con Dios. Go with God, my sons. Do not abandon Him.” While I, ever impatient of sermon and prayer, sat mounted on Alazán, reining this way and that, anxious to be off as only fools are in haste for tomorrow, answered: “I mark your words, Father, and abandon nothing. Where the sun rises each day and where it sets, I mark as well. All the phases of the moon, that too. From where the wind blows and to where I ride, that also. And if God knows and follows with his knowing, I am grateful. If not, I cannot help it. I cannot wait on God. My time is brief, His without end. Adiós!” My words were a riddle even to myself. I set my spurs and rode, leading them out. And the riddle echoes still through a century and more, branding my impetuous nature, my brash, young pride. Ah, to end this long curse, my soul’s confinement, and walk a mere goat’s path from the village of my birth to the banks of the Magdalena as I rode that day in leaving, there linger a few moments more. To kneel I, Joaquin 101 at my mother’s grave and light a candle in memory of her love and sorrow, to breathe that air and feel that sun again, I would gladly yield my horrid sentience, my wretched knowing. But that day we no more than glanced at the Magdalena, nor even once looked back on our village. We paused only to accept the jar of ancient salve from Olajuaña’s outstretched arms, offered to Rosita as a wedding gift, then embarked on our adventure for gold. Like knights in quest. To ride El Camino Real! To El Dorado del Norte!

First we had to cross the Gran Desierta in the Jornada del Muerto. Beyond the conflux of the Gila and Rio Colorado the desert loomed: a sea of dunes flowing one to the other in wind-crested waves drift- ing as far as the eye could see, where nothing grew except scattered shrubs and here and there the giant cactus—and each saguaros stood like a mute sentinel haunting the spot where some lost soul fell too weary to tread, their flesh and bones, mules, horses, aparejos and carretas entombed by the dust. An occasional skull uncovered by the wind would gaze up at our passing, void of want or need. But sight of death, thirst and privation were old companions to natives of Sonora, and we continued on, each afoot, leading our animals burdened with goatskins of water and other provisions. We traveled mostly at night into the early morning, then staked poles and stretched a canvas for shade and rest. The sun so relentless by midday not a single vulture ranged the sky. With no water to spare, our faces were soon as chalked and sunbaked as Comanche marauders painted to wake the dead. The only sign of moist life showed on our wetted lips and in our eyes squinting from the sun. I’d look to Pacito and ask how he fared. “Bueno, sí...just fine,” he’d say, then try to smile, his lips cracked and blistered. “Your lip is bleeding, hemanito.” “No, only a little, not so bad....” Then he’d smile again, loathe to complain. Rosita too wore a mask of dust and wind, though her soft smile never bled and the luster of beauty shone in her eyes. While Ramón and Reyes would curse the sand and heat— “Damn this dung of 102 MELVIN LITTON

Diablo!”—they held to their task and kept their spit rolled with a stone on their tongue. We’d break camp at sunset, our trail soon lost in the hot night wind like drawings scratched in the sand. Young and dauntless, spurred by dreams, we made the arduous jornada far better than most. On the morning of the seventh day we sighted the sun- washed walls and great brass bell of Mission San Gabriel. The orchards, vineyards, and outlying vistas all watered by the Rio de los Tremblores presented a splendid oasis to our eyes. But we stayed only a day, long enough to bathe in the river and replenish supplies. We let our animals graze till evening then hurried on. After facing an ocean of sand we longed to see the ocean in its most vivid form. Reaching the coast is the day I remember always: serene, sensual, dreamlike, a day marking our arrival in California. Riding down from the hot, dry sierras, the air wafted in from the ocean so moderate and balmy as if scented by billowy clouds laden with nectars and spice. The sun no longer shone without mercy, but soothed the skin, warmed and caressed. Our flesh opened like flowers to that sun, and beyond sight of the others Rosita and I ran and splashed in the breakers, then cast our clothes to the wind and dove into the crush of water and foam. “So you can ride like the wind...can you run?” she teased as she rose from the water and fled. I rose like a stallion in chase, caught her by the mane and her kicking flanks. “I can catch a wild mustang and I can catch my queen, Rosita Califia....” We embraced on the sands of the playas, our salty flesh made one. Alone, naked as the first man and woman, we dozed to the music of the wind and waves, our strands of hair laced one to the other. Later, we roamed the sinuous curve of the shoreline in search of pearls, discovering something strange to our eyes. “What are these?” Rosita asked, freeing a rope of rubbery vegetation from the sand, its length affixed with bulbs and sea- green leaves. “Necklaces...once worn by Amazonas,” I mused. “Souvenirs given to sailors long ago who swam ashore to mate with them. Then I, Joaquin 103

the sailors drowned in shipwrecks and terrible storms. Now their trophies wash ashore again.” Rosita draped a length from her shoulders and her bronze flesh beckoned, scented by the sun, the sand, the ocean and its dark ornament. “Would you swim to me?” “I would swim to you and gladly drown,” I said. “But more gladly take you in my arms....” I swept her up and carried her to a large flat rock and made love like a sea-god mounting her while the surge and rhythm of the waves broke all around us. Our flesh enrapt in the surf and foam and one another, we slept captive to that dream for a day or a century as time ceased and the ocean spewed and sprayed. We awoke sated and cleansed of the desert, left our Eden to rejoin our little band and journey on. Traveling north, we followed El Camino Real, the old trail established over time by Jesuit, Franciscan, and Dominican Friars to connect their missions along the coast, past San Buenaventura and Santa Barbara, on to Santa Maria and San Luis Obispo and a dozen others that would eventually lead all the way to San Francisco. Many of the missions had fallen into disrepair, some utterly abandoned to birds, rats, and stray cattle, all stripped of their vast lands and authority some years before. Los Indios, the converts, were abandoned as well, left to fend for themselves in squalor and dirt. No doubt the Padres had said, “Vayo con Dios, my children.” But they wandered lost, the “Diggers” as they were known, grubbing for food, feeding on roots, insects, and lizards. From time to time we’d see them in scattered bands, keeping mostly distant and wary. Once we met one crouched by the trail, turning up a rock in search for worms, taking a wiggly morsel to his mouth, so intent in his hunger he seemed oblivious to our small caravan. His flesh scabbed and skeletal, his hair matted with twigs and dust, his only clothing a ragged hide hung about his loins. “This is too sad,” Pacito said. “We should feed him.” He hopped from his burro and offered a bit of jerky in his outstretched hand. “Here, amigo...charqui....” But the wretch grimaced like a fevered coyote in fear of poisoned bait and scurried to a gully to wait our leaving. Pacito kept his hand extended in wonder of the man’s retreat. 104 MELVIN LITTON

“Spit in the wind to wet your thirst,” Ramón said. “That one prefers his own grub.” “Come, hermano, let him be.” Pacito laid his offering to the dust and we rode on. Where saints had failed he still hoped to gentle the world with a gesture. Sí, it is good to hope. In any case Pacito proved an able mozo, eager for his task, jumping down, hurrying forth, never complaining, tireless till he dropped at night and slept like the dead. But first up at dawn, wide awake, like a little rooster in his red bandana, running to fetch wood and water. After crossing the desert he would not wear a sombrero, said it made his head ache. And always smiling now that his lips had healed, his teeth so bucked his smile seemed bigger. And he ate his frijoles without prompting, wolfed them down, appetite sharpened by the excitement and exertion of the trail. He packed along several books, the Bible, of course, and the Lives of the Saints. But our favorite tales and his for reading by the fire when we camped at night were Don Quixote by Cervantes and Bernal Diaz’s account of the Conquest carried out by Cortés, himself, and others. As Mexicans we held no love for the Spaniards, los conquistadores, but we could not deny their courage and fortitude, nor their Captain’s firm hand and cunning. And our minds filled with the old soldier’s descriptions of their many battles, sensing the violent struggle and the very wounds, some cauterized with the belly fat sliced from their enemy. Maldito! Recalling my own wound so healed, I told them how Gallina had lit me up while Ella Gorda held me down. “Look—” I said, pulling up my shirt to show the scar. “It flared like a fuse when she touched the flame to the oil.” “Is that the wound that paid for Lucero?” Rosita asked. “Sí,” I nodded. While Ramón gravely shook his head. “Oooo, bet that hurt like a hot brand on a young calf.” “No, a brand would be more like a kiss, I think,” said Reyes. But more chilling than my wound and its memory were the hair-raising tales of the Aztec, their bloody temples and their blood- smeared priests, hair and robes reeking from the blood of their victims. Pacito would act it out as he stood before the fire depicting the rude carnage and the grim vengeance the priests wreaked on I, Joaquin 105 the Spaniards. And he did not appear a skinny boy, but an ancient priest himself wielding an obsidian knife as the flames leapt to his shadowed face. “Ah-yieee!” he’d cry. “They ripped their hearts still beating from their chests in offer to the bird-snake god Quetzalcoatl!” So vivid as if he too held a victim’s heart, then he would lower his arms and soften his tone. “Their screams carried through the night in pitiful regret of all they’d plundered...while fires devoured the splendid palaces and bodies filled the canals. Sí, all in ruin, the fabulous gardens, the vast stores of wealth and knowledge that had ruled an empire. All ravaged by the Spaniards....” The old conflict spoke to our blood where the foes yet seethed and mixed, reflecting on our faces while the flames mocked and hissed indifferent to our fates as if each night consuming more raw limbs from that ancient, endless slaughter. And we never tired of Don Quixote, the old knight and his squire, of his many follies and comic blunders. A fool oblivious to all but himself. Like those listening. The keen attraction was that we saw ourselves in the old knight and his squire; yet we were too young and foolish to realize the truth beyond the humor. Or maybe we did know but were simply so young and full of life that we saw only the jest and not its dark phantom. For we often laughed and pointed fingers recalling the day’s fool joust—like when Ramón kneed the mule in the gut to tighten the cinch on the aparejo, then bent down to lift the pack and was kicked in turn. Sent flying by the mule’s swift kick. The mule brayed in laughter, as did we, and later Ramón while pointing to his “twice-cracked ass” as he called it. “Think I’ll let Pacito pack that damn mule from now on,” he said. True, Pacito’s quiet manner pleased the contrary beast. Reyes too played the fool one morning when he awoke and found a black snake coiled next to his warmth. Ay! Yi! Yi! He jumped and landed a full ten paces, hurling rocks and cursing. Hated snakes, always laid a black hair rope he’d braided around his camp bed, for as all know the víbora fears the black snake. Yet here was a black snake coiled next to him anxious to suckle. For it is also true that a black snake will suck a cow dry, so they say, and you can bet that Reyes did not wish to be sucked by a snake. Though he soon calmed 106 MELVIN LITTON down, laughing with the rest of us, grateful it was a black snake and not a rattler. “You black devil!” he yelled as it crawled away. “Go kill the víbora and bed with your own kind. Try to suck on me again I’ll snap you like a whip!” Hearing this, Pacito buckled to his knees and laughed till he cried, and continued laughing all that day at the thought of Reyes being sucked by a snake. He loved the raw language, loved being included, sharing in the adventure, in the labor and routine of the trail. Each doing their part. And we all shared in the reading at night, Rosita and I and Reyes, all except Ramón who’d never learned to read but understood well enough and loved the stories, the words, their cadenced wonder. But Pacito read mostly and best of all, his voice so apt and dramatic, assuming that ageless tone that resides in every heart and speaks to the curious meaning of things. He possessed a deep understanding and a craving for words—words written and ordered to the semblance of imagination and life. And he kept a journal in which he vowed to chronicle all our deeds and discoveries. “Look, Joaquín,” he said one day, smiling proud as he showed me. “I think I shall be a poet and not a priest. I’d rather speak of life.” Sí, more than our little mozo, he was our voice. A wise innocent. A rare blend of the quixotic, the devout, the practical. Ever pleasing. A delight for all. Mi hermano. Of Ramón and Reyes I will speak more, for they were with me to the end. And though I poked fun at them just now, they were no more foolish than I. Ramón was the old man of us, in his late twenties. He carried a good pouch at his belly which he’d slap on occasion and call his frijoles. Broad-shouldered and long-limbed, strong as a bear. And with him I would rope a bear, for he had no equal in using the reata. His arms and iron grip held whatever they set to—his will as fierce and tenacious as a grizzly. On his face grew a thick forest of black stubble no matter how often he shaved, which gave him a menacing look, but he was as good-natured as his frequent laugh. Unless provoked. And though he met the world and each man head on, he wore his sombrero pulled low to shade his eyes, the corners etched by deep crow’s feet from constant squinting. Like the crow he was wise and cautious—kicked once I, Joaquin 107

but never twice by the same mule. Sí, he had a long memory and a short fuse. Played a fool by no man. He’d killed two to my knowing, both with the reata, jerked them from the saddle and dragged them to death. Why? They provoked him. Beneath his long hooked nose and broad mustache his lips usually held a shuck cigarro, seldom lit except at dawn or at night around the fire. He’d roll it with his tongue, chew and spit, squinting through the distance, his shaded eyes detecting movement near and far. Careful and observant like a crow. Each time in preparing to mount he’d spread his arms like wings in slow reach for the saddle, then spring up with such ease—rein and ride as if born there. Reyes wore his sombrero hardly at all, left it strung on his back to dangle in the wind as he rode. While his dark hair stood windblown, parted this way and that as if he’d slept on it wrong. But he combed it down each morning, fussed with it and his mustache till a saint would lose his patience—peering into the little mirror propped on his knee as he shaved, posing to one side then the other, and after shaving and cleaning his teeth, he’d smile, first holding it close then at length. “If you see a beauty in there,” Ramón would chuckle, “give her a wink for me.” We joked that if he stared too long he’d lose his soul. “Vanish! Like gold to quicksilver,” we’d say. But Reyes heard nothing and ignored all, preening like a girl awaiting her prince. At last he’d pack the mirror away and brush off his clothes. Thinking today may be the day. Anxious for the girls, the señoritas. Fell in love with each one he met and for love could not speak. We passed through various settlements and stopped by ranchos and haciendas along the way to ask news of the trail or trade for supplies. In every doorway Reyes saw a beauty whether she was so or not, yet he remained mute, tongue-tied before each fair Dulcinea. Vexed by his vision, his longing, he could not speak to say, “Buenos días,” “Cómo está,” or “Adíos!” and instead rode on, gritting his teeth and mussing his hair in frustration. Fearing he would never speak, never meet a girl in the moonlight, he asked Pacito to write him a poem, something he could use with any girl on the right occasion. Pacito wrote: “Your beauty has hushed my tongue. Silence steals my words like a black snake sucking milk. 108 MELVIN LITTON

If my tongue could speak of my heart, of my want for you, we would coil about one another and warm the night.” Reyes lapped it up, put it to memory then and there and each day practiced singing it to the wind as he rode. “Your beauty has hushed my tongue...,” he’d recite over and over till Ramón would call out: “Madre de Cristo! Would you hush your tongue?” But again, Reyes ignored all and kept on singing. One night he rode to a fandango and met a girl and did not return till dawn. His smile told all that he’d met with her favor and they’d warmed the night. He thanked Pacito and said no more. Thereafter he looked to the mirror only as needed. And his hair lay full and smooth even in the wind. Or so it seemed, his flesh now at ease. Did I say Reyes was equally tall as me? No, he was taller—both he and Ramón. It was only that they looked up to me. For I was the clever one who knew when the fruit was ready, when to hold my tongue, and when to speak. They trusted my instinct and my judgment, named me their Jefe, their chief in our quest for gold. I led them even then, like Cortés, only a Mexican Cortés, a Mestizo.

From time to time we faded back, Rosita and I, seeking a wild bar- ranca in which to vent our passion held in check among the others. Though we embraced in our blankets each night and many nights succumbed to the pressing urge, it was a quick, stifled pairing com- pared to our whole want and desire—we longed to stand full and proud before one another, clothed by nothing save the sun, the dust, our deep shadowed flesh reaching, grappling, falling to earth. And well you might ask: Did she not grow curious of my stallion cock? Not once ask of its rare size and coloring? Sí, many times she gazed in question and eventually asked: “Why are you spotted black and pink like a horse? And hung like a horse?” While never modest, I could not tell her of Ella Gorda and my fiery transformation, I simply said it was a birthmark that darkened over time and that I grew large in passion for her. Then I asked if it did not please her. “Ah sí,” she murmured, “más deleitante...pleases me very much,” I, Joaquin 109 as she raised her hips astride and took it in. Pleased to feel my full strength and heat, to ride its surgent pulse like she rode Lucero. Along the desolate middle coast, between Obispo and Monterey, we were caught one evening in a violent storm, still miles separate from the others, having tarried lost in love till late in the day. Surprised, for rains were not in season. But rain it did, like the ocean turned upside down. Clouds lowered, the sky darkened, and winds lashed up a mad torrent of rain. Soon the gulches and arroyos, bone- dry at dawn, were cresting in flash flood. We reined from the raging waters and rode anxious for shelter against the blinding rain. In a sudden crack of thunder Lucero bolted. I spurred Alazán in chase, whipping madly in fear I’d lose them. And shortly did, not knowing where to turn or where the danger lay. Were they swallowed up, lost? Realizing I’d been too willful, too urgent, I ceased my whipping and gave Alazán his head, speaking to his heart in hope to find them. For a time I sensed nothing through the sheets of rain, then felt his muscles surge and soon the faint outline of horse and rider appeared like a ghostly mirage. “Aye-yi-yi-yieee!” I yelled, urging him on, quickly gaining ground as the storm worked to slow them. When we came abreast I leaned and caught Lucero’s bridle then braced hard in my stirrups till I held him steady. “Ah, Joaquín!” Rosita cried, whipping back her wet hair. “I have him now!” “And I have you!” I shouted, much relieved. I looped my reata to her saddle horn then dallied it to mine, making certain Lucero would not shy again. It was soon so dark we could not see the terrain, the horizon, or much less one another, except in flashes of lightning which the heavy rains even worked to dim. In one brief illumined moment we spied an adobe, a small rancho, its dark silhouette cast like a beacon on a hillside. Upon approach we found it abandoned, the door sprung, hanging by a leather hinge. A humble refuge left for the wayfarer; a friar would have knelt and given thanks for the blessing. We did not question our luck, but quickly unsaddled our horses and tethered them to the portico where they could at least stand partly out of the wind and rain. Inside, the musty air reeked of offal, like some feral beast had nested there. 110 MELVIN LITTON

“Qué mal olor...the smell...is ugly,” Rosita said, pressing to my arm. “Sí, but it is dry.” Only too glad to have her near and not lost in the storm. I propped the door open to ease the smell and more we did not question, but lay to the hard dirt, too exhausted to attempt a fire, soaked through and chilled, clutching to each other in our blankets for warmth while the wind moaned past like a rude ghost wanting in. The roof of tules shed the rain and we soon embraced in dark sleep. Outside the storm raged on without witness. We awoke to a shaft of light slanting in through the door. The bright clear dawn blinded me as I leaned to my hand preparing to rise; the floor damp and sticky from the rain, I thought. But looking there I discerned a black pool of blood. And sitting up I beheld a scene so gruesome I had to close my eyes in hope it wasn’t so. But the sun lit the earthen walls, revealing five ghastly figures: two slumped in the near corner, three sprawled further on. I grasped Rosita’s hand as she too gazed on the dead. They were an immigrant family, Gringos, hair of reddish blonde, their once ruddy skin drained of life, now pale as tallow. The parents lay paired in death, their eyes blank and staring like in a tintype—he a stout, balding man shot through the head, his throat slashed. Her’s too, so deep it gaped in silent howl. She was pretty for a large woman, there ravaged, her thighs left splayed and exposed, a burnt stake shoved between them, hot brands left to roast inside her. Their sons lay crumpled in a heap like they’d died fighting as one, arms and legs bent askew, disjointed. Their heads bashed in by a cudgel or a rifle butt. One perhaps Pacito’s age, and two much younger. Not till I stood did I see the girls, one tiny and one grown, hanging head down from the center beam in the far shadows, both stripped naked and horribly used, trussed up by their ankles and left to die. Fouled themselves in dying. Their mouths twisted in agony and terror that marked their faces and told of their end. Their long golden hair shifted slightly in the breeze, catching the sunlight as it brushed the floor. Flies and ants swarmed, beginning to feed. Have you never skinned an animal? Plunged your hands to its I, Joaquin 111 most intimate depth to draw forth its blood and guts? Still warm, nearly vibrant, yet unmistakably limp and dead? Imagine then how my eyes dwelled, seeing all. Only these were not animals. I glanced from the girls to the parents and to the boys. Their stench filled my nostrils, covered me. My head reeled. All so sudden, unexpected, unspeakable. My father the priest awakened to say a prayer and could not. My stallion cock shrank in dread. My panther blood chilled, held no hunger that morning. I stumbled outside and retched while Rosita knelt by the door and prayed to La Virgen Santísima to take pity on their souls. All had died the day before, killed perhaps the very moment we’d locked in love, slaughtered like pigs in a sty. She crossed herself and stood. I caught my breath. We faced one another, silent, could not say a word. All so sudden, unexpected, unspeakable. I steeled my heart and went inside, cut the girls down and laid them beside their parents. Covered them and their mother with their bloody clothes. The boys, too, I untangled and straightened, trying to grant some dignity to their final rest. A family of seven laid out on the dirt floor of a crude adobe, there entombed. A horrid portrait I carry still. We rushed from there, Rosita and I, covering our tracks as best we could, saddled our horses and fled. Rode far and fast, fearing we’d be named for their murder as I was later named for so many crimes not my own. But it is only natural to flee the dead, the wretched and unlucky. We rode in numb silence, haunted by the question of who would kill in such a vile manner? Yet there were worse crimes, like the Gringos who’d eaten one another in crossing the sierras two winters before. And I would see worse. And if what I did by my own hand was as bad, you must judge. Though I never harmed a child other than to make it an orphan. Strange, we think ourselves innocent, and are until a word, act, or deed both forms and transforms us, and thereafter our innocence can never be reclaimed nor barely remembered, so remote and lost, while the dark hole at our center swallows up whatever light there was. In that darkened adobe lay posed a portent of my fate, a hint of things to come. It was I who stumbled out and retched, not Rosita. For she never grew cruel, only deeply sad and silent and so did not share my foreboding. Here played the opening scene of a bloody drama about to unfold. And I, Joaquín, 112 MELVIN LITTON an actor on the stage. Have patience, for I will name them, my acts. Name all and spare nothing.

How happy and relieved we were to rejoin the others. I hugged Pacito with more fondness than I’d ever shown. Greeted Reyes and Ramón with hearty handshakes, pleased to see them safe and well. Feared I’d find them murdered—caught by surprise, their throats slit by the same rough beast I’d sensed and witnessed. They too thought us lost, perhaps drowned, only narrowly escaping a flash flood themselves. “We heard it rumble, Jefe, before a drop fell from the sky,” Ramón declared. “I swear it thundered like a thousand horse stampede. Estampida grande! We barely had time to drive the horses and mules to high ground.” “You should have seen it, Joaquín,” added Pacito. “A great wall of water, dark and ugly, like a demonio raging from the center of the earth. It snuffed our campfire, snatched up every loose limb and shrub in its path. Whole boulders and trees even!” “Un torrente,” affirmed Reyes, earnest as the rest. “We heard horses scream as they were carried off. Poor devils.” This explained the pinto Rosita and I had happened on in crossing a flood-washed gulch earlier that day, caught in the limbs of a broad mesquite, held like a soul wrapped in rawhide in offering to an angry god. That’s when Rosita and I found our voices—in telling them of the pinto left like a sacrifice. “You would not think the waters put it there, amigos. But the tree held the horse in its upper limbs...as in a great hand.” “Sí, as if offered to the sky,” said Rosita. “Then the wind calmed.” Later, around the fire, in hushed, broken tones, we described our experience and what we’d found: the storm, the adobe, the sunlight, the bodies...the horror. Por Dios! That we’d actually seen such a horror! They made the sign of the cross in listening. “La familia...there were seven in all,” I said. “The father, the mother...de niños. And no, there was no kindness in the hand that killed them.” “No, no mercy,” Rosita said softly. “And no soul.” “You mean...all last night you slept with los muertos and did not know?” I, Joaquin 113

“Sí, Pacito. We slept and did not know.” Por Dios! That we’d curled safe and dry in the very womb! Again they crossed themselves. Their astonishment shone like the fire on their faces—and though related in mere fragments, we told enough that they grew quiet at the telling. Staring at the flames, listening to the soft wind, all sat silent as the glittering stars while the flames settled low. Then Rosita said something I would never forget. “The ghost of the little one, the chica,” she said, “is with us now. I sense she will follow till she sees and names her killers.” And Mescalito whispered, “Sí, es verdad, she will name her murderers should you meet with them....” Chapter Eight

s we crested a high ridge the breaking sun rained down on the Adeep bowl of the Coloma Valley, tinting every leaf, rock, and blade of grass in a golden mist. Each swinging pick and bright shovel bore its luster, or so it seemed. Our heads dizzied at the view and the lively prospects that waited. “Oro en el Rio Americano!” Near the end of El Camino Real we’d followed the echoed cry and headed inland, skirting the frenzied settlement of Yerba Buena that soon grew into a city and took its name from the great bay, San Francisco. For the prize lay “En el Rio Americano!” Hundreds spread out along the trail with their horses, mules, carretas, or simply afoot, making for La Gran Festiva, the whole world clamoring to attend—Chileños, Sonorans, Californios, and Gringos—sailors jumping ship, soldiers deserting their posts, while merchants abandoned their goods, men their wives, students their books, each heart set on finding la veta madre, the mother lode. “A el Rio Americano!” echoed from voice to voice. And it was good we already packed our basic tools and supplies for in the mad rush for gold common items such as picks and shovels quickly grew as scarce as horses following a Comanche raid and often sold for as dear a price. We reached the placers, the diggings, in the late summer of 1848 along the south fork of the Rio Americano—the river once named Las Llagas, for “the wounded,” and a fitting name still. Thousands had already arrived and were working the river bed and hillsides, gouging deep wounds as the “ding” of metal striking rock rang in the air. Yet this swarm was nothing compared to the tens of I, Joaquin 115

thousands due to come. But no matter, there were hundreds of miles of river beds and streams, always space ahead as well as space behind. In the quest for new diggings, the lure of greater promise, many rich placers were left untapped. Where one rushed forth, another soon stood. In such a manner I made our first discovery. Several days further east, in fording the river, I leapt down to a sand-bar to fill my canteen and noticed a glitter unlike sand on Alazán’s black hoof. A warmer, deeper gleam. I took a fleck on my finger, rolled it with my thumb, then pressed it with my nail. It flattened. Pressed more, it flattened more. Soft and malleable, and sí, it warmed my flesh. Blind to all else I rushed to where we’d emerged from the river, and there just above the current in a deep hoof print starting to fill with water lay a nugget the size of my thumbnail. Scratching the gravel a bit, I found another. Aieee! I jumped with a shout and held it up. “Es Oro!” I cried and ran to Ramón and Reyes, to Rosita and Pacito, shouting, “Look! Look! Gold! GOLD!” “But where? Where do we dig, Jefe?” “Here, there...let your rooster loose to chase the hen,” I laughed. In the next instant we were all on our hands and knees, pawing at the sand and gravel, digging with our hands—Rosita too kneeling to carefully sift and glean with her fingers. We forgot our thirst, our horses, our tools, each other, and in that late afternoon found a dozen more nuggets as large and larger. “Look! Over here!” Pacito called, having found one the size of an acorn. “Por Jesús, I’ll find one the size of a huevo!” Ramón vowed. Reyes and I grabbed our cajones and danced about, giddy at the thought of golden eggs, while Rosita ignored our bluster and in her modest way found more than any. That evening we camped on that very spot and staked our claim. Too excited to sleep, we sat around the fire, passing nuggets from hand to hand, sharing dreams of all we’d buy and do with the untold wealth we were bound to reap. Nuggets the size of huevos laid by La Ganza de Oro! “When I find that huevo,” said Ramón, “I will have a horse fast as Lucero!” “Careful you don’t break your neck, amigo.” 116 MELVIN LITTON

“Hah!” he slapped my leg. “You forget, Jefe, who taught you to ride.” “I want a fancy suit like yours, Joaquín...cut to fit.” “Fine, Pacito...but you must have a horse to dress like a charo.” “Then I will have a horse, and boots, and a saddle!” “What about you, Rosita?” I asked, reaching to take her hand. “I want a gown...a satin gown,” she said as I pulled her to her feet. “Ah, and what color? No, let me guess. Azul.” “Sí...maybe,” she smiled as we began to dance. “Or maybe red or yellow?” “I’ll buy you one of each, azul, rojo, amarillo...one of every color if you wish.” “What is that wine with bubbles?” Reyes asked above their clapping rhythm. “Champaña,” I answered, in swirl with Rosita about the fire. “Sí, I will drink champaña and dance with women of every color. Aieee...!” Dawn did not come fast enough. We were back on the sand-bar scratching like a flock of hens. But scratching in the sand did not yield any more nuggets. Not one. You would think that where there were a dozen there would be hundreds more. In any case we were not too discouraged, only baffled at gold’s random nature. We began to apply more method to our search. Ramón would pan while Reyes and I worked the cradle, coaxing forth the gold like a mother cooing to her babe, from time to time shifting tasks. Rosita and Pacito too joined in. All shared the risk and labor and would eventually share the profit. And I cannot say that any of us liked the tiresome, backbreaking work, bent or squatted half the day, standing in icy waters or blistering your hands with pick and shovel—but a speck of gold lay in every handful, and though it never came so fast and easy as that first day, its steady trickle kept us spurred to our task. While much of the labor was too strenuous for Rosita and Pacito, they helped out more by tending to the animals, keeping camp, and preparing the food. Rosita made her lavandería, her laundering place, at a nearby feeder stream. In the bright morning sun she’d kneel to the glistening stones washed smooth by the rushing water, soak our clothes and rub them clean of sweat and grime, then hang I, Joaquin 117

them over limbs to dry in the pine-scented air. Good to have clean clothes and food prepared. Good to have each other and fond times to ease the labor. But our isolation and serenity did not last. Within a week a score of others were mining in the vicinity. Then overnight a hundred more came sifting through every inch of ground, digging under every root and rock. Where one catches fish, all want to fish. The gleanings grew meager and you could hardly turn without bumping into one another. So we moved on. The fever made you move, made you want to move. To quote Quixote: “When one door shuts, another opens....” Many doors opened and shut that autumn. We mined a half dozen different claims, none quite so rich as the first—and I learned later that once we left that spot someone did find a nugget the size of a huevo. Such is the magic, the mania, the mercurial irony of gold, here then gone then here again. Vanishing to reappear like a lost friend. And strangely, a thousand miles north of where we’d last said goodbye, I met up with Luis Vulvia. To lay eyes on my old amigo was a greater thrill than finding gold. “Luis, qué tal! How have you been? What has happened? When? How did you get here?” asking all my questions at once. Luis just smiled like old times. “We had two months on the trail,” he said. “Before that, I was at my father’s rancho...sometimes in the sierras.” Then he introduced me to his compañero, a large bull-of-a-man named Manuel Duarte. “Sí, with him I’ve roped a grizzly or two.” Manuel gave a silent nod in greeting as his hard hand gripped mine, determined to show his brute strength. But I held firm and smiled, letting him know he would not bull me. He soon relented. And before the day was out he too called me “Jefe.” We worked mostly in pockets of our own, with other Sonorans, while there were Chileños and others intermixed. A few Gringos even. Funny thing, pickings were so plentiful and seemingly endless at that time many Gringos welcomed our presence, our expertise, and sought us out. And they appreciated the sight of a beautiful woman—of Rosita—something more rare than a ten-ounce nugget in those regions. I did not mind. I was proud of her and confident of my pistols. Besides, none showed disrespect. Some rode as far as 118 MELVIN LITTON twenty miles simply to doff their hat and say, “Good day, Señorita” in their heavy-tongued accent, voices muffled by their great beards. And speaking with los Americanos, my skill at their language quickly improved. Most were cheerful, good-natured men, tall, raw-boned, and let others abide as each went his own way. If this was their sense of liberty, I was willing to accept their rule and look with favor upon their law. No, there was little conflict or animosity that first season. Seldom a theft. Men respected the claim of “yours” and “mine.” And what few murders I witnessed were hot-blooded affairs, men squared off in quarrel over sum and substance, slight and pride—personal battles as common as love and hate. Judgment made by the gun or knife, the dead were buried while the victors shouldered their burden and moved on. But no, this was a relative peace that reigned only for a season and only in the mines. Where men mass out of greed there can be no peace. A grim, cold-blooded urge was vented beyond view and bore heavily on the Diggers, cousins of the same wretches orphaned by the missions, and who’d lived in the sierras for centuries and were now trapped in the stream-beds and canyons, slaughtered to a man, the children too—though maidens were often taken to the camps for pleasure and profit. Gringos hated the Indio like rabid dogs in fever to kill, but lusted after their women like dogs lined up in want of a bitch. While few took part, many condoned. If we did not hate the Diggers, all counted them a nuisance. Clever thieves that came in the night, not feared like the Apache and Comanche, merely despised and hunted like vermin, not even deemed worthy of a bounty.

“Zopilotes!” Ramón noted, pointing to vultures circling above the trees. “Wonder what they found?” We were returning from the camps with fresh supplies, following the trail to our claim. We shortly halted. In our path lay a Digger, gut-shot and left to die. He grimaced like only the dead. His hands still clutched the air above his chest, frozen in mid-struggle; one leg drawn up, the other slightly bent. And like the one Pacito had tried to feed, he was naked but for a strip of hide, and might have been a brother. Though his flesh had started to bloat and there were so many flies on his face he looked bearded. Wary of the stench I nudged Alazán. Again Pacito made appeal. I, Joaquin 119

“We should bury him,” he said. Rosita also looked to me. Much as I wished, I could not deny them and leave him to the vultures. While Ramón, Luis, and Manuel fetched shovels, Reyes and I tended to the body. Not eager to touch, let alone smell, we each wedged a branch under the stiffened corpse and rolled it onto a blanket. Wrapped it tight and tucked the ends neat as a shuck cigarro. He was better clothed in death than ever in life. The grave soon dug, we carried him end for end and eased him down, then shoveled in the dirt. With the stench buried we could more easily show respect. We removed our sombreros while Pacito recited the prayer for the dead. Listening, I gazed to the sierras in wonder of the Digger’s soul. Would it haunt the night wind and the cold waters rushing through the streams? Would it pass into the soil...or the air? One thing certain: Who would save the Diggers was a moonstruck Quixote and would have as little luck. As his squire Sancho said, “To the grave the dead and them that live to the bread....” We marked his grave with stones and rode on to our diggings. That night, preparing to bed down, Rosita looked to me in long question. “Why is it you never pray?” she asked. “Not for the Indio? Not even for los muertos in the adobe that day? Do you not believe?” “No, Rosita...I believe. In another, perhaps an older way. I sense a spirit in things. In the dust even....” I griped a handful and let it sift to the ground. “El Bravo once told me, ‘Men forget of what they’re made.’ Sí, dust to dust, like the Indio we buried. So I believe in the earth, the flesh, the dust. The spirit in the wind, the trees, the grass. The spirit in Alazán...I can hear it in his blood. And in my heart and yours, Rosita. And in our breath as we speak of love. And my prayer is my love for you.” I touched a finger to her lips as she smiled, still in question but more at ease. She nestled her head to my shoulder as we lay in our blankets and listened to the wind softly whisper through the grass. And in the far night something more disturbing as rifle shots echoed and died away. I held her closer and welcomed the silence that followed—as if the horror that reigned beyond view could not touch us; as if whatever evil had visited that dark adobe had dispersed with the storm like a freak event, a distant nightmare. And if its 120 MELVIN LITTON mist now settled on others, I held her safe and near, happy to let the threat pass from my mind like sand sloughed off in panning.

With the winter rains most miners decamped and headed for the coast. We too left the diggings and rode for San Francisco in an opposite quest, anxious to cool our fever in festive chance and blood-stirring fandango. As with nearly all miners a good part of our take had been eaten up in keeping supplied, though we held a fair reserve in hand, enough to pursue our pleasure and comfort and resupply in the spring. And while many of our countrymen returned home to live well on their new wealth, we were not ready to leave. No, our concerns were not at all frugal. We liked the new land, the froth and mix of people. And there was greater wealth to be had. By early winter of ‘49, San Francisco was a bustling city of several thousand tents sprawling along the shoreline, crawling up the hills, growing daily like a thing coming alive—especially as we first saw it, lit up at night, each tent aglow like so many Chinese lanterns strung out in the shape of a great dragon snaking up from the sea. Hundreds of ships lay at anchor in the bay, shrouded by the dense fog, their tall masts looming like a forest of pines stripped bare by fire, their rigging draped from yardarm to boom in an endless web snaring all. Scores abandoned by their crews, gone aground, landlocked, propped up and refurbished, now serving as hotels and cantinas for the ragged, thirsty miners. More arriving daily. Shiploads of questers. A human herd streaming ashore, bearing their hopes and dreams and whatever they could carry, refuse and baggage cast aside as heavy boots plodded on through muddy streets till many became impassable, leaving man and horse mired in the muck while planks and barrels tossed down for causeways sank slowly underfoot. But we made our way well enough, curious of the sights, the sounds, the many scents. Men and women arrived from every corner of the earth, all in parade, in mask and costume marking their origins, hawking their wares. Every extravagance known or imagined of flesh or craft there beached. Some wooed, some sold, some lost in the crush, making way for more. Women from every clime offering salacious delights: “Daughters of Joy” from China, I, Joaquin 121 bare-breasted Tahitians, Nubian slave-girls shipped from the Gold Coast of Africa, their ebony thighs alluring in bright silk and lace, Parisian courtesans in their latest fashions, cream-fleshed Irish maids with ruddy cheeks and radiant hair, tall Nordic blondes standing sullen and proud, their lips sneering in lewd barter to suck the craven member—harlots all, many whose beauty and pride would not last the season, soon soiled like the black-haired Chileñas come to wed and made to whore, cribbed like cattle, pocked by disease. And intermixed were daughters of the poor, mere girls passed to desperados for a trifle, their flesh painted and dressed in garish disguise like as not to entice their former fathers; these chica whores squired by Creole pimps who slunk in the shadows like gargoyles prompting the naifs how to act and speak. An exotic array, a tapestry of flesh, sure to draw the eye of any man, serve any appetite or desire. Reyes and Ramón spurred off at a gallop. Luis and Manuel had disappeared at the first bordello. And though my fire burned strong for Rosita, my eye wandered over the riot of plumage and my stallion cock ached to mount each favorite, savor each new spice. I checked the urge and reined away, but not until Pacito had a taste. He was fourteen and had traded his burro and bought a horse—a stout, gray gelding that he named “El Tardo,” for it was a little slow. And though still skinny and undersize, Pacito stood proud in his new charro suit. “What do you think?” he asked. “Do I look a man?” “Sí, quite a man,” I said. “Qué hombre hermoso,” added Rosita with a smile. This helped give him courage, for his love of the Virgin had blossomed into a nervous, fitful urge, one that poetry and prayer could not satisfy or soothe. And the one he wanted was a young “Celestial”—a Chinese girl of almond eyes, jet-black hair, and porcelain skin that glowed in the lamplight at the door of her tent. An opiated ancient who appeared to be her grandfather acted as pimp. He read all and said nothing, accepted the gold offered and bowed for Pacito to enter. So he went to his baptismal with a polite, quiet transaction that befit his poetic nature. And he emerged wearing a poetic smile that spoke of his pride and pleasure. He swung to his saddle and adjusted his sash, relaxed and manly. But 122 MELVIN LITTON

he still did not wear his sombrero. “No, it is no use,” he said, letting it hang to his back. “It sits on my head like a dark cloud, and my thoughts cannot reach to the sun, the moon and the stars.” “And what do you see in the stars, hermano?” “Ah, the Celestial,” he said, turning his gaze to the sky. As we approached the hotel where Rosita waited, he drew rein and looked to me. “I know for certain I will be a poet. The great poet of El Dorado. I will write of love, gold, and adventure. They will remember me and my words. And I think I will die young, Joaquín. But I am happy. For this I was born....” In loving a woman we are all made happy and willing to die. Such is the wisdom of the flesh. And its tragedy. At the sight of Rosita—freshly bathed, perfumed, dressed in a new silk skirt and blouse and a velvet bolero, with a red bow in her hair and a black lace mantilla draping her shoulders—I forgot all the others. She was the jewel of my eye that blended the best of each and yet was utterly different, dear and true and mine like the earth that had made us. Her sweetness and grace, her dark, dulcet eyes focused my urge, drew me to her. I pressed her palm to mine, touching the scars where we were wed, met her smile, her white teeth tempting like pearls beneath the soft curve of her lips, took her in my arms and kissed her, tasting her nectar and warmth, her lush, hot breath. Then we rode to a fandango and danced and whirled without effort as if we were spirits held arm in arm. We danced till late in the night, and returning to our room we found the flesh again and made love till dawn. Then we slept. So we lived, one month then two, caught in the swirl of dance and love, oblivious to the human tide sweeping ashore, lost in the fog that crept in nightly from the bay. And when the fog lifted we slept. From time to time Pacito sallied forth to meet his “Celestial” maiden. At these moments I made sure to accompany him, for there lay danger in every quarter. Aside from pimps and the lure of women, there were cutthroats and thieves grouped like rats along the embarcadero, the harbor, and down every street waited another swindle, a game of dice or monte, or perchance those less civil who would fleece you at the point of a knife or gun. The law was each man’s to sustain or deny. And riding alone in certain quarters after I, Joaquin 123 lamplight was a fool’s risk. Thugs stalked like vultures to feed— convicts from Australia, felons from France and Spain, muggers from every port in the seven seas. Among the Celestials too in their braided queues and slight, stealthy manner were those who would slip a knife in your ribs, snatch your purse, and vanish as quiet and quick as a cat in shadow. And there were always those of ill- temper who grew envious of another’s looks, his luck or his women, and sought to even the score. Where women offer pleasure, men lurk in wait. And in spite of growing numbers, there were still too few women for the many men. And men are of a ruder nature, an entirely different outlook. We appraise and select women, caress and speak softly, protect and take them prey. With men we do battle and up to that moment we circle and feint. It happened during Pacito’s third or fourth visit to the Celestial. While he met with her, I stood outside, tending the horses, smoking a cigarro, giving a nod to each passerby, minding my own thoughts, saying nothing. Three hulking Gringos swaggered up and stopped. They looked me over, admiring my horse, my saddle, my pistols. Admiring like those who wish to seize—like the snake eying the rabbit. They smelled of whiskey, aguardiente de cabeza. “You greasers dress right smart, don’cha?” said one in a rough, crude voice. “Yeah, settin’ purdy in yer fine boots ‘n saddles, a’ridin’ yer high hoses.” I said nothing as if I hadn’t heard or understood, remained calm and kept smoking, though I knew the word, the derogatory slur— ”Greaser!”—had heard it often enough at my back or in passing, which I could shed and ignore. But no man said it to my face. He stepped closer, confident of his size and number. He raised his fist. “You damn greasers gonna larn this land ain’t yern no more—” In a flash I drew my pistol and slammed him in the side of the head. He fell face down in the mud, bleeding hard from the temple. I told his amigos to pick him up and be gone. They did not stir. I drew my other pistol and cocked both hammers. “Be quick or I will put a bullet in each fat gut.” Perhaps my words were not so clear the first time, but this convinced them. Both knelt and took an arm and dragged him away, surly and silent, said nothing, afraid of my pistols. But others 124 MELVIN LITTON noticed, watching at a distance and began mouthing foul words— the shadow of a crowd soon shouldering forth. I shoved past the ancient and ducked into the tent. “Pacito! Hurry up,” I said. “There’s trouble brewing.” He was already standing, pulling on his trousers. He glanced up in surprise and reddened. Maldito! The Celestial sat on the bed, still naked, and I could see that she was not a maiden...but a boy! In contempt, anger, and confusion, I shouted: “Dammit Pacito! Grab your boots! Vamos!” Like a shadow at my heels he followed. We leapt to our saddles, reined from the mob and spurred into the night. Anxious to lose any in pursuit we rode through a dark maze of wagons, tents, and half-framed buildings that stood like gallows awaiting the dawn. Above the thunder of the hooves and the pounding of my heart pulsed the question of what I’d seen. A boy and a boy, mano a mano, not in conflict but in love.Ay caramba! Safely distant, we slowed our horses. Pacito pulled on his jaqueta and finished buttoning his shirt. Even in the dark I could see his hands tremble. As he looked to me I looked away. “Do you hate me, Joaquín?” he asked, his voice faint and quavering. “No, hermano,” I answered. “I do not hate you. But I do not understand.” Yet there were many who waited to see the Celestial, many besides Pacito. Grown men. And I wondered of this, of men lusting for a boy. At least Pacito was himself a boy. We rode on in silence for a time. “Will you...keep my secret?” he asked. I looked to him now and nodded. “Sí, hermano, your secret is safe with me. But you must be careful, Pacito, very careful.” He smiled in shy conspiracy. And when I reached over and cuffed his ear, he smiled big, showing all his teeth, looking still a boy. Then I gave a fierce carcajada and whipped his horse. “Come Pacito!” I cried. “Let us ride fast and leave this place!”

It was time to go. Mescalito said it was time. My panther blood hungered for the sierras; the stallion too wished to range free. Our I, Joaquin 125 fever for gold returned with the spring, and our money was run- ning low. Ramón and Reyes had gambled theirs away. Luis and Manuel, likewise broke from blackjack and monte, had left the week before, headed for “the southern mines,” as they were known, centered around Sonora Camp, named for our countrymen who’d settled there. We heard that they numbered several thousand, with room for more, and that the air was festive. We were eager to breathe among our own again, to share our own language, music, and customs, to be done with foreigners and Gringos who called us “Greasers!” And my father the priest was happy to see us go from that rude gala that he likened to Gomorrah. Though he wit- nessed and forgave, his soul mourned...if Saint Francis only knew what grew in his name. Arriving in Sonora Camp was like a homecoming, only better, like all had left their barren fields and weary lives to join in an endless fiesta of fruit and plenty where each shovel-full unearthed another glitter of gold. Up and down the greening hillsides, among the live oaks stood tents and shelters festooned with bright drapes and flags, blankets, rugs, rebozos, serapes, and gaily patterned clothes washed clean and hung up to dry in the sun, all the lively colors of which we were so fond fluttered in the breeze, echoing the wild flowers there in bloom. Birdsong and strumming guitars, tortillas and frijoles cooking on the fires—familiar sights, sounds, and aromas fed our senses. Not the least drab or sodden like the northern camps left in winter. And while there were Peruvians, Chileños, and other Latins, and even a fair number of Gringos— those who preferred our relaxed manner and sunnier ways—the vast majority were Sonorans. Families sharing food and laughter, men knelt on blankets wagering bags of gold on the roll of the dice or the drop of a card, while in the deep shade lovers casually entwined, and nearby a mother suckled her babe, and further off amidst the dust and clamor of a cockfight men stood cheering as boys and girls scrambled past chasing a kickball. Rosita was thrilled to see so many familiar faces. Pressing through the throng, she gave a shriek and rushed into the arms of her dearest friend, Teresa Inez, a slender, pretty girl who’d come north with her husband, Gregorio, a vaquero who’d worked with Ramón. I knew him as well, a fine, tall fellow with a firm handshake, 126 MELVIN LITTON an iron grip like Ramón’s that left its mark for a day. He raised his large brows in question, brows like a second mustacho above his eyes. “Your mother asked to know if Pacito is well?” “See for yourself,” I said as Pacito stepped forth. “He is fast becoming a man, no? And a great poet. His words will seduce the world. The only thing slow about him is his horse, El Tardo.” Gregorio narrowed his eyes and shook his head, playing it sober. “Then we must find him a faster horse. Sonorans do not ride slow.” Pacito took his ribbing in stride, for all made fun of his horse. “Mucho gracias, Gregorio,” he said. “But I think I will keep El Tardo. True, he is slow, but he rides smooth and never tires. What’s more he does not bolt at every shadow or gust of wind. And as I search for words that will surprise the world, I do not wish to be surprised by my horse.” Gregorio knitted his vast brows and chewed on the words a moment. “Sí...you are right,” he slowly nodded. “A horse is like a woman. You ride best the one that suits you.” At which he winked to those standing by and took an elbow in the ribs from Ramón who’d also courted Teresa and lost out—or as they say, his horse was too slow. But they were still friends. “We know you ride well, you devil,” Ramón laughed. “And Pacito too? Huh?” All laughing now. They knew of the Celestial, yet did not know. Knew from the poem he’d written. They loved the poem and fell in love in listening, for Pacito recited with such want and feeling as to touch their hearts. I quote the final lines:

How like a golden jewel given life; An exquisite luster unearthed. A light, A flesh so beauteous, a shape divine. As God made man in His image, so you make mine.

No one guessed its subtle meaning except the author and me. And sí, in listening they fell in love. Transfixed like meat spitted and slowly turned. Manuel in particular cursed himself for wasting I, Joaquin 127 time at monte and swore that when next in San Francisco he would first visit the Celestial—swore he could see her in his dreams. “Carne de oro...the golden one,” he’d say. “By the saints I will have her!” Pacito would give me a sly grin, proud of his poetry, its incisive effect, not at all covetous. While I could only hope for all concerned that before Manuel returned to San Francisco the Celestial would return to China. For Manuel, built like a bull and as testy and hot- tempered, would not favor a slow ride. Much less making love to a boy. For perhaps a week or more we passed the time among old friends and new, in trading tales and jests, in horse races and fandangos, in no hurry to begin our labor. The gold had waited centuries and would await our coming. We listened to stories of placers and veins, of the mystery and source of the mother lode, trying to glean a hint of where to dig. But in speaking of gold there is rarely a hair’s breadth between fact and fancy. Men believe what they want and say what they will. “En serio! Sure as the hen sits the egg, it was right there! I stood on the very spot! Not three days ride into the sierras, behind a large boulder...pure gold. La veta madre! And not a mule to load it out. Then, when I go back...could I find it? No.” “That’s because you sobered up, you tonto!” Sí, it was best to rely on your own judgment and instinct. Growing restless, we rode out one morning to get a view of the land for ourselves and seek a likely prospect. Reyes, Pacito, and I rode north toward the lower branch of the Stanislaus, while Luis, Manuel, Gregorio and Ramón rode south to the upper reaches of the Tuolumne. Since we planned to be out only a day, Rosita was happy to stay behind with Teresa—to enjoy the company of women, to gossip and sew. And soon to sew tiny clothes of her own. Though my stallion seed had not yet taken root, it surely would once we settled. Meanwhile my dreams were taking root. Viewing the land and its potential, I began to dream. If we worked an average claim through till winter, we could buy land and stock it. If a man had land, cattle and horses, family and friends, what more could he want? I liked the land for its water and pasture, the high mountains beyond, and the broad, long valley to the west that bore my name, 128 MELVIN LITTON the San Joaquín. With a good stake I would settle there in the vicinity of Sonora and become a Californio. My rancho would prosper and become a hacienda. And I, Don Joaquín, would sire many sons and daughters with the ever-lovely Doña Rosita. At the diggings along Murphy’s Creek there were hundreds of miners sifting for gold, finding more each day as the waters receded, bearing nuggets washed down from the sierras in the run- off, all burrowing like rodents, hollering back and forth, caught in the mania of the herd. We skirted their claims and rode further east. The day was clear, the air keen, even the sun seemed to favor the view. Along a secluded stretch up a side canyon where a narrow stream snaked and pooled, Alazán suddenly balked, tossed his head and stomped the sand. My stallion blood too sensed something; and Mescalito whispered, “Here...it is here,” while the panther paid no mind, only wanted to hunt and feed; and the brujo held nothing but contempt for gold, worse than a priest, for many priests, like misers, love gold before God. But I was a man with a dream and had no doubt. My nose said gold lay here. And here I would dig. We returned to Sonora by late afternoon, the sun about to set, the sky turning red before a drift of clouds, enriching the colors of the valley and hills. A great excitement and bustle formed around a corral taking shape as men rushed forth adding limbs and staves to the encircled wagons and carretas, making all stout as if preparing for an attack from within. Luis, Manuel, Gregorio, and Ramón were already there, jumping down from their horses, indifferent to prospects of gold, caught up in the fever of the moment, for they were its center and cause. On their return they’d lassoed a bear in the nearby hills; each skilled with the reata, they held him captive and dragged him down. Manuel had caught the first finger on his right hand in a hasty dally. It slowly severed as he gripped his task, holding taut, never flinched. Nor did he now, not one grimace as he knelt by the fire and burnt the stub with a hot brand to staunch the bleeding. Then he held it up for all to see. Men grunted their approval. “Manuel is one tough hombre,” I said to Luis. “Like your old compañero, no?” “Sí, he is brave like Jesús. Only this one would ride naked through chaparral to avenge a wrong. Tough as bullhide and mean I, Joaquin 129 as a snake.” Then he slapped Manuel on the back and said, “From now on I think we should call you Tres Dedos! Three fingers! Like a lobo that has torn free of a trap.” Manuel flashed a smile, pleased to be praised and so named. “Look!” he said, working his thumb and remaining three fingers. “Still good for dealing cards, for looping a reata, for firing a pistol. And for drinking!” he shouted as he grasped a bottle of mescal from Reyes and took a deep swig. Finished, he smacked his lips and added, “Better still for pinching a woman’s ass and exploring her cunt!” His boast sparked a bout of laughter, there being no women present, no need to be modest. Sí, men agreed, three fingers worked well enough, while Ramón scoffed good-naturedly, “Ah! You’ll just scratch your ass and pick your nose as usual.” But Manuel, or Three Fingers, I should say, was not amused, and laughter quickly died as he glowered back and said, “I do not think so....” Ramón merely shrugged, not wishing to provoke or be provoked. Attention turned to the arena where the battle would soon wage. The last of the sun had bled from the west, leaving a faint blue tinge beneath the black velvet sky steadily filling now with stars like eyes gathering to watch. Torches were lit and positioned while the bear thrashed and roared, held bound between two oaks at the center of the arena. A young grizzly, not so large as the one Luis and Jesús had tangled with, but plenty big to pit against a bull. Men stood by with machetes to cut the bindings once the bull entered. And the bull was a black, rangy beast, slavering to fight, lank in the loins, thick through the neck and chest. His broad, tapered horns flashed like sabers in the torchlight as he shook his head and charged the gate, bawling in challenge of his waiting foe. The gate opened and the ropes were cut. The men raced for the fence as the bull bolted out with a whip of its tail. The bear shook loose its bindings and stood before the bull pawing the earth two lengths away. While all around the encirclement men made their wagers: “I bet my studded saddle on the bull.” “Qué? Then put my gold on the bear and mañana I’ll ride your saddle!” “Hah! El Toro!” “El Oso...!” Their clash stilled the night; all hushed before their brute fury. 130 MELVIN LITTON

Then a gasp, a cry, oaths and shouts as the crowd pressed forth to cheer their favorite. “El Toro!” “El Oso!” My blood was in flux with each—with the bull as he thrust into the bear, driving his horns deep in the gut, twisting to rip the vital center; and with the bear as he raked the back, gnashing at the neck and spine. They surged and clutched flesh to flesh. The bear spun, tossing off the bull with a slap of his paws; the bull stumbled, plowing the earth in a vacant charge then pitched to his legs and turned. Both waited, wary. Bellows of hate rumbled in their throats while blood pulsed from their wounds, glistening on fur and hide, pooling in the dirt. They lunged once more with horn and claw, coupling in a tangled snarl of bracing limbs—merging, indistinguishable, nearly one. Locked in fierce struggle, a dance to the death. At last the bear went down before the bull’s relentless charge, relinquishing its grasp, flesh trembling into a mute mound of fur. The bull staggered back and paused, seemingly puzzled by the bear’s limp form, its sudden lack of fight. It shook its horns, still wary, snorting blood to scent its foe, eyes blinded by the mauling like a fighter’s cut to bleed. In the silence it flicked its tail and waited. But the bear made no feint, no attempt to rise, merely rolled its head in gaze to the phantom shadows cast by the blaze of torches and ceased to breathe. The battle ended in a great huzzah as hundreds cheered the brave struggle. “Viva El Toro! Viva El Oso! El Toro, El Toro! EL TORO...!” Once again the bull proved the victor as was most always the case. And for his victory he was granted the mercy of a bullet. So fell the victor to the vanquished. Both feted in a nightlong feast. Strung up, butchered, and eaten. Now there is the fate of the flesh and the way of things. Chapter Nine

hrough the umber gauze of memory much is lost and left in Tshadow no matter how prescient and knowing. But what emerges must be told, that which glitters above the dross, moments held in fond reflection and joy—and others so dreadful they flash like fangs in the night to seek your heart. How long we labored in that secluded canyon I cannot say—for some weeks, a month no doubt, well into the summer for certain. I recall the sun, ever brilliant and hot; the nights, soothing and cool. Only Pacito, Reyes, Rosita, and I camped there, for Ramón and the others along with Gregorio and Teresa worked a claim to the west, about halfway between us and Murphy’s diggings, where they preferred their prospects. With summer the water slowed to a trickle but did not dry up like in many streams. We built a sluice to let the water wash away the sand and gravel, leaving the gold in fine deposits which we gathered and stored in leather bags. We kept to the rhythm and task and each day saw our fortune steadily grow like an adobe wall built by many hands. When needed, Reyes rode to Sonora for supplies; and on Sundays all relaxed. Gregorio and Teresa usually rode over so that she and Rosita could spend the day together. Reyes and Pacito rode out to visit other camps and often went their separate ways. Reyes had a girl he liked to see in Sonora, while Pacito sought more singular diversions. He liked to find a sunny hillside, sit and dream and write his poems. He always carried along his leather journal and a pistol I’d taught him how to use and insisted he carry if for nothing else than to shoot rattlers so rife in those hills. Though he did not care 132 MELVIN LITTON

for the pistol and was reluctant to wear it. “I am better with words,” he said. “You cannot reason with a snake, Pacito. Hot lead works best against venom.” “Sí,” he sadly agreed. “The víbora...he is not much charmed by poetry.” So he carried the pistol as I wished each time he rode out. He was growing and I let him grow. He had his own fever, his own urges; I would not trap his heart. And one day he met another boy about his same age. “He is a güero,” Pacito confided, “with hair golden like Lucero’s mane and eyes blue as the sky reflected in the pool below the stream. Try as I might, I can no longer imagine the Celestial.” Again, I warned him to be careful, for I could tell by his eyes, their warm luster, that Pacito loved this boy. His people were Mormons who worked the diggings about an hour’s ride southwest. And there were other Gringos over that way, all as wary of each other as they were of us, so they kept mostly to themselves. The following Sunday Pacito brought the boy into camp. He rode a fine chocolate mare, though his clothes were homespun and plain like his saddle. His name was Joshua, and like Pacito said, he had the face of an angel. And I think that he was even dreamier than Pacito. For certain, very shy. Though we could all speak a fair amount of Inglés, he said hardly a word. Let Pacito speak for him as if reading his thoughts. But he was not the least shy in playing his flute which he held ready to use like a Comanche holds a war club, close to his heart. “He traded it off a Paiute for some sweet melaza,” Pacito explained. “And taught himself to play, right Joshua? His father does not much like music, so he rides into the hills. That is how we met, sí?” Joshua braved a smile as he raised the flute to his lips. He nervously fingered the carved wooden stem but calmed the instant he blew the first note. Closed his eyes and played the music of a shepherd, a pastor—not at all festive, nothing to heat the blood and make you want to dance, but soft and wistful. As Rosita said, “It would quiet a baby and make it sleep.” More and more she dreamed of a baby and worried that she was not with child, that she would prove barren. Sometimes at I, Joaquin 133 night she’d whimper in our blankets and I’d hold her close. At such moments I wished for the music of the flute to soothe her, but Joshua was always gone by sundown. “What will you do if I cannot give you a son?” she’d say, wiping her tears. “Will you ride to find another?” I’d hush her and say, “No, no, Rosita. As there is only one Sacred Virgin, for me there is only you. In another year we will settle. You’ll be sixteen, a good age to have a baby. You will see.” So I consoled her, explaining that her womb was too jostled by the saddle, by mining and camp-life, by sleeping on the ground to let my seed take root. Then I’d tell of my dream which she always loved to hear. “Come spring I’ll buy land and build us a strong adobe. In the east wall I’ll set a window, and before the window a table, and on the table you can set your statue of the Virgin.” She’d smile hearing this; she kept her Virgin wrapped in a blue cloth and longed for a special place to set it. “Will we really have a window?” she’d ask. “Sí, Rosita, and the morning sun will shine in through the window on the Virgin and bless the room. There’ll be a bed in the corner made soft with blankets and a mattress of straw. And outside, a well from which to draw buckets of fresh, clean water.” “And you will buy a copper tub for me to wash and bathe?” “Does a bird have wings? Does a flower bloom? Of course you will have a copper tub, and copper pans...silver spoons and china dishes. And on the west side of our adobe I’ll build a small portico where we can take siesta from the hot sun. And then?” “We’ll sip sweet drinks cooled by snow carried from the sierras,” she’d laugh. Seeing her made happy, smiling to me, I’d caress her soft belly and say that her womb was like the earth baked hard in drought or packed by the heavy traffic of carretas and hooves. That my seed would grow once the soil was loosened and made moist again. Then we’d draw close as her flesh moistened and parted to my fingers and my stallion cock found her inner fruit and showed how well it could plant my seed—rode her deep, slow and easy till she cried no more in worry but in want of me and I was certain that from our hot breath merging would one day breathe another. 134 MELVIN LITTON

So the night yields and the sun rises, then sets. Answering to an old, old call, we build the circuit of our lives. From what we know and love we seek a wider path and a deeper yearning that nearly, yet never quite comes to pass. Or you can believe otherwise, that man always hits his mark and woman is ever blest, that all are one day gathered in the fold and sorted as to their deserts, where the good and fair ascend while those who somehow fall short in life are made to suffer. Believe this and you are a bobo, a sheep kept bleating till your slaughter. One thing certain, the wolf will come. Knowing this cannot save you, but it may make you brave and proud to struggle. And no, none escape. Not the wolf, nor the sheep. It was a dawn like any other that saw a day of promise and labor. Rosita knelt by the fire, frying frijoles and tortillas. Reyes had already ridden out for Sonora to fetch supplies. Pacito stood in the shade of a broad oak, brushing Joshua’s chocolate mare, having already led her to water. He’d ridden in on the little mare the evening before, later than usual, so I had begun to worry. He said El Tardo had thrown a shoe and split his hoof and could not travel. Since they were near Joshua’s camp he told Pacito to take the mare, he would tend to El Tardo and ride him over the next Sunday. This sounded reasonable. “El Tardo’s no great loss,” I said, “should they decide to eat him. But you better hope Joshua brings back your saddle, for it is worth three of that mare.” Pacito looked hurt that I would think such a thing, that Joshua would cross him in any way. I raised my hands and said, “Sorry, Pacito, only kidding. Of course he will return your saddle.” For Joshua cared only for his flute and his new friend and was otherwise as humble and generous as the good Saint of Assisi. I distinctly recall it was midmorning. I had eaten and not yet started to sweat, swinging the pick with such ease as if it were my shadow doing the work. I enjoyed watching my shadow cast on the foreground, observing the play of my body in motion, proud of my youth and strength, every day growing more hopeful and happy. I raised the pickax overhead and brought it down in ceaseless rhythm, breaking up the gravel, loosening the sand, and in the thrall of labor heard nothing but my own deep breath and the blood pounding in my ears. I, Joaquin 135

Then a large shadow appeared beyond my own, and another, and still another. I looked up. A dozen horsemen surrounded us, their eyes bearing down, some taunting, some grim, all silent like masks worn on the Día de los Muertos. Rosita and Pacito each stood alone, cut off like calves singled out for branding. And like a fool bent digging for gold I hadn’t heard a thing—the one time in my life that my panther blood slept lazy in the shade, flicking his tail, indifferent to threat. I rested my hands on the pick handle and nodded to who appeared the headman. “Buenos días, Señor,” I said in a casual way. “How may I help you?” For it is our custom to welcome strangers and offer assistance. And unless given cause it is best to stand by custom. He was a powerful, broad-shouldered man, red-faced and wheezing, dressed in a black suit on a hot day, his shirt-collar and coat buttoned. He leaned to his saddle horn, his gray eyes assaying the sluice and stream. “You been workin’ this claim a spell,” he noted. A comment, not a question. To which I again nodded as he spat a snake of tobacco juice that landed curled in the dust by my boot. Back of him rode two others I hadn’t noticed till then: Joshua mounted on a mule, and alongside him on a dapple-gray draft horse sat a tall, stern man, apparently his father, for under his hard gaze the boy hung his head like a chastened son, his face marked by blows and one eye blackened. The headman straightened in his saddle and announced: “We are a Miner’s Posse, citizens of the United States, justly formed to protect our lives and property. Thar bein’ no other law in these territories....” While some words were not known to me, I grasped his meaning, if not his intent. “I, the elected judge,” he continued, “will review the facts. This man here,” he pointed to Joshua’s father, “Abraham Jones, claims that horse tied yonder is his. And that boy standin’ thar, one named Palseeda Murdy stole ‘im!” The charge fell like a fist to a table. “This is not so,” I answered calm but firm. “Sí, the horse belongs to Joshua. He lent it to Pacito—” 136 MELVIN LITTON

My words brought a rise of laughter. “Lent it?” they mocked like rude parrots, over which Joshua’s father boomed, “None but a damned fool lends a good horse for a lame pug! An’ I don’t raise fools fer sons! That horse was stole!” The accusation hung like a sentence. Until then I had hoped it all a jest staged to punish an errant son, but their intent was clear. Pacito looked to me and shook his head, “No, no....” Then he pleaded to Joshua, “Tell them...tell them what happened, Joshua. Joshua?” But Joshua, who could barely speak in the best of times, tucked his chin to his chest, gazed to the ground, and said nothing. I tried one last time to reason, to barter. “Please, Señor...por Dios, for love of God,” I said. “If there is a problem I will pay. Pay three times what the horse is worth.” “Pay...?” the headman answered, looking hard to Pacito. “You can bet he will pay. This ain’t Mexico, greaser. Up here you don’t buy yer way agin the law. And the law says if a man steals a horse that man will hang!” At his insult, his threat, I gripped his reins in hate. He shoved his boot to my chest and I stumbled back in reach for my pistol and was answered by a dozen weapons held cocked and aimed. Well it is said that he who strikes first strikes twice, but I could not strike a dozen ways at once. And they took Rosita, grabbed her by the hair, dragged her forth and made her kneel, a Bowie knife held to her throat by a mangy man dressed in foul buckskins with cruel blue eyes and red beard; and another, his twin, poised beside him, leering down at Rosita, at her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Mescalito whispered, “It is they, them that killed the family….” And Rosita’s eyes answered the same—held no hope, only the terror of the little girl, the chica with golden hair, left hanging from the rafters. Numb, powerless, I stood waiting what would come. When at the mercy of such men, there is no mercy, only how far they will go before they tire of their play and the pain they inflict. Many times I wish I had fought, drawn my pistol and fired, died in a fury. But they held Rosita and Pacito. Hoping to save them, I surrendered pride, honor, will. And life. For Pacito could not be saved. They bound him as they took my pistol and with it struck me in the head. I fell to the ground in a daze and heard his voice cry faint as a I, Joaquin 137 sparrow seized and carried through the distance. “Joaquín, tell mi madre, tell her....” Then words failed him as they fail all before the snake. They jerked me to my knees and struck me again; my vision blurred as they gripped and tied my hands. The headman, still mounted, loomed like judgment in his dark suit as he glared down and said, “For interferin’ with the law, you will be whipped, your claim forfeit, your woman shamed.” These words followed immediately by those of a greater, graver voice as Joshua’s father pointed to Pacito and declared, “You are an abomination before the Lord! And this day will see you in Hell!” The words tolled in my memory, and only later did I grasp the full meaning. But they were the abomination. For Pacito was as good as any that ever walked this earth. Of inverse nature, true, as are many saints and sinners. And I believe it was for this and not the horse that the father accused and condemned. Then the headman reined about and shouted: “Put ‘im on the horse he stole and hang ‘im!” And I recall no more of words that day, only cries and screams and their meaning cannot be conveyed—these from Rosita as they stripped and raped her, and Pacito’s last choked gasps as he attempted to speak to God and plea for mercy. His eyes fell to me, pleading, as they snugged the noose to his neck, the eyes of the little boy I had sworn to protect, pleading to his brother to stop this madness and save him. All I could do was look on in horror. In the last moment he tried to smile, to show he was brave, that he forgave me, but it was more a grimace, a skull’s grin. Then the rope jerked tight and his eyes rolled heavenward as they whipped the mare and he swung away. At the crucifixion Christ rolled his eyes heavenward in final supplication, asking, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” Little good it did him...or Pacito. Or me. For as I knelt on my knees and rolled my eyes heavenward a boot heel struck me square in the face. Hurled backwards, stunned, I learned how God answers to beggars. When again I raised my gaze I saw my brother hanging from the noose, his eyes bulging in blank surprise, his tongue protruding like a dog’s dick, his legs twitching in reflex while shit darkened his trousers. Forsaken utterly. All of us. Pacito, Rosita, myself. And certain that 138 MELVIN LITTON there is no salvation in this world, only strength and weakness, on that day I vowed that never again would I be the weaker. Never! Yet the horror had not ended; the humiliation had only begun. Our lives spared, but our dignity, our honor stripped from us. They held Rosita splayed like an animal being skinned; unsheathed their cocks and fell on her. Though I heard her pitiful cries, I was grateful not to watch; there tied to a tree and whipped. And grateful for the whip, for its crack and lash drowned out her cries and the burning pain steeled and fired my hate till a cold languor close to death filled me. And I prayed to the devil that grew within that I would live and one day grip their hearts as they gripped mine. Nor were they finished, not by half. They doused me with a bucket of water and dragged me to Rosita where I witnessed the feast they’d made of her. Her face bruised, her flesh bitten, blood smeared over her belly and thighs. It was her time of the moon. La luna...have you never gazed on the moon’s scarred features, like a woman ravaged by ancient wounds, her very radiance lent by another? But what of Rosita and her radiance, for there lay only wounds? What sun would light her flesh and lend her beauty? Heal and restore her? This I asked not of God but of the rage that made me want to live. Then they forced my face between her legs. “Lick! Lick her clean!” they said. “Or we’ll cut her throat!” And those few words I do recall. Lick! Lick her clean.... For another waited wanting her and said he would not mount a bloody bitch. He in foul buckskin and red beard, the fiend who first seized her. So I licked—while Rosita whimpered, “No, please, no...let them kill me”—licked her clean like a lamb licked clean by a wolf. I watched them, scented each, those who held her arms, her ankles, those who stood by grinning—sí, etched their faces deep in my bones, biding my time and theirs as I gave her life. And the taste of her blood never left me; not a living blood, but a foul broth of the unlived, unformed, that which is purged, buried, hidden. Like a thirsty creature taking water I licked without pause. I loved her with such tenderness, such fullness of heart. Though my love never diminished, from that day on it was a tenderness tainted with revulsion. A revulsion sensed even now in my bloodless state. But her blood, her feces of blood, fed my lust for vengeance and made it strong, stronger than life. For I, Joaquin 139 no matter how much blood I shed, my vengeance was never sated, my thirst never quenched, my revulsion never stilled. That day is forever marked by a black stone in my memory— from there I set upon the outlaw’s path. You can live by God’s law or man’s. And if by man’s, whose? Yours or theirs? I took unto myself the right of kings, a right as old as man and his banding, to deal out death like cards and take all within my grasp. Each encounter, a swift, terrible game of monte. No, I rarely gambled till that fateful day. But thereafter I gambled with abandon. Slick cards sliced through the air to an opponent. My card to theirs. And I could wager all on a laugh. For what is mere silver or gold to one who has been shamed to the marrow of his being? And what is life but a trifle to he who has seen the flower of his love trampled underfoot? I wagered my life as I wagered my coin, utterly, and with the loss of neither would they ever take my pride again. Yet here I am, a pickled head. Like pig’s feet in a jar. At this I can neither laugh nor cry. Only gaze on the event and know that I will never be appeased. They fouled mi Rosa, my love, to who I vowed to let no foul thing touch. They killed mi hermano, an innocent, he who I promised to protect. Do you think I would let them live? That I would forgive? And not rage? Think that and you are a fool not worth telling. Take your mercy and go wring your hands together like a nest of worms. My urge was murder—their degradation and death. Hear my voice heat with anger and be warned. I, Joaquín have a tale. And now the tale is edged like a knife for vengeance. I did not die as I died because I was meek and innocent. I killed many and only regret I did less than I wished. I am not the gallant in some fool’s fable. I lived for vengeance, died for and remain here telling for vengeance! Give me hands I would leap from the page and grip your throat till you breathed no more! Why? Because you have witnessed and perhaps taken pleasure in my agony and shame, and if I thought that you or any of yours had a hand in the act I would damn you! But no, the guilty are long dead, their dust lost to the wind. Rest easy. In telling I see it all again and feel it keenly. So I rage to let you know my rage. A rage written of, celebrated and cursed from that day to this. Yet I was kinder at times than they ever knew, and crueler than they dare guess—women who read of me and weep, men who praise my name and courage so long after my death. Do 140 MELVIN LITTON you think they would do so if I had been half the beast as they who forced me to this path? I would find them and when I did I would not tilt at windmills like the fool Quixote.

As the headman said, we were lucky he was temperate and just, others would have hung us for harboring a horse thief. But he took our horses, said that was the law. Left us a mule, said that was his mercy. Would not leave us afoot. Wished us a speedy return to Mexico. Then declared before riding off that we best Vamoose! by sundown, for any greaser sighted thereby would be shot. No doubt he meant to seize our claim for his own—like he had seized Pacito, our gold, and our horses, in each case invoking the law like some men invoke the name of God to justify their acts. But what did I care for God or law by then? Only glad to see them gone. I crawled to the stream, gulped water and vomited— purged myself so I could stand and breathe. Sí, despite my wounds and whipping, I stood, staunched the pain, and moved. The Indio in me knew how to suffer and endure, how to use pain to hone the will. And my flesh answered to my will. I found my knife and cut Pacito down; watched his body drop and crumple in the dirt. I knelt and worked the noose from his neck, pushed in his tongue and felt the dry kiss of his lips as his eyes stared up to me in mute wonder as if to ask, Where? Where have I gone? I answered by closing them forever. Then I folded his hands to his breast and covered him with a blanket. And looked on him no more. I looked to Rosita, knelt and took her in my arms and rocked her gently for a time, each silent in our sorrow. Then I carried her to the pool to let the cool water cleanse and revive her. At the sharp chill her flesh awakened, her breath came fast. She clung to me and pleaded, “Let me die, please let me die, oh please let me....” But I said nothing and held her with my warmth and strength as we submerged and resurfaced again and again, embraced in our own baptism, yearning for a rebirth that would not be, yet each breath came easier than the last and she soon calmed and quieted. With soap and soft caresses we cleaned our wounds, washed the blood, dirt, and foul scent away. Emerging, we let the hot sun and wind dry us while we dressed our wounds with Olajuaña’s salve. Then we donned fresh clothes and threw our ruined ones to I, Joaquin 141 the flames. I bundled Pacito’s body in the blanket and laid it over the mule, secured it along with what few belongings they left us. Anxious to be gone I glanced once more to the dread tree that had held him: a tall, black oak whose green leaves turn black as night in my memory and shimmer in the wind like dark shadows of themselves. I sensed Pacito’s ghost rustling through those leaves, asking, Where, where, where? We turned away and headed west to where Ramón and the others camped. Walking, Rosita quiet at my side as I led the mule, each of us transformed and set on another path. But no, not reborn. And if a rebirth, it was one you would not wish. Beyond a low ridge that opened onto a broad plateau we met Reyes returning from Sonora with the other mule laden with supplies. He hailed us at a distance in his cheerful way, thinking us on a happy jaunt. But our silence spoke otherwise. He rode forth at a brisk gallop and swung down, stunned in question. “What is it? What’s happened?” he asked, glancing to the shrouded body. “Gringos rode in,” I said simply. “They hung Pacito as a horse thief.” The rest he gathered from our appearance. His eyes misted over; he clenched his fists in anger and grief and swore he would help me kill them. I answered no, that would wait, for Pacito needed tending to. I could hear his ghost crying in the wind, hiding in the grass, like some naked thing lost in the night that needs clothed. “We must bury him,” I said. “Give him peace, I cannot bear to hear him wail.” In a grove of live oaks where deer had bedded down in the tawny grass the night before, we took pick and shovel and buried Pacito. Gathered rocks from the hillside to protect the grave. While Reyes lashed a cross of two limbs and placed it center, Rosita knelt, crossed herself and prayed to the Blessed Virgin and the Good Shepherd to gather up the lamb. I stood by gripping Pacito’s journal like some sacred text, thinking to say something but could not. I knew that rattlers would come to haunt those rocks, soon burrow in the ground and snake through his bones, that the sun and moon would trade places in the sky as the seasons turned and he would sleep an eternal night. 142 MELVIN LITTON

His last words written were these: Happy is the flesh that finds love. For we are born into sunlight and to darkness return. Perhaps that love and its memory will warm us there....

The finest deed goes unpraised, the darkest sorrow is never known— so Pacito lies unsung, forgotten, yet his memory warms me still. But I would mourn no more. I would taste of vengeance and taste it soon. And my first taste would be singular, all my own. As I had told Reyes, I told Ramón and the others that they must wait. I understood their rage; if not as great as mine, it was as real. They suffered my injury, took my insult as their own. And there were rumors of more outrages. Reyes carried word from Sonora that miners’ posses were forming throughout the region. As Gringo numbers increased, their intolerance grew. The few were friendly; the many, arrogant. These rogue bands targeted isolated camps of Mexicans, Chileños, the French and Italians as well, and demanded what they called a “Foreign Miner’s Tax.” Demanded that any not citizens pay a monthly fee for the right to dig. Pay Gringo miners or else. There had already been several incidents of shootings and lynchings. Some paid while others packed up and left rather than submit. And I know that history says that the “Foreign Miner’s Tax” was not made law until the following year, 1850, when California became a state. True, and it was the first law enacted and spurred an exodus of Sonorans and others from the mines. But men’s actions do not await the law, they precede and determine its course and wording. I know, I was there. What happened to us happened to others. And much sooner than is written. “If they try that here,” declared Ramón, looking provoked, “we’ll send them packing with hot lead.” “That’s right,” added Luis. “Lead for gold. That will be our tax.” “Damned Gringos can take it up the ass!” spat Three Fingers. Gregorio and Reyes nodded and looked to me, waiting my word. “No, you pluck the chick and not the hen,” I said. “If they come tomorrow, pay them. If again next week. Pay them.” “But...you are joking?” Ramón looked surprised, then scornful, thinking me a coward, a whipped dog. I could see it in his eyes, now squinting, measuring me. The others likewise, Luis, Three Fingers, Gregorio, Reyes, all losing respect, backing away like I stank of fear. I, Joaquin 143

A man who would not avenge his woman or himself. “Listen to me. Listen well,” I said, gathering them with my strength, my will, not to explain but to command. “Pay this tax. It is a small thing. A fly buzzing past your ear. Be polite. Defer to them. Do not show your teeth. Let them think they have won. That they have scared me off. These devils that killed Pacito and savaged Rosita. Let them work my claim, this Gringo judge and his lackeys. Let them reap a pile of gold. Let them sleep and think of nothing else. Sí, let the hen fatten. Then with the waning moon we will strike! Have them and the gold!” That’s when they saw my cunning, that my courage had not left me. That I meant to be their Jefe, their chief. If any still doubted, doubt left them as I asked for the loan of a horse and a pistol, for I meant to ride out that very night. Ramón clasped my hand and offered his stallion. Luis tossed me his pistol and said, “Keep it. I owe you my life.” Its grip and balance suited me. “Gracias, mi compañeros,” I said. “Now I will stalk them like a panther...and they will not know till my shadow turns to flesh and grips their black hearts. Teresa, take care of Rosita, sí? And amigos, be ready when I return, for I will know each Gringo and where they sleep. Then we will have vengeance,” I vowed. “Have them all! And this only the beginning. If you wish to join me we will strike here, there, and beyond. Tax the Gringos tit for tat. Raid through all their camps and valleys like the Comanche raid through Mexico... “Sí, let others plant the cotton,” I said, “and weave the cloth, breed and raise the horses. Then ride down and take what we will. Let the Gringos play the pastor, the good shepherd. We will play the wolf!” And I would not leave off till my name was the terror of all California. Like the fearsome Comanche chief, Bajo del Sol, “Afraid of nothing under the sun,” we would rule wherever we rode and the Gringos would fear us and dare not follow. Nor would I cease as long as I drew breath. So I laid out my plan, the vision of my life and vengeance, as they gathered around and listened—held them in my spell like a brujo who has lived a thousand years, stirred their hearts and made them yearn to break old bounds and range in freedom, making our 144 MELVIN LITTON own way by our own law till fortune should fail us. All vowed to ride with me. Teresa too caught my fever. Only Rosita remained silent, lay wrapped in a blanket, gazing to the fire as if her most precious dream fed the flames—for no child would ever grow from her ravaged womb. Chapter Ten

ike a shadow I stalked them. Craving only vengeance, I watched Ltheir fires flicker and die. By day I rested among the trees and at dusk crept through the tall grass. At night I rode in a widening arc, prowling near their camps till I had sighted each. And sighting them I felt my flesh draw taut like fangs bared to attack. The first one seized was Joshua. Then his father, Abraham—he who would sacrifice his son to please God and who gloated in watching Pacito hang. Caught them both at once: the father out tracking his son as the boy rode deep into the hills, whipping his little mare in effort to flee his father’s wrath. But he would not escape mine. As the boy entered a dry gulch I rode from his flank and with a blow of my coiled reata knocked him to the ground. He landed hard and before he caught his breath I had him bound and gagged, cached behind some rocks to deal with later. Left him to wonder of his fate while víboras slithered forth to taunt him with their black tongues—this Judas whose fork-tongued kiss had led them to Pacito and would not whisper one word in his defense. Maybe I would stuff his mouth with thirty pieces of silver and hang him from a shrub oak like Judas, leave his feet dangling mere inches from the ground, then see what melody his pursed lips played. No, no mercy for a coward. But the father would pay first. I observed his lumbering approach on the large dapple-gray. The stern patriarch held firm rein, back straight, head high, sitting pious and rigid, certain to overtake his frantic son, drag him to his knees and make him repent. I tethered the little mare as bait beyond the bend and waited in the depth of a narrow wash. The father rode past and halted, no doubt thought 146 MELVIN LITTON

his son sat nearby in some dreamy trance from which he would shake him with his mighty hands. His suspenders marked his back in an “X.” There I aimed, sent my reata hissing like an angry snake, looped his arms and shoulders and jerked him from the saddle, dallied to the pommel and rode dragging him up the gulch, letting every rock, cactus, and thorn tear at his flesh while he bellowed like a bull being flayed. The gulch opened onto a mesa of rugged chaparral where I rode till his blood-bellow ceased. Drawing rein, I dismounted to view the carcass of his flesh—his left leg broken, his head bloodied, but he still breathed, his eyes held wide in terror of me, the son of the brujo and the panther, of my black, hungry eyes, my gleaming white teeth, of the fist-sized stone I raised to bash in his mouth so I would hear no more of his blubbering howl. I lashed the reata to his wrists and coaxed Alazán to slowly pull him like a plow. And I used him like a plow, pressed my boot heel to his spine and let the gravel bite deep into his wounds, tearing at his loins, ripping his manhood from his bowels. Slowly, beneath the crush of my heel I made him a gelding. When I turned him over his flesh lay in tatters from his cheekbones to his thighs. “Maldito! You are the abominación!” I cursed, clenching my teeth, repeating, “Abominación! Abominación!” Let him hear it hissed in Spanish; let him see by my hateful sneer that he was odioso! Then I staked him spread-eagled next to an ant-hill, lashed his wrists and ankles with rawhide, kicked the red ants into a swarming rage and stood by watching him twist and squirm, listening to his nasal moans, delighting in his torment. Before leaving I sliced off his eyelids so he could not clench them against the wrathful sun and the fiery pain. Vultures circled as I rode away, soon to land and feed amid his last choked screams. Certain he knew what hell he went to before he died. But some things are not so certain or decided so easily. I did not have thirty pieces of silver to force down the boy’s throat. Still I meant to feed him what few I had. I tore off his gag and jerked back his head. “Open your mouth you pretty puta or I’ll gouge out your eyes!” I swore he would open it for me as he had not for Pacito. He filled me with such disgust, the coward, grunting in fear, could not I, Joaquin 147 even speak for himself. He would pay the price of not speaking. I wrenched harder. Yet when his mouth opened it was I who fell silent; my eyes that shut and looked away from the raw stub of his tongue rooted deep in the hole of his throat. Shocked by an unexpected brutality not my own, I loosened my grip on his hair and looked to his eyes. “Your father?” I asked. He nodded. “But why?” In answer he puckered his lips slightly as if to blow. Then I knew. Though Abraham had not slain his son he had done the next thing, made certain he would not delight the Devil in playing the flute. “You could not speak that day could you?” I said as much in answer to myself as in question. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. He struck me now as less a coward than some poor creature mistreated by man, like a horse beaten or a dog starved. I smoothed his hair...saw a sad beauty in him that Pacito must have known, a suffering that would last a lifetime. Sí, I would cut his bindings and give him a hand up. Show him the last words Pacito had written and give him the journal. Set him on his little mare and see him off. An innocent for an innocent should not be my vengeance. But no, I cut his throat even as I smoothed his hair, letting go such wishful thoughts. And he did not die so easily, the boy. He kicked and struggled as I held him to the ground, his blood spilling to my knife-hand like warm milk from a jar. No, I could not let him go. Though he hated his father, he loved him still, like the fruit loves the tree—like the father loved his son, loved him enough to prune his tongue and follow in anxious hope to form him in his own image. Sooner or later Joshua would have told or written of what he had seen. For blood is thicker than water, and blood cries out for vengeance. Whether Pacito’s cried out for vengeance I cannot say. But his soul cried out for Joshua’s, so I sent Joshua to him. Then my vengeance was whole, an eye for an eye, an innocent for an innocent. Perhaps his soul went to Pacito’s and their mercy flowed one to the other. But not from me. Nor was the journal mine to give, now ashes. Burned as I watched Rosita mourn her barren fate. So I laid Joshua’s body across the little mare and led her and the old draft horse into the high sierras and slit their throats. Watched 148 MELVIN LITTON them weaken and fall quiet to a slab of stone where their blood mixed and pooled. The scent of blood would carry in the wind and call the panther. That night one would feed while another hunted.

Does the panther feel remorse for his prey? No. He kills out of cruel necessity. And if he pleasures in their death it is the pleasure of feeding his hunger, his want, of enlivening his senses, of using his stealth and cunning, his great strength to pursue and kill. Yet even the panther at times plays with his victims and delights in the play. I killed with delight those marked for vengeance, and with regret the one I have named. Even then regret could not deny the act. No, not so certain or easy. But the next was pure delight. He I played with— the fiend who seized Rosita. He in foul buckskin and red beard. He I found in Sonora taking refreshment in the shade of a cantina. Alazán left tied to a rail out front, still fitted with the silver-studded saddle and bridle. Ridden hard and underfed, but otherwise sound and spirited. He responded to my touch, my voice, nudged my hand and nickered low in greeting as I whispered to his ear that he was mine again. He tossed his head and stomped his hoof, anxious to go. I said soon, soon he would feel my weight and we would ride, man and horse, as we were meant. Entering the cantina, I pulled my sombrero low to shade my face and let my eyes adjust to the dark interior. An old adobe structure full of revelers and miners all seeking rude pleasure with their profits; a din of laughter, shouts, and curses where smoke rose and billowed in the current of moving bodies. Drinks and cards passed at every table. Women leaned to men, showing off their breasts, then clasped hands or shied away, depending on the price, the offer. Mostly Sonorans and Chileños with a few Gringos intermixed. And the Gringo I hunted sat at a corner table, a puta so ugly a vulture would not have her wallowed on his lap, taking a swig from his bottle, her face pitted like lava, her sooty eyes dull and glazed, while his blue ones glinted like ice, hard and cold, as he snatched up the bottle and drank. I scanned the room for his twin but saw no other in buckskin or red beard. A deadly smile warmed my lips. Approaching, I drew my pistol and motioned to the whore and her squat pimp who sat idly shuffling cards to vamoose. They did not hesitate, off like flies to land elsewhere. I, Joaquin 149

“You, hombre...keep your hands on the table,” I said, leveling my pistol, “and you may yet have a chance to kill me before I kill you.” By now the flies had settled and voices hushed. His tiny blue eyes that held little understanding but could clearly assess odds and danger now focused and he had cause to regret knowing me. To all watching I announced: “I am Joaquín Murrieta. Know and remember that this hombre stole my horse, shamed my woman, and helped lynch my brother. He and I will play a game that will end in his muerte or mine. You are free to go or stay...and see how just I am.” All stood clear but none left, curious of what would happen. Better than a cockfight or baiting a bear, two men set to duel. Pressing my pistol to his ear, I lifted his from its holster and laid it on the table by his right hand. Then I laid mine opposite and sat down, facing him. Here in a court of my own people where I could relax and play. And judge. Fixed him with my eyes as I took a deck of cards and flared them like a fan then snapped them square to my palm, split the deck and bent the cards, thumbing one to the other, mixing all. Calm, deliberate, never once averting my eyes. “Now the game begins,” I said. “It’s very simple. There lays your pistol. There lays your hand. Any time you wish you may try to kill me. I deal each card to you, face up. Perhaps when you see your lucky card you will choose to play.” I smiled, watching him tense. Threw the first card, a trey. And I knew which card he would draw on—heard El Gallina, the hen, cackle and say, “This poor rooster will want a Jack, a red one to match his beard and pointed to match his face and please his beady eyes.” Funny how her voice rang clear as crystal tapped by a silver spoon, clear as Mescalito whispering back of her, “Listen to the old hen cluck. She knows her cards. At the Jack he will try you....” More surprising still was the voice of my father the priest, insisting in solemn tone, “No, it will be the Seven of Spades, black as a heart turned against the Sun and deadly as those many sins.” Aieee! That kept me guessing, which would it be...the Jack or the Seven, the Diamond or the Spade? One by one I dealt the cards, smooth and languid as a cat, my sleepy eyes keen to each nervous tick of his ruddy features, the 150 MELVIN LITTON trembling of his hands, his eyes darting from card to pistol in the rapid blink of a confused bird. “You like riding my horse, hombre?” I asked, speaking as I dealt. “He is a fine horse, no? And my woman...what a fine woman. Once so beautiful and happy. But she no longer smiles, hombre. Why is that?” I paused in wait, watching him chew his lower lip, thinking of whether to try me. But no, it was the Queen of Hearts, a warm and generous card, blessed like the Virgin. He decided to pass and I dealt on—an “Ace” a “King” an “Eight”—and questioned him at each card. “You have a twin, no? Where is he?” Again I paused. And he seemed not to hear, his focus wholly on the cards, watching them float and fall, as if hypnotized, entranced. “Answer me,” I said, “or the game will end worse than you imagine. And if you cannot imagine...let me remind you of the chica with golden hair and her sister you ravaged and left hanging by their heels. Sí. Now where is your brother, hombre?” His tiny eyes brightened, seeing the threat more vivid, and held wide in wonder at my knowing. To his mute query I answered that it was enough he knew that I knew. Then I repeated my question, “Where is your brother, hombre?” He swallowed hard and voiced in his ugly drawl, “Could be he rid down to San Fran fer a spell, he laks to go girlin’ an’ sech.” I knew he lied. Two so kindred, so utterly the same would never veer so far or be so long apart. Alone they were halved and weak; together they were whole and strong. But his twin did not appear, a disappointment to us both no doubt. “Ah well, if not today then mañana,” I offered vaguely, tossing down another card. When the card fell our eyes met. He reached for his pistol but mine was already held cocked. Ever notice how a cat can lay in wait, lazy and indifferent one moment and in a blink seize its victim by the throat. I fired point-blank, leaving a perfect hole in his forehead while a spray of blood shot through the blue smoke like rain from a cloud. The hombre fell face down by the Jack of Diamonds, staring at the crimson pool that spread like spilt wine over the cards, the table, dripping to the floor. My countrymen nodded in approval of my justice. Women smiled. I, Joaquin 151

Even the ugly puta showed her black teeth. Gringos remained sober, silent. Though one, a well-dressed young man, took careful note as I stood, then he eyed his glass. No one asked a question watching me go. I mounted Alazán and rode out leading Ramón’s tall stallion. Through a fortnight I hunted in search of the twin but did not find him. Perhaps the hombre spoke truly and he had ridden to the coast. Time would flush him out, bring him to me or I to him. For my blood warmed nearing those I hunted like a voice calling to me and naming them. During that time I met with two more. Dealt swiftly and did not play, gut-shot one and dragged the other with my reata till he squawked no more. Left them to the scavengers of the sky and took their horses. I now led a string of three, changing mounts throughout the day, sparing Alazán to keep him fresh and strong for the war I would wage. Except for the twin, I’d located all, taking vengeance on five, leaving only the headman and his six henchmen that worked my claim.

Nearly a month had passed. The moon had waned to a gleaming knife-edge when I finally returned to Rosita and the others. Though anxious in my absence, all were well and had done as I asked, paid the Gringos and played it meek while I set the stage. “This will be the last tax you pay. The last gold you dig,” I assured them. “From now on Gringos will pay the tax and dig the gold.” In the dancing shadows my eyes locked with theirs as I divulged my plan. We would decamp at midnight, position, and attack at dawn. At first light wreak vengeance for Pacito and wait no more. Fed by the flames, their eyes glistened in answer, for their blood had not cooled. Ready to ride and raid and plunder. And kill if need be—for certain those who murdered ours. As we nestled in our blankets Rosita lay quiet. I held her tenderly, without lust. “There is little I can change,” I said, “much less undo. But I promise by tomorrow you will again ride Lucero. And they that harmed you will be dead.” At this she smiled, smiled through her eyes, nor did her eyes look away in shame. Her outer wounds had healed, scarred over; while the deeper one lay cradled like a child forever mourned. She kissed my cheek, proud of her vengador, pleased to know these men would die. 152 MELVIN LITTON

Dawn shone in a faint blush above the white-capped sierras. Shadows of morning not yet cast. Birds chirped in mad chorus among the trees then held silent as the sun crested a jagged peak. With the first shadows slanting west we struck, all riding down, Ramón, Reyes, Luis and Three Fingers, Gregorio, Teresa and Rosita. Sí, even the women rode in witness. We caught the Gringos sleeping, most still in their blankets; one knelt by the stream fetching water while another stirred the ashes to build a fire. Three were killed outright reaching for their pistols. Others ran for it. Reyes clubbed one with his rifle and drowned him in the stream, held him under with a knee to the chest like a calf tossed for branding. Ramón rode down another, looped his reata and with a quick snap broke his neck. Yet another attempted to scale a cliff, rock and gravel kicked away underfoot as he clawed to reach the summit. But Three Fingers stood in wait. Stepping forth, he aimed his pistol and fired at the man’s head and watched his limp body tumble and roll back to the bottom. Meanwhile I held the headman at bay, reining Alazán from side to side, driving the man where I willed as he stumbled in fear of the law by which he would soon be judged, the law of tooth and talon, looking foolish in bald head and bare feet, rubbing his eyes, wheezing, wearing nothing but long-johns with the flap unbuttoned so he could scratch his ass in the night. His red face grew even redder before the women watching him struggle to pull on his trousers and black coat. For I let him dress, told him to be quick about it and mindful not to reach for a weapon and so endanger the boy standing back of him. A young boy, no more than ten, who trembled in shock before the deadly scene he had awakened to. And for whom Rosita’s eyes already pleaded. But I had not decided his fate. Only the other, the headman. With his clothes on he regained some of his dignity and composure. He stood protective of the boy and in his wheeze and quaver asked that I spare him. “You got me,” he said. “Do what you will. I admit...the gold is rightly yern. But I beg you not to hurt the boy.” “The hijo? Is he your son?” I asked. “N-no,” he stammered, shaking his head. “He’s...he’s my nephew. My sister’s boy.” The boy looked twice confused like a lamb suddenly I, Joaquin 153 kicked and weaned. And I knew it was his son. That the man hoped to save him, thinking I may spare another but not his own. Again, Rosita sought my eyes and pleaded. The boy was innocent, true. But so was Pacito. All this I considered, then gripped my reins. “The choice is yours,” I said. “If you fight the noose and take as long in dying as my brother did, he will live. If you do not struggle, he will die. That I promise.” The man accepted, bowed his head to the boy and held him close a moment more. To Ramón and Reyes I shouted: “Put him on the horse he stole and hang him!” They bound his hands, set him on Lucero and led him to the same black oak where Pacito was hanged. As they fit the noose Rosita dismounted to comfort the boy and to shield him from the grim sight and from me. At my signal Ramón slapped Lucero to a brisk trot and the man swung free, his legs still forked to fit the saddle, held tense below his massive trunk an instant then danced in vain to seek a footing. “Aieee!” Three Fingers tossed his sombrero. “Listen to him shit his pants!” Sí, he farted like a horse spurred to gallop and kicked like a horse for the longest time as his neck muscles knotted like ropes against the tightening noose. Still he writhed and wheezed. His eyes bulged and blistered, his mouth gaped like a hooked fish pulled from the water begging for life. But surely not his own. I give him that. He died brave and fought like a bull to save his son. And this time, this innocent, I spared. Not only because of Rosita but because I wished to send a message. Wanted them to know by whose hand and by whose law these men were judged. After Rosita helped him dress we gave him a canteen of water and pointed out the direction he should go. I stood before him and pressed his heart as the panther had pressed mine and under the press of my hand he heard my words. “Tell them that Joaquín has taken vengeance for his brother. Now Joaquín will take vengeance for himself.” Then I gripped his shoulder, gripped it firm, and added, “Tell them my name. Joaquín Murrieta. Do not forget. And remember by whose mercy you live.” Looking to my brujo eyes he feared me and would make others fear; 154 MELVIN LITTON but he was grateful just the same, even as he looked to his father, grateful he was not hanging there beside him. I told him to look no more and go. He left afoot. It was not far. He would make the Mormon diggings by sundown. We added their horses to our remuda and rode out. Rosita looked especially fine seated once more on Lucero, dressed in her black riding skirt and her dainty boots, her velvet jaqueta fit snug to her waist, her thick hair pulled tight in a long braid beneath her sombrero rondo, her dark eyes and long lashes flashing in the sun. From time to time she smiled, a flutter of a smile, like a mariposa alighting on a flower. And she smiled to me, her vengador, admiring my justice and my mercy. Chapter Eleven

tithe of gold, a triple tithe will do, amigos, to keep all happy, “Ahealthy, and wise. Pay and we will go. Only fools wish to die young, no?” Such was my modest request. Of course one might protest as many did even in the face of my pistol. “But this is our’n, rightly claimed. Why should we pay?” “You dig at my pleasure. For I am Joaquín and rule wherever I ride.” “Christ A’mighty, man, this har ain’t Mexico! This har’s Californ!” “True again, Señor,” I’d answer, ever patient as long as they kept their hands in the air. “But California is a Spanish word, no? Named for Queen Calafia. Who rides before you—” I would then present Rosita. “Regard my Queen. And I her knight, and you her subject. Is she not beautiful like a queen?” The man’s eyes would brighten, for indeed she was most beautiful and royal on her golden stallion. Then I would point and state in further fact, “Does not this stream and all the waters that flow out of the sierras feed into the great valley to the west, the San Joaquín, and its river that also bears my name? And if not yet a saint I am surely a great sinner, no?” “Well I s’pose, but—” “Then you will pay and we will go. And all will live to tell the tale.” Like a good king I collected more in taxes than in heads and enjoyed a good jest. And I delighted in presenting Rosita as my queen. If I could not make her happy I would make her smile. And make them pay, all who regarded her, for the deep harm others had done. My vengeance for Pacito was harsh and bloody. Vengeance for 156 MELVIN LITTON myself took many forms. I granted pardon and mercy at my whim. And if a head rolled on occasion such is the grim necessity in ruling men and in making law. But the play, the jest, the irony of things was my favorite realm. Against the miners’ posses we formed our gang of eight—the first of Joaquín’s many horse gangs—and claimed the sanction of no law but our own. With a full remuda we ranged throughout the region, struck here and there like lightning, hit the Gringo diggings south along the Tuolomne, then back along the Stanislaus, then north to the Calaveras to raid “the Valley of the Skull” and take refuge in her caves, build fires in the deep sockets to rest in watch and wait. And soon rode out again. Nor did we ride down shooting. Seldom used gunfire at all. Greeted them with pistols drawn and ready smiles, like a traveling show replete with trick riders and beautiful girls, and kindly suggested that they pay for the pleasure of our visit. “Sí, a third of your gold, amigos...that is my tax. If you pay, we will go.” So cajoled, most surrendered a portion of their gold to the cunning knight and his lady. Others balked. And if they refused I took all and left nothing, not even their boots. But in any case, whether bemused or sullen, we took their horses, mules, and weapons so they could not follow. Wishing them a long life and good digging as we rode away. “Adiós amigos! Till we meet again! Tomorrow or maybe never...!” Aieee! We whipped our mounts and drove theirs before us in a cloud of dust. Kept what horses we liked and released or sold the rest, depending on our prospects. Ramón soon ruled the finest remuda in all the sierras, for he was made our chief wrangler. Each horse picked for stamina and speed. Conditioned by long jornadas. Any weak or lame quickly culled by the knife. The care of so many horses along with three pack mules proved burdensome following a hard day’s ride even though others pitched in. One evening Ramón quietly allowed that we could use a good mozo. Simply hearing the word I lost my smile. “A mozo, sí, perhaps,” I nodded, then walked alone into the night. “I will be your mozo!” Pacito had cried in want to go. At such I, Joaquin 157 moments a dark rage seized my heart and I did not wish to speak or let Rosita or any see me. Filled with darkness I’d await the sunrise to lift the black curtain from my soul. And again find my smile. Not long thereafter, during yet another raid, I met Chappo, who in fact became my mozo and often made me smile. Short, stout, with a mop of black hair cut like a bowl around his head, he was half Indio, what Gringos call a “breed”—his mother a Digger, while his father he variously claimed was a Yankee sea captain or the son of an Irish whore, depending on his mood. Many like him, Indios and breeds, were hired to work the claims, given meager wages and little food. Worked like “Orchard Slaves,” the converts forsaken by the priests, enslaved at dawn and freed at dusk. Free to sleep and only dream of freedom—and to pray for peace and plenty in another life. But no, not Chappo, he was half Indio, not half a fool. He stood by the stream with his hands laced behind his head like all were told, and smiled listening to my banter and harangue as I ordered the Gringos about. His smile broadened seeing them stack gold and weapons on the blanket before me. And that he smiled and kept on smiling is why I noticed him. Catching my eye, he stepped forth. “You Joaquín, you speak good,” he said. “I Chappo would ride weeth one who rules wherever he goes.” “Gracias, Chappo,” I laughed, thanking him for his kind words. But then I asked why I would want him. “We do not dig for gold, of what use are you? “I Chappo speak Español, American, and Miwok. And Chappo can pack aparejo fast as Joaquín can dress.” Surprised at his boast and curious to see if the cock that crowed would stand his ground, I said that he must think me a woman to dress so slow. “No, Joaquín does not look a woman to Chappo. All the same, Chappo can pack muy pronto,” he said, confident, smiling, not the least taken back by my challenge. “Well then, Chappo,” I mused, “we will see how you pack. Pick which mule you like and load the gold and weapons.” He raced to a sturdy mule, tweaked its nose and led it like a lamb. In the time it would take me to put on my shirt, pants, and jaqueta, pull on my boots, buckle my holster, set my sombrero a 158 MELVIN LITTON

media cabeza, and wink at Rosita, he packed the aparejo and cinched it tight. “Bueno,” I said as he looked to me and smiled. “You bite as well as you bark. And we can use a good packer. Pick which horse you like and join us.” “Any horse?” he asked. “Sí, any horse you like.” “And a pistol?” “Does a cock have spurs? Of course you will have a pistol.” “Then Chappo will take his horse and his pistol!” he declared, jabbing a finger in his taskmaster’s face. The other glared from the mask of his black beard but held his tongue as Chappo bent low and spat on his shadow. Still not satisfied, Chappo stood eye to eye and vowed, “If Chappo meet you again, Chappo will shoot you weeth your pistol and trample you weeth your horse.” With that he skipped away, laughing at his own jest, picked the finest horse of the lot, strapped on his new pistol, and leapt to the saddle. Spry and spirited, he threw back his head and gave a wild carcajada. Proud to ride and wear a pistol. Proud to crow like a rooster and not scratch and peck like a hen.

Not all Gringos were so easily plucked. On occasion one bristled and reached for a weapon, and I shot him with no more regret than I would shoot a víbora set to strike. If the man survived his wound, fine. If not, such was his luck; he had made the play. But our actions are not always so just and balanced, so evenly dealt. At times they grow chaotic and cruel beyond our intent and will. By the autumn of ‘49, thousands more Gringos had invaded Alta California in quest for gold. Most worked the rich northern diggings along the three branches of the Rio de Los Americanos and through the Yuba and Feather beyond. It was our first raid north, near the site of our first claim, an isolated camp of five miners. A heavy mist veiled the sun and obscured the treetops. Our horses cast no shadows, nor did the men who stood wary, awaiting my words—tall, lean men, their sleeves rolled, their pants tucked in knee-high boots. They all appeared to be brothers, each a younger version of his elder and the eldest stood center, holding sway. All wore beards except for the youngest, a peach-faced youth who knelt I, Joaquin 159 to lay his pick handle down, more in dread of a brother’s scolding for dropping his tool than in fear of our pistols. And for this action, this slight movement, Three Fingers shot him, then shot him twice more as he pitched to the ground, curled in pitiful agony, coughing up blood. “You Goddamn bastard!” the eldest yelled, rushing Three Fingers with his bare hands. He too was shot as others reached for a rifle, a shovel, whatever lay at hand and fought enraged. Gunfire and screams tore the air in a rapid drama without mercy. When the smoke cleared the brothers all lay dead or dying. Blood spilled into the mud like rude blossoms slowly unfolding amid the sickly fragrance of wounded flesh. Ramón’s horse lay kicking. A pickax driven through its neck. It struggled once to rise, then lay back and whinnied. Another shot ended its misery. Reyes’ left arm hung limp, blood dripping from his hand. “No problema,” he said. “Only a flesh wound.” But Chappo grimaced in pain, shot through the thigh. He would carry that lead ball next to the bone and walk with a limp to his grave. I looked to Three Fingers in question of his rash act, looked at him hard. He shifted his eyes and did not answer. And I knew from that day that he had a black heart as I had long suspected. In roping the bear he had been spared one finger that itched to kill. It would have been a better world had he lost that finger as well. I looked to the dead that littered the ground and swore never again. “Hear me! Hear me well!” I said to Three Fingers and to all—let them see my panther teeth, hear my panther growl so they would know and fear my rage. “This is Joaquín’s law! One law you dare not forget, Tres Dedos. If you ever again kill a man who holds no weapon…I, Joaquín, will kill you! Remember!” For the young man held no weapon, meant only to lay down his pick and instead of robbing them we murdered them. Took wounds and endangered our women. I saw Pacito laying there and felt his tears in the rain. After this I had no more stomach for raiding miners’ camps. I began to think deeper, see further—for I meant to rule through the San Joaquín, the valley, the plains, from the Sierra Nevada to the Pacific, not pilfer the pockets of ragged miners. 160 MELVIN LITTON

We rode into the high sierras to lick our wounds and rest—where the pine’s brisk rosin freshens the air, sharpens the senses, and seemingly cleanses the soul of each. We camped by a glacier-fed stream that rippled through a broad meadow. The skies cleared; the days warmed. We lay on beds of fern beneath towering ponder- osa and sugar pine, glad of the sunlight and solitude, momentarily free of our injuries and crimes, our wants and needs, free to simply touch the earth again and feel at peace. Even Three Fingers’ dark nature lightened as he sought the favor and good-humor of friends, helped Ramón and Luis tend to the horses while Chappo healed. Days drifted slowly by like clouds; Gregorio and Reyes played cards; Teresa and Rosita cooked. Tiny gray squirrels chattered and hopped about gathering nuts; camp birds and jays swooped down to feed from my open hand. And Pacito’s soul sang once more like birdsong through the trees and there at last deep in my heart I bur- ied him. It was there I began to dream again and plan anew. And it was there Rosita told me as we lay, our faces reflecting the fire, that she knew she could never have a baby. “My heart aches knowing this,” she said. “For I want your baby and cannot stop wanting.” What is a woman without a child? A man without a soul? Or the soul without the flesh? Perhaps now I know her pain. At the time I could not even guess, only look through the trees to the stars in wonder. “Who knows what is written?” I answered. “Time may yet find a baby kicking in your womb. If not a baby,” I said turning to her, “for certain you will have a rancho, a casa. We have enough gold. We have only to know where.” She smiled hearing this and nudged me with her nose. “Do you remember the little lizards, Joaquín? The cuida casa? The house guardians that skittered on the sill, ate the flies and roaches, and basked in the sun? I would like an adobe where the little lizards live.” Her eyes searched mine in lonely ache and question. “Perhaps somewhere near the coast,” I offered lamely, turning from her. “Sometimes I miss our home in Sonora. Do you miss it, Joaquín?” I simply nodded and said nothing more. I missed many things. Most of all I missed holding her body pressed to mine, finding her I, Joaquin 161

deep warmth, tasting the hot nectar of her lips, her breath. But the taste of her blood, the sight of her raped, chilled my flesh and turned me from her. I found my flesh wanting another. More and more I cast my eyes to Teresa—let them linger in wonder of her slight womanly form, her delicate, dainty limbs, less fulsome than Rosita, yet shapely, lithe and slender as a deer, and dark doe eyes that ruled her lovely features and drew me like one breath in want of another. But wanting is not having. How could I rule them if I could not rule myself? She looked to me as her Jefe, not her man. Teresa looked to Gregorio. I checked my urge and looked away. Turned again to Rosita, held her close to give her comfort and calm my blood. “If something happens,” I said. “If I am killed. You should go home. To Sonora.” But she laughed at this and said, “I don’t think you will ever die, Joaquín. Don’t you know? You are not like us....” Those words, what she said, haunted me even then. The heart aches not only for what has happened, but for what it does not yet realize will happen. Much is clear to me now in this umber fog that was not clear to me then. As if from that tiny stream the rest of my life would unfold. For life flows much like a mountain river. Formed of snowmelt, of fire and ice, it plays through freshets and streams to escape its granite womb then runs twisting past the timber in anxious abandon, rampant as a youth plunging to the lowlands to slowly widen and deepen till it feeds into the sea. Yet my essence never reached the sea, and my impetuous urge, my passion, while severely checked, was never tamed, only bottled up and left to stew, ferment, and finally age, if not in the flesh then in my long, long knowing. Drifting without end like a turbid river. Locked here in mi cabeza, the head of Joaquín. Who would doubt that the spirit yet alters and evolves? Scoff if you will. Do not hair and fingernails still grow in the grave? Some say no. Though it seemed to me that the nails on Three Fingers’ horrid claw lengthened in the time it shared my fate—scratching at my dead flesh and at the wall of our tomb in itch to kill again. Chapter Twelve

ith Chappo and Reyes on the mend we rode for the coast—for WSan Francisco, where our flesh could delight in fond pursuits and pleasure, taste the variety of wine and song and roll to the play of chance. Perchance to find the twin. There sate my lust for vengeance, then lose myself in dance with Rosita, for even she was curious of how the city had changed. And Teresa and Gregorio had never seen, only heard tell of, and wished to witness for themselves the extravagance and fanfare. From a thousand lantern tents had grown hundreds of buildings as if hatched from canvas cocoons, some of brick but most of lumber with high porticos and ornate facades to entice and allure like the women posed naked within, or built stout and plain to house dry goods and freight, all arrayed in haphazard fashion, a cluster here, a lone spire there, a storm of black soot and chimneys rising from the mist and fog, and the majority soon to burn in a great inferno. But no matter. All would be built again. San Francisco would burn and suffer burning another six times over the next two years, and each time curse its damnation and emerge undaunted to sin anew, grow ever larger and more boisterous, heady from the youth and riches that flowed to her like a mountain river flows to the sea. In that flow I saw where the wealth came and went, how it was played, stored, then anted up to flow again. There lay the mother lode, in the traffic of man and goods. Compared to which chasing for gold in the sierras and sifting for dust from a stream seemed a fool’s task—slow, monotonous, trifling. This realization shaped my plan, gave it form and reason. Of the score of Spanish Missions that dotted El Camino Real most were I, Joaquin 163 abandoned by then, their former lands and holdings bequeathed in common to the Indio converts, and what little right these once held under Mexican rule was wholly lost under the Gringos. The poor devils were easily hoodwinked or simply plied with aguardiente and left besotted. No law governed the transition except for that of the gun, and much land was there for the taking as were the vast herds of cattle and horses that once fed the hide trade, left to roam wild over the rugged Coastal Range and the length and breadth of the San Joaquín Valley. There we could use our native genius as vaqueros, our supreme horsemanship and skill with the reata, and act on our urge to live a caballo versus afoot. My panther blood longed for the space and solitude of the mountains and plains, and I knew Rosita could not long endure the cold and damp of San Francisco. Surely somewhere in the dry, remote Diablos that hemmed the San Joaquín to the west lay a secluded haven where we could hold our herds and build not merely a rancho, but a ranchería, a small village for us all. As a daily guise and as was our custom we would trade in cattle and horses, and wait like the cunning zorro to seize the goose. Ride as one or many, divide or merge at will, range far and wide, vary our route and pattern over the many veredas that web the mountains, strike north and south, hundreds of miles apart, then disappear for a month, a season, back to our refuge, our haven in Los Diablos, then strike again to the east and west. Prey on the Gringos, harass them. Steal their horses if their quality and number suited us. Steal their women too if they were comely. Sí, and we would keep an eye peeled for their gold. Especially that delivered in quantity from the mines and gambling dens to the banks in Sacramento to await further shipment. To know of this and other comings and goings, to act where and when I willed, I would cultivate informants and simpáticos. And we would always deal fairly, be generous and never take from the old Californios and our own countrymen, for without their loyalty and trust we would soon be betrayed, and rightly so. Thus I mused, glimpsing the thread, the trail, the vague root of things to come. Where it would lead, to what end, I left to the brujos and fortune-tellers. Fate was their province. Life was mine. But this all awaited, still only a seed in want of sunlight and water, still only our first day in San Francisco. I would let the others have fun, relax 164 MELVIN LITTON and refresh themselves and their spirit, their flesh. Let them grow sated and bored then set my plan like a knife stabbed in the table before them. Meanwhile I would hunt the other, he in foul buckskin and red beard. The missing twin.

How do you find one in a booming city of thousands where hun- dreds arrive and leave each day? Like you catch any vermin. With bait. I would use myself as bait and plant word: “Tell him his twin lies cold, anxious to embrace his brother. To seek the one who knows come to the Hotel El Dorado.” Phrased it like a riddle to make it easy to remember. And repeated it to those most likely to notice—the man standing guard by the door, the man dealing cards at the table, the man serving drinks behind the bar. To each I gave a brief description: “He is slight of build, neither short nor tall. Of red beard and brown hair. He wears a bent-brimmed hat and soiled buckskins.” And they would answer, “I see dozens like him every day. Without a name, how would I know one from another?” “Call him El Gallo, the Rooster, if you like. But you will know this hombre, believe me, he is like no other except his twin. You will know him by his rooster head jerking this way and that. And his rooster eyes placed so close together they seem to cross in looking at you. Pale blue eyes that barely focus and betray little understanding, as if like a rooster he knows only to stand and crow and to peck at the ass of a hen. No, amigo, a foul bird you would not want to flavor your stew.” I gripped them with my brujo eyes, held them with my purring voice, then pressed a gold coin into their hand to further gain their favor and added, “See him, send him to me. I will not forget. My Jefe, Joaquín, will reward you.” Among my countrymen and the Spanish speaking I went by Dante Guerra. To Gringos I was simply José. Only to those who knew me would I remain Joaquín. And of course Ramón and the others knew who I sought, who to watch for, and who not to touch. Vengeance would be mine. Each evening after lamplight, once the swirl of music and cards, whiskey and women had begun, I entered the streets in search and hunt, mixing with one crowd, passing to another, drifting from cantina to tavern, to bordello and parlor, through every manner I, Joaquin 165 of place, some for gambling and women, others for drinking and fandango. By midnight I returned to the Hotel El Dorado, the most notorious of all, the salacious center of that raw, riotous Eden where women lay nude on velvet couches suspended among the chandeliers or reclined upon the pillowed mantle above the lavish bar—some so horribly fat and fleshy, their huge breasts and pig snouts appeared like gross features of demonic whores wreathed in veils of smoke. Better had they remained clothed and put to work mopping floors and slopping hogs. Better that than feasted on by the eye. Still, many eyes turned, beckoned by their brutish, powdered forms. Yet some were fair and pleasing, if you sought them out and were willing to pay, and others waited to be seduced, tempting as Eve. These warmed my blood, though not my heart, that belonged to Rosita; no matter my sad aversion, my heart was hers. But a man’s cock is aroused by many women, though he may rein from one to another, hold back or spur forth, it is the stallion that chooses and mounts each, while the man merely grabs the mane and holds on in mute awe and stupor as the raging loins do their work. So I went with those I favored. And I paid them well if they pleased me. Let them know of the one I hunted, that this foul rooster they best avoid for he would rather tear a woman’s guts from her ass than delight in her more natural and fitting fruit. “Do not go with him,” I warned, a good shepherd to my Magdalenas. “Send him to me and he will harm no others.” This they took to heart and promised to be wary. At dawn I returned to our lodgings and slept through the day. Rosita knew as well who I hunted and why. And that I sought release and why. Nor was she blind to my want of Teresa. Sad for us both to lose what could not be reclaimed. To hold our love, yet no longer embrace in want of one another. During her time of the moon I could not even bear her scent. I slept alone, shades drawn, a fitful sleep, haunted by that fateful day and those I’d killed and the one yet to be killed—he that the voice of the golden-haired chica urged me to find. Stirring in a sweat, I sensed a presence like a ghost, but not a ghost, warm to my touch, sleek and perfumed. I felt the blanket draw back and opened my eyes to Teresa leaning over me. “Rosita sent me,” she whispered. “What you want you will have.” 166 MELVIN LITTON

“But Gregorio?” I started to ask as she placed a finger to my lips and smiled. “He is at the old Mission Dolores racing horses.” She drew off her chemise, raised her thigh and sat astride, stoked my stallion cock, teased it with her nectarous warmth then eased down its length in quickening rhythm, riding faster, deeper as I grasped her waist, her breasts, her long, flowing hair and pulled her to me. I rolled atop and spread her wide, let her serve her Jefe as she swore in fervor to her God. So graceful and lithe, she rode as well as she had ridden, drawing me to her with her lovely eyes and her breathless whimper. In those stolen moments she drew from me all the fire and hate and let me feed her all the love and passion I felt for Rosita, there bask in the merciful glory of two women made one. What spilled to her, emptied me, and that day I slept like I hadn’t since Pacito’s hanging and Rosita’s rape. That evening I focused solely on the hunt, wishing to catch a glimpse and did. And another later on. And still another. The first was on the grand floor of the El Dorado somewhat after midnight, where scores of celebrants—miners, rogues, gamblers, and women in gaudy dress—were milling at the tables and the bar. I saw him across the way, gazing with his intent rooster stare, scanning the crowd. There then gone in the time it takes a puff of smoke to rise and scatter. I tossed my cigarro to a cuspidor and hurried through the crowd. I met dozens on the street, stomping to the boardwalks, cursing the mud, scraping their boots. But not him. Somewhat later, passing a posh bordello, a friendly doorman gave a wink and called me over. “Ah ‘ave news far ya, José,” he said in his soft brogue. “’At odd duck ya be lookin’ far? Think ah sar ‘im slip inta the China ‘Ouse a wee while ago.” “Gracias, Paddy,” I said, dropping a gold coin to his cupped hand. “José does not forget. Nor will Joaquín.” Then I quickly crossed to the opium den hoping to catch my prey flat on his back, taking a whiff of that blissful dream—one that would send him straight to Hell. But walking through the door and down the shadowed aisles past filthy cots and pallets, peering through the dim lamplight and dense yellow smoke into the vacant yellow eyes and pale mute faces, I saw not a one that resembled him. A human dross there numbed I, Joaquin 167 in wait of last rites and burial, as if dead and no one had yet closed their eyes. And I the unwelcome ghost come to each. Entering a darkened corridor, I brushed aside a bamboo curtain and there he stood, cash in hand, about to buy a pipe from an old Celestial whose wattled face sagged like a vulture’s and whose white beard hung like a wisp of smoke in the shadows. In a blink the Rooster’s eyes focused. He shoved the Celestial toward me and fled out back, flinging every table, chair, and bed in his wake. I kicked and stumbled, running after him, every object twice thrown as the dead awakened and cursed from their dreams. Outside I glimpsed him rounding a building, his shadow cast large on the opposite wall. But rushing there I found nothing, only shadows of an empty street leading to a stand of dark, silent trees. Above my breath I heard the drip of rain and the muffled sound of distant revelry. But there! I saw him running. Or was it only the wind in the trees and my eyes deceiving me? I now felt watched in turn, hunted. Did he lurk in the shadows, his pistol drawn in wait? Could one so lacking in understanding possess a genius for quick ruse and escape? For ambush? Sí, when cornered even a rooster can prove artful and cunning. I decided to wait. Play my game, not his. For two nights running it went much the same. Our cat and mouse. He’d give a glimpse then dash off. Another glimpse, then off again. And each time I gave chase till I stood at the edge of some darkened path, gazing into the night, the silence. Sensing his eyes upon me, I’d ease my hammer down and back away. Bide my time. Good to know he hunted me and sought revenge. Sí, a clever rooster. But he only knew one game. Good perhaps for luring chicks and hens. But I would not be fooled. The third morning upon my return I told Ramón and the others that I had seen El Gallo, the Rooster. “Three nights now I have seen him. But he is a flighty bird and hard to catch.” I asked that they scatter out and ride in search for him. “Find where he nests. Where he sleeps and wakes. And there I will wring his neck.” They were agreed, eager for the diversion and the hunt. “He will show himself soon enough, Jefe,” Ramón allowed leading them out. “Then you can put an end to this damn business. Live like a man and wake with the sun again. Stop prowling at night like a panther.” 168 MELVIN LITTON

I smiled at his mock scolding. Thanked them for their help. Told them to come pronto should they see or hear anything. Once they were gone, I went to my room. The panther needed rest. What’s more I wanted Teresa and asked Rosita to have her wake me at noon. Needed her permission, her compliance. Wanted her in Teresa. When Teresa came and woke me she offered a cup of hot chocolate, which I sipped watching her slowly undress. The curtain- laced sunlight softly mottled her flesh as her clothes fell away, lending a soft, dreamlike aura. “Does it not bother you?” I asked. “To betray Gregorio.” “And you Rosita?” she replied. “What is not known does no harm.” With the subtle ease of her words she slipped under me like a shadow turned to flesh, warm and open like a flower, her woman scent strong and sweetly moist, and there entering I asked to call her Teresa Rosita. She closed her eyes and answered, Sí, sí...as we made love in a full and tender way. Fit to one another like feathers to a wing. A wing arched to fly. Ah,“ Teresa Rosita....” My eyes misted full, grateful in my want and need, forgetting our betrayals. Only sorry she could not stay. But word came sooner than expected. In leaving my room, still flush from making love, she met Three Fingers at the door. They passed without speaking. He tipped his sombrero to her and entered. “Have I disturbed you, Jefe?” he grunted, looking amused, bullish. “No matter,” I answered. “Rosita just sent her up to wake me.” “Ahhh...she is one I would have wake me anytime.” “Silencio!” I warned. “Say no more. Not a word. Not one rumor. If I hear anything. If you start anything...I will finish it.” “As you say, Jefe,” he shrugged. “It is no matter.” His eyes narrowed and he held his grin. “She only came to wake you, no? And what I have could not wait. As you said, ‘Come pronto!’ I have word of the Rooster. He nests near the matedero, out beyond the old Mission, where they butcher. I talked with Juan Perez, he works there. He said the Rooster comes and goes and sneaks about. Yesterday they found him in the feather bin and ran him off. But he returns. Like a bird to his roost.” I, Joaquin 169

Three Fingers laughed and I laughed with him. “Good, gracias,” I answered, already up, nearly dressed, pulling on my boots. Grateful to Three Fingers for his sharp eye and keen scent. Forgave his bold entry and sly grin. His itch was in his finger not his tongue. I buckled on my pistol and said, “Come, amigo. Let us ride and see that he does not fly the coop.” And no, no better place than a matedero to kill the foul bird.

The heavy mist soon turned to rain, adding to the misery of the day. At a distance thousands of seagulls shrouded the scene like a vast white sail lifting in the wind to settle once more and cover the car- rion. Up close the stench of offal left to rot in a gulch till washed to the sea struck like a sharp blow to my senses and lent a darker mean- ing to the arroyo long known as the “Stream of Sorrows.” Bowels and butchered heads of cattle, horses, pigs, chickens, and sheep lay piled like booty to be stripped by maggots and flies, feasted on by dogs and vultures, by hundreds of rats and ravens amid a raucous blizzard of gulls—a sight and odor that slowed you and made you think of what we are made and would become. Am not I, Joaquín, a butchered head, sentient beyond a century? At the time I merely covered my nose and rode on in hunt of the one I would slaugh- ter. Spurred Alazán past the horses and mules too old or lame that raised their heads and neighed in fear, mixing their cries with other animals penned in wait. Women too ugly or diseased to serve as harlots and girls as yet too young caught and plucked the fowl, gutting them on makeshift tables of raised planks and barrels while the rain washed the bloody viscera into puddles underfoot. Stout, burly men butchered the large animals, for it takes heft to wrestle them down and cut their throats, hoist and cleave their flesh. Carcasses at various stages of slaughter hung on meat hooks from overhangs, door frames, and tree limbs. Each oddly the same once the head, hoof, and hide were removed. A brute harvest. A black hive. A rude cacophony raised by the killer and the killed through a motley clutter of buildings: several older adobes turning to mud, the rest of post and beam, rough-hewn, sided and roofed with mill leavings and tattered sail- cloths, all crude and ramshackle, darkened by the rain and made more grim and ugly by their use and the scene encamped—a vale of 170 MELVIN LITTON death that lay in the shadow of the old Mission haunting the far hill like a severed skull, a great Calaveras, hollowed out and emptied of all her sorrow. The Mission Dolores. Her remaining padres left to tend the graves and sing mass in memory of the Good Shepherd, while her converts scattered and the last of her herds were rounded up and butchered at her feet. Through the scene I moved and witnessed in search of the Rooster. Sought his form, his shadow, his boot print in the mud. We spoke with Juan. He had not seen him that day, but pointed out the feather bin where he had nested. We followed the little chicas to where they emptied their baskets and found only feathers. Again I cast my eyes to the old Mission on the hill, haunted by its presence. Something there. Most of the stables and outlying buildings had crumbled into ruins, while a few still stood in low profile to the old church and its grand facade. And somewhat further distant, looming even larger beneath the darkening sky stood a huge barn, wholly abandoned, the sagging relic of the Mission’s glory days. It called to me in echo of that lone adobe where Rosita and I had taken shelter and found the murdered family. Three Fingers followed my gaze and looked there as well, his nostrils flaring in scent. We mounted up and rode. He to the outbuildings. I to the barn. In passing the Mission I met an old padre carrying a bucket of water up from the well. He stood by the path, slender and bent, his face wrinkled, his hair tonsured by time, his robe patched and stained from his labor and chores. Good to see a padre in humble habit, with calloused hands. I reined by and greeted him. “Buenos tardes, padre. May I help with the bucket?” I asked to put him at ease, for he appeared somewhat wary of me. “Gracias, my son. But it is no burden. And I am in no hurry.” Sí, he could read my haste, my urgency, and added, “Perhaps I may assist you?” “Perhaps,” I smiled, “perhaps you may.” I glanced to where Three Fingers had dismounted. “Down there, at the stables and cottages, where mi compañero stands...is there nothing?” “No. All abandoned. No horses, no cattle. Not a soul. None here at the Mission Dolores except myself, Cristián Diego. And my fellow Fransicans, Fray Ignacio and Fray Homero. The last of our converts, Felipe, ran off a week ago.” I, Joaquin 171

“Ran off?” “Sí, ran off.” “Then perhaps you’ve seen a man lurking about. A man who in appearance and manner resembles a rooster. And has no more compassion than a rooster. You would know him by his tiny, cruel eyes, his foul buckskin and red beard.” “Sí,” Fray Cristián nodded wanly, like one aggrieved. “There is such a man. He appeared about a month ago and is often seen at the barn. We no longer go there. He steals the chickens and raids the garden. It was he who scared off Felipe by threatening him with a pistol for not bringing him wine. Now he threatens us, so we give him wine. Santo Dios, we pray for deliverance. But...there is no law, and he is Americano.” “Rest easy, padre. I will find him and you will fear no more.” “Gracias a Dios,” he said and crossed himself. “Your name, señor?” “Joaquín...Joaquín Murrieta.” “Bless you, Joaquín. Bless you, my son....” Sí, he clasped my hand and I accepted his blessing. To find the Rooster I would have accepted blessing from the Devil. Then I reined about and rode for the barn. The interior opened like a high-vaulted nave, dark and cavernous, nothing but shadows and fallen timbers slanting through its length, rain dripped from the gaping roof, pigeons nested in the rafters. Utterly gutted, anything of use carted off long ago. Along the near wall a stack of remnant hides turned to rot, gnawed on and nested in by rats and other vermin. At the dark center a great black kettle once used to render tallow lay tilted on its side, slowly sinking in the muck where hogs had wallowed. All about lay shards of pottery and other rubbish splattered by pigeons. The air was cold as the breath of fear and grew colder still as I picked my way careful of my tread. It was not the Rooster I feared, but what I might find. I kept my pistol drawn and cocked, prepared for the least sound or movement. But never ready for the horror behind the mask, the inhuman. In back, beyond the stone corral, lay a cellar, its door secured by a large rock; the upper hinge recently nailed where the wood had splintered. When I raised the door the raw, chill air reeked of death and decay. Crickets and spiders rushed from sight, a snake 172 MELVIN LITTON retreated to a crevice. I gripped my pistol and descended the stone steps, not in fear of ambush, for one could not both position the rock and wait within, it was the stink and what it boded that caught my breath and made me wary. Entering the darkness I struck a match and saw what I had feared. A triple horror. Three chicas trussed up by their ankles. Guts torn from their bellies. Each partly flayed and eaten. Ashes of a fire lay beneath a spit for roasting, and nearby sat a plate of blackened bits left unchewed. Nausea gripped me—a dread so deep I could not move, knowing the Rooster had squatted there to feed. His first victim had been dead a week, already turning black; another’s flesh had greened; the more recent was merely pale and bloodless. Perhaps he snatched one when she was sent to fetch a fowl, another as she emptied a basket of feathers, or found them by the harbor where many urchins were left to roam among the rats, and like a rat he caught a choice morsel and scurried into the night. Then the match flame bit my flesh and blessed darkness clothed them as their ghostly voices cursed me, saying, “Look on us no more and go!” I turned from that pitiless tomb and dashed up the steps, gasping for air. But the trap lay without not within. I felt the bullet before I heard gunfire, grazing my brow, knocking me back while another ricocheted off the stone, spitting fragments into my neck as I ducked for cover. From beyond, above my confusion and pain, came the Rooster’s heinous shriek, a cry so strange it could belong to no other. This echoed by three rapid shots and a lengthening silence. My head throbbed, my vision blurred. I wiped blood from my eyes, my brow...and gripped my pistol in wait. “Jefe...?” a voice called in question. “Jefe, are you all right?” Relieved to hear Three Fingers, I answered, “Sí, only a scratch.” Then I rose to my feet and steadied. This time I emerged from my intended tomb more slowly. Three Fingers stood over the Rooster, grinning like a dog having made a kill. He cocked his pistol and put another bullet between the eyes, making certain the Rooster did not play the possum. “I sometimes shoot one too many,” he laughed. “But I never shoot one too few.” Then he pointed to the corral wall. “He crouched up there I, Joaquin 173 in wait for you. I saw him across the way. But had to run to get him in range. And nearly too late.” He paused, still grinning. “Sorry to rob you of your pleasure, Jefe.” “You rob me of nothing,” I answered. “It’s my pleasure to see him dead. And gracias, Tres Dedos, for it is also my pleasure to be alive. I thank you.” He gave a slight nod, indifferent to my praise. It was his itchy finger that pleased him; and in this instance it pleased me. Though I did not relish owing him my life, I was grateful. Every breath I drew thereafter was granted to me by Three Fingers. “What is down there?” he asked as I reached to close the cellar door. “Nothing but the Rooster’s foul nest. And three dead chicas who will never grow to dance or mourn. Who ask only that we leave them and go...and not put him with them.” “Where then, Jefe?” “Once it is dark, drag him to the gulch where they spill the guts and heads. Cut him up and mix him with the rest. Will you do this for me?” Three Fingers grinned, his eyes brightened. “How many pieces, Jefe?” “As many as you like,” I answered, then left him to his pleasure. Have you ever seen a dog rip a snake to shreds? That was Three Fingers set to do his work. And riding off I hoped that the black heart that served me was not as foul as the one he butchered. Again I stopped by the Mission Dolores, left word with Fray Cristián of the three chicas so that their bodies could be tended to and given burial. I also left a purse of gold. From that day, word of Joaquín, of his just and generous hand, spread to other missions along El Camino Real. Chapter Thirteen

he Rooster dead, I took Rosita dancing. She smelt of life, not Tof blood or death, wholly alive, scented like phlox on a sunlit hillside—her sweet breath intoxicating like her deep, sad beauty and her touch that softened the thorn, drew it from my heart and let flow my love for her. Each from our wounds let flow our love. In dancing we made love in a ritual way—muy mimosa, very tender, like Teresa and I had done that morning. “Does she please you?” Rosita asked as the night deepened and warmed. “Teresa? Sí, if I dream she is you and that you are she.” “We are like sisters, she and I. But...will you always think me repulsive?” “No, Rosita, never. Only what they did to you is repulsive, and so fresh, so recent.” “Sí, it is close...like the morning shadows. I can feel their hands reach to—” “Then let us dance into the light,” I said, “far from the shadows. And forget those hands, for they can never touch you again. Someday it will seem only a dream.” “Sí, someday it will seem far away....” So we danced each night locked arm in arm, eye to eye, heart to heart, sharing a wound that would never heal, yet made us one. And each day found the thorn stabbed there again, removed only in those moments we held each other soothed by the rhythm and swirl of music. Teresa and Gregorio also danced, maybe not so joyful as before, sensing their own thorn, another presence wedging between them. I, Joaquin 175

If he had not yet seen her eyes taking flight to mine, sooner or later he surely would and guess no matter how careful or quiet or seldom she came to me that she was no longer his and only his. Perhaps he would remain paciente and suffer in silence. Perhaps not. No man is ever pleased to share his woman. I liked Gregorio and did not wish him harm, but could not cease to have Teresa. I hated that things were not so simple, that Three Fingers already suspected and that I owed him my life. Hated that I loved Rosita yet pleasured in Teresa and would not stop even if it meant hurting Gregorio. Be patient, I told myself, we will choose our moments with care and cause no grief. Then I thought no more and danced on looking solely to Rosita, lost in the moment, the motion, the music. We danced through the week of La Navidad, through the fire that left many buildings in smoldering ruin and took no notice of the blaze as if a mile distance were another world, another time, a fiery painting framed by the window on the wall. Reyes danced as well with a lusty señorita named Camila Ybarra, a buxom beauty with a rump like a brood mare, broad for foaling, which she swished with such heat and verve that Reyes soon had eyes for no other. Her eyes large and bold as dark nipples erect in want. Reyes lost all shyness, made bold like a black snake to have her. Later, near dawn, when they’d left and returned, it was clear his infatuation had survived their first embrace. For two nights they danced and embraced and on the third dawn declared themselves wed. Aieee! Our little band was growing; now Camila would ride with us. Good that she was plump and not to my liking. Though others found her tempting, her lively flesh, her saucy tongue, not only Reyes but Gregorio also had eyes for her. Good to have him distracted and held in the grip of his own wanton urge. Meanwhile the others sought entertainment elsewhere. Ramón and Chappo went to horse races and cockfights; Luis and Three Fingers mostly gambled and whored. Nor had Three Fingers forgotten the “ golden jewel given life...”—still smitten by Pacito’s words, looked for but found no sign of the Celestial. Only rumors. Apparently the China doll had returned to China as I’d hoped. But Three Fingers, once on a scent, remained on scent till the trail went cold. He continued to hunt the Celestial like a moonstruck hound in quest of a sacred light. That she was elusive, a vision granted only 176 MELVIN LITTON in words, merely increased his heat and howl. Whet his desire. Winter rains fell hard and lasted long. Miners forced from the diggings by swollen rivers rushed in reverse for San Francisco, many with their pockets full, eager to make amends for months of toil and misery. Gringos and gold poured into the city fast as the rivers flowed to the sea. And my thought and eyes turned to the gold, wondering from whom to where and in what vault it lay as all men wonder from time to time. And we may have lingered through that winter lost in wonder and entertainment had not a certain event turned our thoughts to action and inspired our leaving. I say “inspired” for poetry was the root cause, the word made father to the deed. Pacito’s words. And from that innocence grew a frightful rage. For Three Fingers found the Celestial on New Year’s Eve. And next day among the bearded throngs trudging through the mud and rain into crowded saloons and casinos spread news of six Chinos murdered the night before. Proclaimed the New Year’s Eve Massacre. Word spread like the flames on La Navidad. Only this time it caught our notice—the killer said to be a Sonoran with but three fingers on his gun hand. Named “THREE FINGERS JACK” on the handbills printed up by the vigilantes and nailed to every tree, post, and clapboard building by that afternoon. “Jack” being the Gringo term for any man. People stood reading them as the ink smeared and the wind caught and blew them away. Ramón showed me one he’d found in the street, mud-stained but legible, which read: “Three Fingers Jack, Wanted Dead or Alive, $100 reward for the murder of six Chinese....” Not much of a reward if you thought about it. But Gringos didn’t think much of Chinos. Nor did they think much of Mexicans. And any Mexican caught with but three fingers on his gun hand could expect to be shot down by some Gringo as happy to kill a “Greaser” as he was to collect the reward. It would have been funny had it not pointed our way. Of course I guessed well enough why and how it had happened, the murders. But I would hear it from the killer’s mouth. We found Three Fingers and Luis holed up in their room, idly tossing cards to a hat. I slapped the handbill on the table and waited. Neither of them could read but they knew what it meant. Luis stood and moved away. I, Joaquin 177

“I did nothing, Jefe,” he said, holding out his hands by way of explanation. “I was there, sí. Waited outside. Heard shots. That is all.” But Three Fingers caught red-handed decided to Hell with it! Did not hang his head, but showed his teeth. Not a bit repentant. “They tried to trick me, dammit!” he cursed, still incensed. “They dressed a boy to look like the Celestial. With wig and gown and painted lips. I kissed her lips...his. Ay! Boñiga!” he spat in disgust. “Sí, kissed him. Then touched and found he was a boy. I shoved my pistol in his pretty mouth—” “You blew his head off!” Ramón declared hotly. “You might have spared us the grief and buggered him instead.” “I’m not a gelding that buggers a stinking boy!” “Hah! A boy’s ass can stink no worse than the sheep you’ve stuck your dick in.” “Bastante...enough,” I said, stepping between them, determined to stay calm and keep them from each other’s throats. Ramón was angry for he and Chappo had been stopped and made to show their hands to a Gringo posse. “Enough of this,” I warned, glancing to each. “We all stick our dicks in unspeakable places at times. Why? Who knows? We are men. Driven by Dios and Diablo. Now you, Ramón...let him speak. And let us listen.” Both glared a moment more then eased back, wary. I too remained watchful, hoping I had blunted their insults by making them my own. “Sí, I blew his pretty head off,” Three Fingers affirmed. “After that the old fool, the ancient one, rushed in. I grabbed his beard, wrapped it around my hand...two, three times, jerked him to his knees and said, ‘Where is she, the Celestial?’ The old goat blubbered that gibberish of theirs and pointed to the back. I dragged him through and found two more boys all dolled up in long hair. They offered me their asses and begged me not to shoot. I went mad. Felt like a fool in some damn jest. Killed them all. Did not waste time or bullets. Put one in each head. Pum! Pum! Pum! Then two old crones shrieked in from the dark to claw my face. I cut their throats like I would a sow. Vile old witches, bet they caged the Celestial and drank her blood. Or put her in a stew and ate her so they could live three thousand years. They eat their babies, you know.” This offered as proof or justification. And no, I did not know, 178 MELVIN LITTON though such things were commonly said of the Celestials and of others not like ourselves, and of us by others. Always the same, fingers pointing at them, rarely at ourselves. But think hard. Don’t we all feed on one another? Made desperate out of love, envy, hate? Sad but true, and quite often funny. For there stood Three Fingers like a crazed Quixote. Thought himself a good knight avenging his beloved Celestial, one who had never existed and for whom he could search the world over and never find. Yet he killed six certain that they had harmed her and mocked him. Words...from tiny seeds grow demons. Now he stood before me in dread of my law, my judgment, wondering of his punishment. How could I judge him for what had happened? What I had long guessed would happen and could have prevented but did not for fear of exposing Pacito to ridicule or worse? And how could I punish he who had saved my life? Before all of which Joaquín’s First Law lay limp as a lamb in the jaws of a panther. No, things were not so simple. Three Fingers was like a favored dog that kills chickens. I could not dispense with his loyalty, his cunning and skill, simply because he delighted in the murder of Chino flesh merchants. Whether he killed them for their deception, their insult, or to forestall his own temptation made no difference. He itched to kill and would kill again. To tell him “no” was like shooing flies off shit. So I preserved Pacito’s secret and cursed the Celestials. “They are a deceitful breed,” I offered by way of pardon. “You can see it in their slanty eyes. A wicked deceit to paint a boy as a woman. And they paid dearly. As is said, none leave this earth without paying what they owe.” Saying this, I said no more. Clearly it was time to leave San Francisco. But in leaving we would rob the nest. Make the Gringos pay what they owed. Make them pay and never stop paying.

At the El Dorado, in baiting the Rooster, I also observed the cards, how they fell, and the money, the gold and silver, how it flowed, to whom and to where. And the greater share flowed to the dealer, to the house—up the winding stair, down the carpeted hall to a guarded room where it was carefully counted out and sorted as to coins, printed bills, and bags of yellow dust to be stored in a vault and later taken to the banco. Always under escort of seven armed I, Joaquin 179 guards: two in front, two in back, and one on either side of he who carried the strongbox. But while it waited, piling up in the room for three or four days, sometimes a week, it was guarded only by two gunmen and the one who did the counting, the patrón, the boss—a large German with a shiny bald head and a stout girth who fan- cied himself a baron, having arrived penniless to strike it rich and by right of wealth changed his name to Baron Von Wassburg, as meticulous in dress and manner as the fine gold watch he carried and kept constantly wound. Adjusting his monocle as he checked the time. Proud and shrewd, but too meticulous for his own good. He went to the room at three each morning and left precisely at four—unless it was a day he meant to visit the banco, in which case he ascended at three thirty and remained until eight to supervise the delivery. The dealers themselves composed the escort and took turns standing guard. Most gamblers were gunmen, quick and clever with their hands, at times deadly. All a part of their calling. Each dealer knew me as José and was careful not to call me a “greaser” to my face, for I wore my pistols ready to use and my hands were as deft as any. Also I charmed them with my riddles, my easy laugh, and laughed each time I lost. “No matter,” I’d say, tossing off coins like leaves to the wind, “gold is like the flesh, amigo, dust to dust. But,” I’d add with a wink, “flesh once dust is never flesh again. While gold, even as dust, is gold forever. No?” To which they readily agreed, happy to take my gold and share my banter. Late that night while Gringo posses tired in their search of the notorious fugitive, Three Fingers and Luis crept to the roof of the El Dorado and lay in wait with a knotted reata above the counting room at the southeast corner of the second floor. The hotel faced west. I entered from the street and strolled about, stopping at various tables to place a bet, chatting with those I knew. Let the night drift with the spinning roulette, the spiraling smoke. Watched the patrón ascend the stairs at three-thirty and knew I was in luck, that the pot was full. Waited till the hall guard descended a half hour later as was his wont to stretch his legs and take in the scene. A tall Bostonian that everyone called “the Swede.” 180 MELVIN LITTON

“Hey José,” he smiled, sighting me at the bar. “Where’ve you been hiding out? Thought you were lost and gone forever like darlin’ Clementine.” Always open, affable, liked to amuse. “Nowhere and everywhere, amigo,” I said. “Truth is I found the Rooster and wrung his neck. And danced a week in celebration.” “Found the rat?” “Sí. And threw him to the rats.” “Good. Good for you, José. There are too many rats in San Francisco.” “Ah, but one rat feeds two. And two breed many more.” “So how is that?” he asked, puzzled. “You have unfinished business?” “Let’s just say it is winter, cold and damp. That a foul wind blows. And this rooster was a foul man who rode with a bad lot. You see...he squawked in dying. Said something I think your patrón would wish to hear.” “Well, you might catch him later,” he allowed off-hand. “Right now he’s busy upstairs. Like a king counting out his money.” “Wise that he counts with nothing but you zorros to stand guard, no?” Again he looked puzzled. “Zorro is a fox,” I said. “Yeah...suppose so,” he laughed softly. “Wise these days to watch your shadow.” “Then be wise and listen,” I said in a more sober tone. “What I have to tell should not wait. Take me to your patrón. There are shadows all about us. He should know now, not later. Before these shadows take form and act.” The Swede frowned, looking doubtful like a horse shown its halter. “Can’t you tell me?” he asked, curious, already caught, soon to lead. “Sorry, amigo. This is of a nature that cannot be shared.” To quiet his concern I drew my pistols, flipped and held them by the barrel. “Here, take them,” I assured. “It would not be wise to lead an armed man to a king counting out his money.” The Swede grinned and took the pistols. “Alright, José. Let’s go see the miser. Might be he’ll give you a small reward.” “Perhaps,” I smiled as he led me up the stairs. Once in the hallway I, Joaquin 181

I removed my sombrero. Held hat in hand like a peon about to meet a great hidalgo. And hidden in the crown of my sombrero, held in place by Rosita’s fine stitches, lay a small pistol which I jerked free and stuck in the Swede’s ribs. He knew by my panther eyes that I was not playing as I quickly retrieved my other pistols and his as well. But he had to try me. “Go ahead...use that pistol, José,” his voice low and threatening, “and there’ll be a dozen men on you like hounds on a coon.” “Then make me use it, amigo. And we’ll see how fast I can run and how well you can die.” Seeing that his bluff did not play, he folded like a good gambler, fell like a Jack to an Ace. “Bueno,” I said. “Now enter like always. And careful. Any word in warning will be your last.” I clicked my tongue urging him forth and let him feel the bite of the barrel in his ribs. He turned to the door and softly knocked. “It’s the Swede.” As the door opened I shoved him through and entered with both pistols held ready. “Ah, ah, ah,” I warned, aiming at all three. “Do not move a finger or I’ll shoot each of you in the time it takes to think it. So think well and do exactly as I say....” I eased the door shut with my boot heel. Muy quieto. The German huffed, but that was all. Kept his hands on the table. Kept chewing his grand cigar, mindful of my pistols. Still, he had to speak if only once to show his pride of blood and wealth. “Vhy you roonty litsle greezer!” he growled. “Use that word once more, Señor...I will forget your gold and make killing you my pleasure. I promise.” This shut him up. El Baron held his tongue and did as he was told. Stood and laid his pistol very carefully to the table where the other guard also laid his. Then all stood against the far wall with their hands locked behind their heads. Kept them facing me, for the eye betrays the gambler before the hand. I unlatched the window and tapped it twice, then twice more and raised it. Three Fingers lowered the reata and entered as planned, while Luis lit a cigarro and tossed it to the wind. At this signal Ramón, Gregorio, and Reyes rode from the shadows a quarter mile distant, leading our horses to rendezvous beneath the window. Once Luis entered I motioned to El Baron to come forth. “Now you will kneel before your vault,” I said, “and pray it 182 MELVIN LITTON opens quickly and that nothing but money and gold comes from its bowels. For Tres Dedos, or Three Fingers Jack as you know of him, will stand with a knife at your throat, and if you take too long or if a gun appears he will draw the knife across your throat and you will die lapping your blood. Sí, die as certain as los seis Chinos he killed last night.” Hearing this, their faces paled, their flesh went limp, as all do when filled with dread. “You mean to kill us, José?” the Swede asked, eying me for the least sign of favor. “That depends,” I answered evenly, betraying neither like nor dislike, though I liked the Swede and only meant to rob, not kill. “As every honest gambler knows you cannot know a card until it’s dealt.” Of course we both knew that the Swede was not an honest gambler. “So remember, amigo, we deal as we are dealt. But know this, you will live if you obey.” Three Fingers drew his knife and El Baron wasted no time—knelt right down, opened and emptied the safe. Growled not once. Like a good perro, obeyed his master and crawled to the corner and lay face down alongside his compadres. Three Fingers stood over them cutting a reata to bind them hand and foot—hog-tied them to prevent their thrashing about. Meanwhile Luis and I tossed the bags of gold and money to a blanket held stretched below. Half to one blanket, half to another, each quickly tied like a sack and looped either side of Alazán’s saddle. That done Luis slid down the rope. “Be sure to gag them good,” I said turning to Three Fingers, for I had heard their muffled groans and wished to keep them silent. Three Fingers straightened holding El Baron’s gold watch. He snapped it shut then looked to me and grinned. “It is done, Jefe,” he said and wiped his bloody knife on his pant leg. I knew then what I should have known—that once Three Fingers drew his knife he would make certain three tongues would never wag. I had no time for anger or regret, simply looked to the window and said, “Go now.” I checked the room once more, thinking how to hide our tracks. Took the lamp and scattered oil over the bodies and carpet by the door, careful not to look at their faces, did not wish to see the Swede I, Joaquin 183 staring up at me. Then I stepped to the window and flung the burning lamp against the wall. The room caught in one great flame sucking at my breath. I shinnied down the rope and mounted Alazán as the fire reached the curtains then roared up through the roof as we rode away. Only then did we hear the first cry of alarm and still we rode without haste, at an easy gallop, like celebrants returning home before dawn. No one yet knew or suspected. Nor would they ever know exactly how or why the El Dorado burned that night, all too busy making certain no other buildings burned as any number had on Navidad. Lucky it was winter and wet or San Francisco might have first burned to the ground in January of 1850, instead of in May. Riding on, I felt a bit sorry for the Swede and hoped life had left him before the flames took root. No matter how muffled their last breath, their souls surely cried out upon exit, screaming to the flames: We deal as we are dealt! But the Devil took them before they could name me and any regret for the Gringos was squelched by the taste of Rosita’s blood still bitter on my lips. I carried no grief or guilt for them, for something that could not be undone, something I had not wished for or intended—nor prevent once set in motion. Yet as Jefe I had to ask: Did Three Fingers do my bidding or his? This I could not answer. And that night I learned that each act has a will and reach all its own. Perhaps it was for the best, even wise, that Three Fingers killed them and assured our escape. Without him killing I would not have set the fire, and we would not have left a cold trail and ashes. He rode at my side like a dark shadow that acted beyond my will, yet in my interest all the same. And given the opportunity he would kill each and every time. Something I had to remember if I wished no one dead. Sí, all innocence is lost, irretrievable and utter as our acts, once our lives are sworn to vengeance and to war. What virtue is left us must be guarded, cherished, parceled out like bread to the starving or the heart will be wholly consumed by the black flame within. Did I know this? Did I think it at the time? No, but I felt, sensed, and suspected. Like those who kicked through the ruins of the El Dorado next day and found the charred bodies and opened safe surely suspected robbery and murder. By who?—they had no idea. In early 1850 there were few rumors of the infamous Joaquín. Before the year was out that would change.

PART THREE

Chapter Fourteen

ommitted to the outlaw path I expected no pardon, rode without Cinnocence but not without hope. Despite all that had happened I sought to reclaim our dream—the one shared with Rosita before Pacito’s hanging and her rape—to build an adobe with a sunlit win- dow before which she could place her statue of the Virgin. At the table we could share our bread and watch the little lizards, the cuida casa, bask in the sunlight. Run herds of horses and cattle. Take siesta in the shade of the portico and share our hearts. But our dream of children was no more. And that pain both spurred and haunted me. Like Rosita’s sad eyes. Sunrise found us well distanced from San Francisco, riding south-southeast. By evening we reached the rancho of Paco Ybarra, Camila’s father, where we were made welcome and let to graze our horses. Paco was a quiet, humble man whose wife had died giving birth to their last child, a son named Jorge, age eleven. The boy stood at his father’s side next morning choking back tears, wiping his nose, watching his two big sisters prepare to mount up, no doubt wishing he could ride off with a band of vaqueros. But we did not tempt him. “Be a man, Jorge,” Ramón said. “Learn from your father. In a few years you can ride with me all the way south to Sonora.” During the night Camila’s younger sister, Margarita, had found favor with Ramón and wished to go with him. Her father did not object since he had three more daughters to provide for and to help with the chores. Besides, Margarita was of age, fifteen and willing, and her prospects with us were better than becoming a “percentage girl” at a fandango house like Camila before meeting Reyes. Nor 188 MELVIN LITTON did I object. Ramón was a worthy man who deserved a woman, as a worthy woman deserves a child. And if Rosita could not be a mother, she would soon enough be a godmother, which would lighten her sorrow. In gratitude to Paco we left two horses and a hundred dollars in gold, which made him feel like a wealthy man. His would be the first of many safe havens we would establish among friendly Californios where we could rest and relay our horses—like Missions de los Vengadors through which we would spread our word, gather our recruits, increase our wealth. In return we would give protection and pay tithe. From there we rode through Pacheco Pass into the San Joaquín Valley and headed south along the base of the Diablo Range where we hoped to find a likely spot to build a ranchería, our own village, one that was bien escondido, well hidden. Midmorning on the third day of our hunt, I rode in lead while Rosita trailed a bit behind. I noticed her rein toward some rocks as was her custom for privacy. I rode on in wait. Ramón, Margarita, and Chappo were scouting further south. And in the distant sweep of the valley Reyes, Luis, and Three Fingers were out running a band of mustangs, kicking up the dust and barking gritos, eager to start a herd. In glancing back I saw no sign of Rosita, or Lucero. I reined about and spurred Alazán to where I’d last seen them. Again nothing, as if the land had swallowed them up. I scanned for tracks but discerned only sun etchings in the rocks. Then as suddenly as she had vanished she reappeared on Lucero before the near slope. “Joaquín! Come!” she called. “Come see!” I nudged Alazán and rode over. “What happened? I could not find you.” “Lucero fought the reins and kept on fighting,” she said. “He grew so willful I gave him the lead. He found water.” “Water? But there is only dust and rock.” “Come with me,” she said as she quickly reined Lucero. A shaft of rocks rose in sharp relief to the cliff. But riding closer the rocks gave way to a narrow defile wide enough for two riders abreast. We followed as it doglegged several hundred paces then opened onto a hidden valley. Before us stretched a lush plain of grass, a half mile wide by over a mile deep. Drip springs oozed I, Joaquin 189

from the hillsides and a winding arroyo cut a lazy course through the cottonwood, willow, and oak that lined its banks. At a glance I saw an Eden, ideal and secluded, with abundant water and grass for cattle and horses and enough space for a ranchería. “Do you like it?” she asked. “Sí, Rosita. You have found our home.” She smiled with the joy of having conceived. “If we could, I would have our adobe there...next to the cottonwoods above the stream. It is close to water, yet far enough not to flood. And I would call this place Sagrado...Arroyo Sagrado.” “Sagrado, sí,” I nodded, charmed by her sweet voice mixed with the purling waters and the wind humming through the trees. Sagrado, a sacred place. Here she felt safe and at peace. Her smile awakened, as did mine. We rode on, slowly taking it in like a fresh, full breath. Hemmed in yet open to the sky it inspired silence and longing. Even the air seemed sweeter and the birdsong brighter and more refined. Here Mescalito could speak to me in echo of a prior self that simply lived and made no claim. Later that day before riding out to gather the others, we followed a deer trail above the arroyo as it laced through a side canyon and snaked back to the San Joaquín several miles further south. No way to trace its source without making a long climb over the ridge of the canyon. The path was rough and slow-going, but passable ahorse, granting us another vereda by which to come and go. In a month or so Chappo would discover yet another trail that led over the Diablos to the Salinas Valley. A route by which we could hit El Camino Real and disappear at will. Act with greater speed and freedom. No, a rabbit with many paths to its den is not so easily caught. Nor is a panther. Arroyo Sagrado would be our haven and our home.

To an outlaw trust is as important as a fast horse and a ready gun. I left Ramón in charge. He, along with Reyes, Gregorio, and the women would establish camp while I, Luis, Chappo, and Three Fingers rode north to fetch supplies. Three Fingers I did not trust and kept on a tight leash, not certain how to control; I only knew that he moved in my shadow like a kill hound rabid to please. I owed him my life and oddly enough owned his. But Luis I trusted without question, and Chappo was ever dutiful and brave, thrilled 190 MELVIN LITTON to ride like a true bandolero, free of the remuda and of packing mules, with no want or care save for his horse and pistol and his three compañeros. A fever that infected us all—like a band of lobos in hunt, our hearts surged as we rode. And we rode hard, each lead- ing a spare mount. We changed mounts at midday and pressed on. Any young man worth his salt is part Comanche, a marauder at heart, yearning to conquer and gather homage, lay waste to other men’s grandeur. Yet in gaining plunder he dreams anew, builds his own grandeur, and given enough would build a city that in time would fall to another more virile and violent. To stem the tide we pass laws, guard the frontiers against raid and war. While deep down the blood urge never stills, never dies. But we were after supplies, not plunder. And the lust for plunder I wished to control. Make firm my own law or I could not trust myself to lead. After two days ride we reached the main trail that led from San Francisco to Stockton then cut east to Sonora and other camps north and south. As many wagons were heading into the mines as heading out. And due to the long, wet winter, very few were heading anywhere. We watched through the day, letting several pass in wait of a fatter goose. At last we hailed a large freight wagon drawn by a six-mule team driven by two rangy Gringos. They answered my wave and reined to a halt. Brusque and friendly, they shouted, “Whoa thar!” and “Howdy!” both at once. I liked their manner, for they were not haughty and their hands were calloused, unlike cardsharps and mountebanks. Even outlaws hold an innate respect for honest, hardworking men. And I meant to hold Three Fingers at bay—told all through him as we approached to stand ready but not to kill unless they reached for a weapon. Three Fingers gave a quiet nod like he understood as clearly as one, two, three. But try to explain things to a dog or any brute, talk all you want, you can never be certain what he hears or thinks. I touched the brim of my sombrero and said, “Buenos días, Señors. Good day to you.” If they were wary, they gave no sign, smiled right through their beards. Perhaps it was the whiskey they shared that made them free and open and unsuspecting, or the clear blue sky and the sun that dried the ground and brightened all our spirits. “An’ a dern fine day to you too, stranger,” the driver answered. I, Joaquin 191

“First blamed day it ain’t rained in two months. Why, they’s trails back yonder ain’t hardly passable. Some ain’t even jackassable!” He slapped his knee and laughed. A common joke and a good one if you knew the lingo. Even Three Fingers cracked a smile. “That’s a fine load of lumber,” I said. “And you have many tools. Are you carpenters?” “Carpenters maybe,” he grinned. “Leastwise handy with a hammer. Though last year we was miners till the river rose an’ flooded our diggins. Danged if we found much gold either. ‘Bout a’nuff fer beans ‘n coffee. We’s hot fer goin’ in an’ even hotter fer comin’ out. Ain’t that right, Indianer?” “Right as rain, Illinoy,” the other answered. “Hell’s bells, we make twice the money a’buildin’.” “What are you building?” I asked. “Why, all of San Francisco is all,” the driver boasted. “The greatest blamed city in the whole blamed west!” “Then you will need more than a wagonload of lumber,” I observed. “Right as rain again,” the other laughed. “By thunder we’ll need a whole forest an’ then some.” “But my amigos and I need only a wagonload,” I said, drawing my pistol. “And if you sell it to us for a fair price, we will not steal it.” At this they grew sober, looked to one another and raised their brows. “Reckon it beats black flies on a bare ass,” the driver allowed. “What say ye, Indianer?” “Wull now, Illinoy,” the other drawled, “long’s they pay cost an’ bother, I won’t balk.” Then he looked to me and asked, “That include team an’ wagon, mister?” “Name a fair price and I will pay,” I said. Thus assured they put their heads together and soon arrived at a reasonable sum. Stating which the driver grew suddenly doubtful, wondering whether I might shoot them after all. Three Fingers, roused by their fear, edged his hand to his pistol. To divert him I told him to retrieve a sack of gold from my saddlebag. He hesitated briefly then did as I asked and tossed the gold to the driver. The Gringos took a peek, making certain it was gold and not lead. They found a fair sum, 192 MELVIN LITTON more than enough, more than expected. Given that and the bonus of their lives they were happy to surrender the wagon. In addition I let them each keep a pistol, a canteen of water, and of course their whiskey. “Much obliged, mister,” the driver offered, backing away, glancing to Three Fingers, mindful of his deadly stare. “Adiós amigos. Go now and do not fear,” I said. “And gracias. Joaquín is pleased to do business with honest men.” Let them hear my name and let them live. With that they turned and walked briskly, following the trail toward San Francisco. Watching them go Three Fingers said, “I will ride and kill them for you.” “No, not today,” I answered calmly. “I want no blood on the lumber that builds my home, that forms my door and window, my table and bed.” “But they will follow,” he countered sharply, his eyes tense and hot like a snake set to strike. “No, they are happy to have the gold and keep their lives. And will risk neither.” But to make certain he did not follow, I said, “You will drive the wagon while Luis rides the flank. Chappo, you take the lead and I’ll bring up the rear. Rest easy, no one will follow. Now come, let us cover some ground before nightfall.” “Let him drive,” Three Fingers said, glancing to Chappo. “Him I do not trust to drive a six-mule team. You I trust.” I neither barked nor threatened, simply appealed to his pride and left no option. This time Three Fingers obeyed, tied his horse in back alongside our string of spare mounts and we began our long journey south. No doubt they wondered why we had paid when we could steal; each less enthused than when we started out. But it pleased me to pay and they would learn to act as I willed. Pay when it pleased me, rob when it pleased me, and kill no one unless so ordered. And no, it is never wise to leave blood along a slow trail.

At Arroyo Sagrado over the following weeks we busied ourselves in making adobe bricks. A task with which we were all familiar, having grown up stomping manure and straw into clay-mixed mud, and we laughed again like children feeling the mud squish through our toes as we joked and sang to pass the time. The bricks I, Joaquin 193 were formed in wooden frames then set to bake in the sun. Each day we made several hundred more and soon had enough to build the walls of our three adobes and a long stable for our horses. We used the lumber to frame doors and windows and to support the roof over which we laid sheaves of tules gathered from the marshes along the San Joaquín. The women also used tules to weave baskets, chair bottoms, and floor mats. And the corral was constructed of trees cut nearby and split into posts and rails. By April all was nearly complete. Rosita and I, Teresa and Gregorio occupied one adobe; Ramón, Reyes, and the Ybarra sisters another; Luis, Three Fingers, and Chappo the third. We added a smokehouse and two outdoor ovens for baking. And soon had chickens, goats for milking, and a field of maize. And we built all this with those virtues that have nothing to do with killing and everything to do with life. In Arroyo Sagrado we reclaimed a bit of our innocence, reconciled some of our acts, built a truce within and among ourselves to preserve a realm of peace amidst the war we waged. Here would be no killing, no theft—all one tribe, one familia. That was my wish and my law. And each time someone went for supplies—whether for gunpowder and lead, or thread and cloth, or seedlings—I urged them to pay. “Pay for our needs,” I said. “We are hombres, not chicken thieves. We do not kill ragged miners and hapless teamsters. Nor do we steal our daily bread. We will steal fine horses and stout mules. We will rob men of power and wealth. Sí, kill rich Gringos and the hounds that serve them. But make your crimes worthy of men. So if you hang one day you can hold your head high and face God or the Devil like men.” And I told them to treat the padres with kindness when we passed the missions. “Never fail to tithe them, so that they will recall our kindness and one day give us aid. Or burial if need be.” This pleased the women, and the men; all christened in the Church. Though they rode at times with the Devil, they looked to God. Even Three Fingers on occasion swore by the saints. Had his urge for blood been an urge for wine he might have made a fair monk. Put to work in the vintage he would have gladly stomped 194 MELVIN LITTON the grapes to slake his thirst. Mere shades of passion divide the sinner and the saint. Like Three Fingers they listened and obeyed in part, for not even God is obeyed in whole. Once out of sight men do as they will. Even my father the priest disobeyed God and followed his will with my mother. Useless to speak to virtue, to purity of soul. Men are flesh. So I spoke to their flesh, their pride, to their sense of manhood. To make them something more than a band of cutthroats and thieves. To lead true hombres, Vengadors! That was my wish, my will. And to preserve the peace in Arroyo Sagrado. But there is no perfection in this world, always failings and friction among men. And among women. Aieee! Even Rosita and Teresa, their rare affection shattered one day as I caught them pulling each other’s hair, scratching and clawing. Lucky Gregorio was on the Tulare plains scouting for horses with Ramón. I grabbed each by the arm and separated them. Feared jealousy had finally surfaced and flared. For in Gregorio’s absence I had taken pleasure with Teresa the night before and we had not touched in weeks so our passion was extreme and heated and lasted nearly till dawn. That morning when I went out, Rosita acted moody, resentful. But I was wrong, it was not our passion she resented, it was the fact that Teresa was not yet pregnant. She accused her of taking one of Olajuaña’s secret herbs. The one that prevented babies. “Yerba contra vida!” she exclaimed—the herb against life—and declared it an act against God to take it and not conceive. “You betray God who made Heaven and Earth. And the Holy Mother, La Virgen Purísima, who loves you.” I looked to Teresa. “Is this true? Do you take this herb?” “Sí, sometimes...,” she whimpered. Then glanced to me, tears rolling from her soft, dark eyes. “I am not wanting a baby, Joaquín. Things are too uncertain for a baby.” “But we have a place now, a home,” Rosita insisted, reaching to clasp her hand, her voice quiet and pleading. “You should think of being a mother. Think of the joy and forget your fear.” I sat between them, laying my hand to theirs, a thief in my own garden, stealing another man’s wife, trying to make peace between the one I coveted and the one I loved. As a man I ached. As Jefe I had to decide. I, Joaquin 195

“Teresa,” I said softly, “you will give Rosita the herb. And Rosita will burn it in the oven. If God wills, in time you will have a baby.” In truth I had no desire for a child and doubted if God cared. But I wanted Teresa in my arms and knew that Rosita would not otherwise approve. Teresa raised her eyes to mine. “But I will not know if it’s yours or Gregorio’s?” “That is as it is,” I said. “In either case it will be your baby. And Rosita will be its madrina...its godmother. You will not be burdened and alone.” So Teresa quietly consented and surrendered the herb, and Rosita was pleased and reconciled. But thereafter she insisted on watching us make love, making certain the seed was not spilled, she said. And I think, taking pleasure in our act. Strangely, although shy at first, we took pleasure in her watching, at times felt her slender hands and sharp nails graze our flanks like a ghost in want of the flesh. Each touch acted like a bellows that fired our passion. No, things were not so simple. And Rosita insisted we make love more often so a baby would come that much sooner. Gregorio knit his bushy brow in puzzle over the many requests and far errands the women asked of him. Sí, grew vaguely suspicious. Had he thought deeper and rubbed his brow further he may have sensed the proverbial horns starting to sprout. But Rosita’s presence allayed any real concern. Little did he know that she was the author of his cuckolding. By May it appeared Teresa was pregnant. By June it was certain. And Gregorio walked proud as any man soon to be a father. Aside from my own passions to juggle, as Jefe I had to ride herd on the other men as well—rein them in, direct and cajole. The Ybarra sisters aroused the lust of each man there. Whether kneeling in the field to tend the maize and melons or undressing by the stream to bathe at sunset, they reminded us we were stallions first and men second. Had I not been so busy with Teresa I would have gladly sheaved my cock in the younger one, Margarita, for she was sassy and bold and formed to my liking. Aieee! Good that we relieved much of the tension in mustanging on the Tulares. But not all. While women rouse the blood of men, some men roused lust only for blood. 196 MELVIN LITTON

Early one morning while Gregorio and I sat at the table sipping hot chocolate, discussing mustangs and how best to break them, we heard a quarrel outside, not the common bluster of men, but a brutish howl and rage. We rushed out to find Three Fingers and Chappo at each other’s throats, kicking up the dust like two gamecocks determined to fight to the death. Before I could reach them each flashed a knife and drew blood. In another moment one would have surely finished it, for Chappo danced quick in spite of his game leg and Three Fingers could whip his arm and strike like a snake. I fired my pistol once—twice—three times! Then stepped between them. No use wasting words till their eyes cleared and they could reason. Both stood tense, gripping their knives; one a killer, one a mozo, and both rivals for my favor. “He think he better!” Chappo shouted, thrusting his blade at Three Fingers. “He say Digger blood is shit blood. Chappo blood half Yankee. Anglo-Saxon! Best blood of all! Better than half-breed Apache who mate weeth dung!” Three Fingers had needled him from the first. Always called him “Digger.” Sent him after this and that. Liked to bark and see him jump. This time Chappo jumped with a knife. But Three Fingers would not leave off. “Nothing worse than a nigger but a Digger,” he taunted. “I caught him eying Camila as she drew water from the stream. He should not look at her!” “I look no more than you!” Chappo shot back. “Or him or him or him!” pointing to each man there. By now all had gathered, watching. Ramón and Reyes stood silent and above the fray, proud to be envied and have their women admired. While the women, the Ybarra sisters, Camila and Margarita, swayed with special delight seeing men shed blood on their behalf. “No Digger looks at a Spanish woman!” Three Fingers vowed. “Look at her once more and by the saints I’ll stick your head on a post and you can stare all you like!” “Silencio! Basta!” My turn to growl. For if they could trade insults and threaten, they could now reason. “Listen to me, Tres Dedos. If I wake to find Chappo’s head on a post, when you blink again you will blink your last. And the saints will not save you. Your head will be stuck on a post beside his. Hear me now, all of you. And I, Joaquin 197

remember, we are all of mixed blood. Mestizos! And we all look at women. That is our right as men. But take care not to look too long,” this I said to Chappo, waving my pistol in warning. “And take care not to touch. That is not your right unless the woman belongs to you.” What a fine speech I made; what a hypocrite I was. Then I told them to drop their knives. “Now you will mix the blood of your wounds and become brothers.” “No! Nunca! Never!” they barked, baring their teeth, neither of them willing. “Do it! Do it now!” I demanded. “Or por Dios your blood will mix in the dirt!” They glared like mica struck by the sun. Then slowly, as if moving through a wall of hate, they approached. Chappo pressed his wounded arm to Three Fingers’ wounded shoulder, just above the heart, and their blood mixed until their pulse became one. “Bueno,” I said. “Now you are brothers. Both Apache...and both Diggers.” Parting, they still hated one another, but they loved their blood and blood bound them. No, they were never friends and never good brothers. But they never fought again. No, things are not so simple, never perfect. Grateful that day to have mustangs to chase. Mounting up we barked lusty carcajadas and cast our anger to the wind. Hurled our spirits before our horses and dashed out across the Tulares in pursuit of wild herds. Like shadows given form we raced below the sky, leaping gulches, rounding bends, in sync and glide as we sent our reatas to lace a neck then reined back hard to throw our captive in a swirl of dust, and spurred again till they broke to lead. At ease, at home in the saddle, in sweat and motion, we honed and tested our skills— named a challenge, a dare, to race the distance or jump a chasm, feel the thrust of a stallion take flight and the bone-jarring snap in his return to earth. Aieee! Mustanging! Much laughter and many sprains—active, dangerous work that calmed the blood and sharpened men like blades drawn over coarse stones. Chapter Fifteen

arly dawn, the sun reached through the mist of the San Joaquín Ewith its broad luminous hand lending a golden tint to the shadowed expanse where the terrain slowly emerged like a woman turning her flesh to your eyes. All quiet and still below the crisp rise of birdsong. Ramón sat mounted on the near hill, waiting to signal those in the far valley while Chappo and I flushed the mustangs from their lair in the foothills. We no longer captured them one at a time but worked to take the whole herd at once, running them in relays like the Tuhumara maidens who ran them afoot in the Sierra Madres, only we ran them ahorse and tired them much faster. At sight of our dust Ramón flashed a mirror to the sun in signal we were coming. We hit the open ground in a thunder of hooves and drove them hard, shouting and firing our pistols as Ramón rode down to join us, herding over forty mustang toward Reyes and Rosita stationed about a mile distant. They flanked left and raised their flags to signal they were ready. Each carried a flagged spear to prod the herd, and the flag whipped past a horse’s eye or ear helped to turn them. At our approach they leveled their flags like lances and spurred on, driving the herd in a wide arc toward Gregorio and Teresa spaced at a further mile, and so on to Luis and Three Fingers to complete the circuit back to us—each pair of riders waiting at the next station with rested horses to drive the herd in an ever tighter circle. Meanwhile Ramón relayed horses as needed to keep all in fresh mounts; our remuda held in a roped corral near the arranged point of capture. The sun rose and heated the valley as we continued running the mustangs till they finally winded, slowing like spokes of a wheel I, Joaquin 199 come to rest. Their coats lathered in sweat, their mouths foaming in want of water, we drove them into a tight canyon and worked them in a rodeo to pick and cull. Some calmed at the first tug of a reata; others kicked and whinnied in a storm of dust. One jerked Reyes from his saddle, giving him a nasty rope burn and a bruised hip. Another snapped its leg in a badger hole and had to be shot. And we cut the throats of several mares not worth capture. At this the rest grew more tractable, for scent of blood is a keen teacher when time allows for no other. By noon we had over thirty mustangs tied to drag lines, ready to lead. Only the stallion remained bravo, a brown and white pinto of admirable fight. Thrown and choked down twice, he would not relent, but reared and pawed the air. Luis and Three Fingers held him with reatas tied to their pommels, awaiting our decision. “That one has too much heart,” Ramón said, rolling a shuck cigarro. “If we had all day, maybe. But we need to make Sagrado by sundown.” “We could cut him loose,” I suggested, knowing full well the answer. “Sí, Jefe...a shame to kill him. But he’ll try to reclaim his herd, you bet he will. And we have twenty miles to go. We can’t bother with a mad stallion.” Chappo sat mounted beside us, quiet till now. “Chappo maybe ride. Take weeth.” “Ride him once and go to God,” said Ramón. “Por Dios, he’ll break your neck.” “Ay caramba! Then Chappo have bum leg and wobble head. Cabeza bamboleo!” he mimed like a sad clown, shaking his bowl-cut hair. “Best to shoot him then.” In matters of horses Ramón had final say. Seeing no reprieve, Chappo drew his pistol and rode forth. “Sorry, proud one,” he said as the stallion eyed him fiercely. “No take weeth.” Chappo raised his pistol and fired.

As Corredores de Mesteños we ranged through the width and breadth of the San Joaquín, chasing after the wild herds and taking our captives back to Sagrado. Once green broke and branded we 200 MELVIN LITTON drove them to market at our leisure. Though we later drove horses all the way to Sonora, our initial markets were in Sacramento and San Francisco. And we sold cattle as well, for beef fetched a good price to feed the thousands of miners, laborers, and tradesmen that still flocked for the gold. During this time I made extensive contacts at various ranchos and haciendas north and east and on south through Tejon Pass and west over the Coastal Range to San Luis Obispo. In horse trading men reveal themselves, their sentiments, their loyalties, their grievances. For horseflesh holds the eye and hones the tongue as certain as whiskey blurs the eye and loosens the tongue, and those few words spoken in awe or disgust of a horse will tell you what you need to know of a man—whether he values breeding above heart, or prefers a docile manner to a spirited will, or a pretty head to good bones. By listening I soon learned who I could trust and of who to be wary. My greatest pleasure was in becoming friends with Don Constancio, the ninety-year-old patriarch of El Rancho de los Coyotes. Constancio Corrego first came to California as a young soldier, “a leather jacket,” to help build and defend the missions founded by Fray Junípero Serra. He’d even accompanied the famous priest on his final journey from Obispo to Monterey. “Serra was a fool like all the padres,” Don Constancio said, squinting his eyes in memory as he smoothed his milk-white mustache. “But he was a tough and kindly little fool. Looked like Sancho and dreamed like Quixote. And his dreams came true in part. He dreamt of dying a good death, of converting the savage. And for what little good it did, it led me to my destiny. Here to this great tierra. Though I did not think it so great at the time. Nothing but grizzly bears and wild Indios. To ease the boredom we killed the bears and chased the women. Catching them was easy, for women make themselves available to the man with the fiercest weapon, the fastest horse, and the greatest number of cattle. Of course this riled their men and caused the padres endless grief. Even got a few of them martyred,” he chuckled. “Sí, when men will not fight for themselves they fight for their women. We had any number of battles over the women. Ah, but they were greedy for goods and trade, so each time they wanted something they made peace. And I, Joaquin 201 for this, for a bowl and a blanket, they converted, not for their souls. For steel knives, for cotton and wool, for the secrets of making wine they knelt before the Virgin. “Like many soldiers I eventually married a Tejon woman and settled. Which made the padres and the Indios happy. And made me happy. She was a fine woman. Carlita was the name given her by the padres. But I preferred her true name, Moijah...meaning ‘ever faithful’ or ‘most willing.’” He smiled fondly saying this, then added, “She died long ago. So many children. So much labor....” With her he had sired seven sons and four daughters. They in turn bore over fifty grandchildren. Already there were a score of great-grandchildren. And all answered to Don Constancio. He ruled over a vast tract of land between Obispo and Santa Margarita that he called “Los Coyotes,” because, as he said: “We are each of us a thief in the night. Hold only what we can take and carry back to our dens. And hold it only till the earth takes us back and the wind scatters our bones. Listen...listen to los coyotes howl. Speak and they will answer with a festive carcajada...tell of the weather and the mystery of the wind and the stars. Often they sing lusty corridos of the hunt and love. But tonight theirs is a mournful longing...the soul’s sad canción. A prayer I can understand.” And I understood Don Constancio. To me he was the true bishop of Obispo, not San Luis. Though dim-eyed and ancient he saw clearly the pattern of things and spoke to what was and would be based on what he had seen, not on what he wished for. “Now the Gringos come,” he said, swirling a glass of aguardiente in savor and in thought. “Like us...a few at first, then many. They are a tall, manly race and chase after our women for our women are comely and that is what men do. And we will fight them for that is also what men do. There will not be peace between us until our blood has mixed and that may take centuries. Sí, you will fight them as you must for you are too much a man not to. And with so much courage you will not live to be an old man like myself who has only enough courage to see him through each day. Even still, if I were young I would join you and fight. Though you cannot win and will not win, you are always welcome here, young Jefe. For you do what men long to do. Even old men. You live with courage. May you die with courage,” he raised his glass in toast. “And may I die 202 MELVIN LITTON soon before what little courage I have betrays me like my last tooth.” Then he tossed off his brandy in one gulp and laughed broadly, showing the few remaining teeth with which he proudly chewed his veal. But Don Constancio’s courage had not dimmed, nor would it wane. He always offered aid and sanctuary no matter how thick and angry the Gringos swarmed. And I bet he swilled brandy and chewed veal long after the wind blew my dust. But that is yet...let it wait. Like Don Constancio said, our women are comely, muy hermosa. That night I took my need with his great-granddaughter, Carlita, who crept into my room and left her flower in my bed— found her every bit as willing as Don Constancio had found her great-grandmother for whom she was named. Thereafter, every visit I paid to Los Coyotes, Carlita came to me. Her lush, full hips played lively in the sheets, her lips parted to my tongue like a song given breath, her thighs clutched and held till I let her prove why God made her woman and made me man. Within a year Carlita bore Don Constancio his first great-great- grandson. Don Constancio insisted on naming the boy Joaquín, proud to see his blood mix with mine. And while indifferent to the child, to any except those I might have had with Rosita, I was happy for Don Constancio. Such a wise and generous man, his loyalty and courage beyond question. Too old to ride, yet he risked himself and his family, even urged three of his grandsons, Edwardo, Ponce, and Baco, to serve me. From time to time they acted as couriers and on several occasions helped drive stolen horses south to Sonora.

By summer our ranks began to swell like Teresa’s belly—and Camila’s, which was Reyes’ doing, not mine. Before the year was out I led a force of over sixty bandoleros, a number that held fairly steady to the end. As one was jailed or killed or chose a safer path, another took his place. Always plenty of recruits. In April of 1850, the first act of the California legislature, “The Foreign Miner’s Tax,” became law, forcing hundreds of Sonorans and others from the mines. Many returned home; others decided to stay and strike back. These along with old Californios made angry by a new law that questioned title to their land composed the greater portion of my men. I, Joaquin 203

Of course, so many could not ride as one and camp as one without arousing suspicion and attracting an even larger force of Gringos. To avoid undue notice and preserve our vantage of surprise we ranged loosely in three separate bands over the San Joaquín and the sierras, staying in one region or another for a week or more, camping in various arroyos from night to night. A day of rest and vigilance followed by a night of hard riding and risk, stealing horses and moving them to a safe locale. Each month when the moon waxed full we rendezvoused at Arroyo Cantúa, or Las Tres Piedres as it was also known for its entrance was marked by three great rocks where our sentinels stood watch over the broad plains beyond. Cantúa, as many have claimed, served as our main staging area, though it was never my hideout as is also claimed. Few knew of Arroyo Sagrado outside of the initial group that settled there, even though it lay in the proximate locale, less than a morning’s ride north. And these few were the Bernal brothers, Carlos and Claudio. And one other, Valenzuela. Carlos and Claudio hailed from a sister village on the Magdalena. Ramón and Reyes knew them from their work on many ranchos. Carlos was a fine herrero and a blacksmith like El Bravo, not only good at shoeing horses, he could also forge and file a delicate piece of metal to repair a rifle or pistol. Claudio made saddles and harnesses and was a capable wheelwright as well. Both solid, dependable men with needed skills. We met them starting on their long journey back to Sonora, their carretas loaded with family and belongings, their faces gaunt and angry, run off by the miner’s tax, broke but not broken, still chafing from Gringo rule and law. “Damn them! Damn the Gringos!” they cursed. Then Carlos, being the oldest, spoke for both, declaring, “They think every onza de oro is theirs. But oro belongs to Dios, the sierras, and to the hombre who finds it. They watch us dig then rob us like ladrones with their stinking tax. And they are rude to our women. Think they are all putas for fandango and play. Damn the Gringos. I’m sick of them and their law. They have only their law. No customs, no manners.” True, they were homesick and dejected, and rightly so, but as I reminded them, “Seven hundred miles of harsh jornada will not put gold in your pockets or feed your families. And the Gringos only wait to tax you again at the Gila.” 204 MELVIN LITTON

“Sí...that is so,” Carlos nodded wearily. “But at least we will be home...where we were born and belong. When at home even a poor man is wealthy.” “Ah, amigos,” I smiled, shaking my head. “Remember why you left, why you came. It is never good to be poor. Not in California and not in Sonora. How easily you forget the desert. How hot it is and how little grows. How quickly flesh turns to leather, then to bone. Listen amigos. Home is not some spot of ground or stretch of sand along a river. Our fathers and forefathers all came from another place they too called home, their flesh formed of a soil other than the one they lived and worked on, fought and died over. Yet all formed of one mother and at death return to the same. “Home is in the heart. In those we love. In the songs we sing around the fire, in how we dance and play. And in the stories handed down to us that we hand down in turn. Home is the truth we carry in our hearts. The seed we wish to plant. What we yearn to build. Here in California you can build your home. Here with us. Bring your wives and children. Come, crawl through the hole to our den. See for yourselves our hidden valley, our home. Escape the Gringos and their law. Live by our own law, our own manners and customs....” And they followed, whether convinced by my words or my promise to pay them made no difference. They would not ride as bandoleros and rob and kill; that was for others. They would do what they did best and be paid. I wanted their services and their skills. Wanted them and their families to secure Arroyo Sagrado. Carlos and Claudio each had a wife and several children. They would watch over Sagrado like their home. In truth it became their home. And if by chance anyone ever stumbled onto our remote valley, they merely observed a herd of cattle, a corral of horses, and several Mexican families working a modest rancho, striving to carve a new life in the wild Diablos. Look for it now, Arroyo Sagrado, look on any map, you will not find it. Go there and search afoot, it will not reveal itself. And who knows, like rumors of lost silver and gold passed from fool to fool it may no longer exist except in my knowing, for there are many temblors de tierra in those regions, and the earth can change its features, go from a smile to an angry scowl as fast as any man. I, Joaquin 205

Few men angered like Valenzuela, for in his anger he controlled his thoughts and actions to achieve his ends. Smart and spirited. In him I saw a brother. And we shared the same name, Joaquín. He too knew of Sagrado. With him I shared many thoughts and plans. Made him my subjefe. He directed our gangs raiding north through the Sacramento Valley, from the Rio El Dorado to the Yuba, the Feather, all the way to Mount Shasta. Always in the thick of things, he struck hard and rode fast. He’d served under the bandit priest, Padre Juarta, in the war against los Americanos, and learned to use guerrilla tactics to harass the enemy, to hamstring a larger force— to snatch the bait, inflict a wound, and escape at one blow. Tactics that suited us as well. Though nearly thirty he looked only half- grown, as smooth-faced and fine-featured as a boy, which sparked ridicule and laughter at first glance, but never on the second, which accounted for his crisp anger and shrewd control. No doubt he derived his sense of command from his small stature. Lean and quick, he snapped like a quirt when he hit the saddle and locked eyes with who he would speak. The day he first rode up and introduced himself and two compañeros as “hombres ready to fight the Gringos,” Three Fingers took one look and scoffed. Hombres?“ Why you’re no bigger than a stinking Chino.” “That is shit for soup!” Valenzuela replied. “If size meant a man every fatso would be king and every big mouth counted wise!” Choked down by his sharp words and hard stare, Three Fingers followed thereafter like a horse choked to lead. Followed Valenzuela’s orders as readily as mine, perhaps more so, for Valenzuela never tried to check his murderous will, let him reap his pleasure in slaughtering the Celestials who sifted the mines abandoned by Gringos, like ants harvesting the leavings from some giant’s feast. What was it that made him hot to kill them? Their strange speech, their yellow skin and slanting eyes, their rat-tailed queues? Did he suspect they all had a hand in tricking him with the boy made to look a girl? Or was it simply that they all dressed the same in their long blue tunics, baggy blue trousers, each head crowned with a wide bowl-like hat of woven reeds, and on their feet wooden clogs in which they clomped no faster than old women? Whatever the reason, Three Fingers killed them with the want and glee of a dog 206 MELVIN LITTON uncovering a nest of rats. He loved to ride up and grab them by their queues, give a quick jerk and snap their necks. Like as not cut off a head and hurl it at the fleeing mob. On one occasion he tied three together by their queues, set them spinning, then drew his large knife and butchered the trio amidst their shrieks and screams. Had Three Fingers been as wise as he was cruel he might have ruled the world. But justice rules men and calls for mercy, while Three Fingers supped only blood. No, no one could check his cruelty, not Valenzuela who had no wish to, nor I who owed him my life. My only hope was to direct it and let its hunger feed on others. Happy to witness little of his slaughter, I kept him riding with Valenzuela, but heard him boast nearly every full moon like a rabid wolf recounting each vicious kill with a lusty howl.

But we were all cruel at times. My own anger quick and deadly as any. Again in the Stanislaus region, I rode into Sonora one bright warm day in early autumn, checking on prospects, meeting with spies. While the character of the town had changed, ruled by and over-flowing with Gringos, a number of my countrymen still lived there. A stubborn few even paid the tax and worked their claims. Others ran fandango houses and provided girls, and through the girls, information. For in bedding a woman men will often strut their feathers and betray themselves. That day I learned little of note, merely stopped by a cantina and chatted briefly with a man who knew me by my alias, Dante Guerra. But another recognized me, a tall, young Gringo, and I him as our eyes met. He stood at the same bar in the same cantina as on the day I killed the first foul twin, the one who went for his pistol and died face down on the Jack of Diamonds. The same Gringo who’d glanced at me then now wore a badge and gazed with greater boldness, standing among the many instead of the few. Sí, stared like a fish among fishes. I paid him no mind, showed no concern or haste, slowly sipped my tequila, smoked my cigarro, then thanked the man who addressed me as Dante, rose from the table and left. Outside I mounted my horse and rode down the dusty street—followed closely by the Gringo. His horse snorted, fighting the bit, made anxious by its rider’s I, Joaquin 207 hand. At the edge of town I eased into a gallop. “Hold up there!” he hollered, “I want a word with you.” I wheeled my mount and waited. Soon learned his name. “William T. Smith,” he announced in an official manner, reining by. “Sheriff of Tuolumne County.” As he didn’t offer his hand I merely nodded and answered, “My pleasure, Señor Sheriff, to have word with any man on such a fine day.” He studied me with his blue-gray eyes. I could see his eyes question his memory, still not certain, vague like the color of his eyes, for my appearance had changed. My hair now reached to my shoulders and I wore the finest charro suit money could buy: black velveteen jaqueta and pants with silver buckles down the side, and a cloak to match; boots spurred with large silver-plated rowels and my saddle adorned with the same bright metal. I looked like the son of a Grandee. Not only Gringos, but all men beholden to power, particularly lawmen, defer to the appearance of wealth. And he who hesitates before the trappings of wealth is himself trapped. No, there is no better guise for an outlaw than a fine suit of clothes and polished manners. Nor was I riding Alazán. That day I rode El Viento, named for the wind, for he ran like the wind, the night wind. A tall black stallion with one white stocking on his left foreleg as if put there to mark the trail and set the pace. Faster than Lucero and tough as Alazán, he was the finest horse I ever rode. I took him from a Gringo ranch near Stockton and changed his brand to mine, from the “Bar W” to the Digger symbol for “Mad Scorpion” scratched in the dirt by Chappo then cleverly forged and branded in the flesh by Carlos. No question he admired my horse, my fine clothes and saddle. My calm manner put him at ease. Sí, made him hesitate and defer. He gave a slight nod and softened his tone. “Sorry for the bother, thought I knew you from somewhere.” “But perhaps you do, Sheriff Smith,” I said, offering a firm hand to his uncertain grip. “My name is Dante Guerra. I trade horses all through the San Joaquín. And I sell many cattle to markets up north.” “Looks like you do well for yourself.” “Sí...I do quite well, gracias.” We traded smiles like men do in 208 MELVIN LITTON measuring one another. Then I asked, “How is it you might know me, Sheriff Smith?” He furrowed his brow and glanced down as if to check his cards, deciding whether to show his hand. “A little over a year ago,” he began slowly, careful of his words, “a Mexican killed an American in the cantina back yonder...in a card game. Strangest game I ever saw. Some kind of vendetta played out through the cards. The Mexican stated his name and reasons, gave the other a chance. Then dealt the cards and killed him.” “So? You think I am this man, this Mexican?” “Well, you bear a resemblance. And have a similar voice.” “Ah, but that is our accent and our darker skin,” I winked to amuse him, seeing that he grew tense. “We all look and sound alike, no?” “Yeah, that could be,” he allowed, easing his grip on the reins. “But I don’t reckon he was as tall as you. And he rode out on a different horse.” “You say he gave his name. Was it Dante Guerra?” I asked, leaning close to draw him in. “Naw, his name was Joaquín...Joaquín Murrieta.” “Murrieta? You are joking,” I laughed in surprise. “I know him. A little. We have played cards. And as you say, we bear some resemblance, though he is not so guapo, so good-looking.” Again he smiled, then asked where I had last seen Joaquín. “Hmmm, let me see,” my turn to act thoughtful. “Last winter, I think. Sometime before La Navidad. Sí, in San Francisco. He was dealing monte at the Hotel El Dorado. Very clever with the cards. Won much of my money.” “At the El Dorado you say?” His eyes narrowed in question. “That place burned to the ground day before Christmas. It and forty other buildings. They say the blaze may have started at the El Dorado. There’s talk of arson and murder.” “Sorry to hear,” I said, knowing full well that it burned on New Year’s Day and had nothing to do with the prior blaze. Funny how he had the rumor right and the facts wrong. “Ah well,” I smiled, “the El Dorado being such a festive place, it was no doubt rebuilt in time to burn again in May. And perhaps it will burn again any day, no?” This time he did not answer with a smile, sober now, drawing to I, Joaquin 209 the scent, weighing odds, chance, and rumor—rubbed his gunhand over his mustache and beard to dry his palm, his beard somewhat lighter than his hair and a blend of color like his eyes, falling somewhere between blonde and red like the dun grass blowing on the hillside. And like grass changing color in a shifting wind his face reddened slightly as his tension grew, and I noted each change like a sharp odor carried to my nose. I too had tired of the banter. But my hands were dry and calm, kept folded on my saddle horn. “So why is it, Sheriff Smith,” I asked, “that you want a word with Joaquín? Is it for killing this man in the cantina?” “No, that was a fair fight, right enough. Saw it with my own eyes. But a week before that there were others who met a bloody end. And just two days following, six American miners were found murdered on a feeder stream of the Stanislaus. About a day’s ride northeast of here.” “And you think Joaquín had a hand in this?” I sensed my own blood rise as I asked the question, and my anger and my hate, seeing it all play again. “Well, some say he’d worked the claim where the bodies were found.” His voice so matter-of-fact, stated as if things were so plain and simple. But the facts and truth lay twisted and broken like Pacito and Rosita. Like all those touched by a cruel hand. “Did you never ask yourself,” I said, my voice hardening, “what these men were doing on his claim that got them killed? If in fact he killed them, did you never ask why?” My questions coming fast like my blood, my anger, my hate. “Have you never played cards, hombre?” I asked as his eyes dilated in awe of my rage. “Then you should know that we deal as we are dealt!” With that he saw my panther eyes and remembered well who I was. He reached for his pistol. But the knife is quicker. I stayed his hand and plunged the blade deep in his heart. Though I had killed with the knife, never so sudden and silent, and I learned that day why many favor it to the gun. For it granted a raw, unexpected pleasure feeling his life surrender to mine, quivering through the blade to my hand like a woman yielding utterly, even to the last breath. Sí, I killed him and relished the killing, ruled by the anger and 210 MELVIN LITTON hate that I hated in others and sought to direct and control. I could have thrown him off with my charm and smile for he was prone to let me go, but my clever words led to the point they forced his hand and mine. A cruel and needless killing. An indulgence I regretted even as I pulled out the knife and watched him fall. Asking why, why? as I spurred El Viento hard before the wind and rode deep into the night. Hated my own hand, how it twisted and turned, acting against my better judgment and will like my stallion cock acting as if it had a will all its own. No, I should have answered simply and left things vague, perhaps gained a friend, a simpático, a future advantage. Instead I left him dead on the road. Left another bloody fact and fed a further rumor of the infamous Joaquín. From then on I watched my dreams unravel as war unravels men, as my crimes mounted, as the number of my mistresses grew. Watched cruelty act for justice like a dark impostor. At times I woke and wondered, where is Joaquín? Who is this stranger that speaks and acts in my name? Chapter Sixteen

hat happened in my name, I could not always control. What Whappened in my view, by my own hand, was often influenced by another, by Rosita or Teresa, by their feelings and desires. What they said and felt often changed my actions, determined my course. Their emotions added to mine like fuel to a fire and I flared. What happened in July set me on a crueler path. Teresa miscarried. She started cramping at midmorning and by noon dropped a bloody mass to the floor. A barely formed niño which Rosita carried out and buried. That evening when Gregorio and I returned our reaction was much the same. Why fret? You will soon have another. Gregorio simply mounted up and rode off, taking a herd to Sacramento. But women are not the same as men. And if Teresa wanted another baby, she did not want me. She would not even look my way. She felt God had punished her for breaking her vow to her husband and taking pleasure with her Jefe. When women turn to God there is no use in reason. And Rosita shared her guilt, ashamed of her own hand in our act, in touching and taking pleasure, like tasting forbidden fruit. “It was our punishment,” she said. “God’s punishment for our sin.” “Our punishment? That the baby died?” “Sí, it was God’s will.” “Then damn God and His will. Was it God’s will that you were raped? That Pacito was hanged and I whipped? What was our sin that we deserved that?” Rosita saddened before my anger, her voice quivering as she wept. 212 MELVIN LITTON

“I wish you would throw maggots at me than say such things.” I started to reach for her but she turned away, her shoulders hunched in grief. I felt like the Devil himself having hurt her, having used words that opened our wounds. And now words seemed so futile and empty. “Perhaps you are right,” I said. “Perhaps it is God’s will.” But she did not reply, so I left her to her silence and rode out on Alazán. All that night and the next day I rode, wishing I were the wind and nothing more, governed simply by the heat and cold, the rain and dust, moving without thought or regret. Returning that evening, while others sang and danced around a fire beyond the adobes, and Carlos played guitar and Claudio the violin, I sat alone at the table. A candle lit before the Virgin cast her shadow to the wall in vivid silhouette. And like a shadow Rosita appeared from the far room and sat with me. Listening to the music, her sadness lightened. She quietly reached for my hand and matched her palm to mine. The candle flickered in the breeze, gracing her features, putting a flame in her moist eyes as she said my name, letting me know all was forgiven. “Do you remember,” I asked, “when we wed on the hillside?” She gripped my hand and pulled it to her. “Sí...soy el suyo. Each day I remember and each night I dream....” Our eyes met and fastened for the longest time as the flame burned low, each moment carrying us back to the Magdalena when her flesh was still innocent, unbruised and bold, to the night I returned and found her bathing in the moonlight by the river and we rode together to the high hill. And her smile warmed before the flame and her eyes misted in memory and the inner glow of life and love as my hand moved to her arm, her shoulder, touching her breasts. And her breath came hot as her bodice fell loose. We fled to the shadows and shed our clothes like old skins, then stood pressing, touching our flesh as if made anew, forgetting all that had happened. She caressed my back, soothing my whip scars with her soft hands. Our lips met, our tongues, our breath; and her lips were the sweetest ever formed, her breath the only nectar I wished to kiss, her breasts the only warmth, her hips and thighs drew me like a shadow to the earth. I laid her back and entered ever so gently, my heart beating wild, inflamed by a hunger that spread through I, Joaquin 213 me like I was only then coming alive and knew I had been dead without her. Certain I was hers and she mine, and in her I belonged and was made whole. Her sweet sighs urged me deeper; our flesh made one, Rosita and Joaquín. Then it all ended abruptly as a note on a broken string. She tensed and cried out in echo of that dark day, again frozen in the terror and clutch of them. Looking to her eyes I knew it was them she saw and not me. “Rosita, mi Rosa...it’s me, Joaquín,” I pleaded, desperate for her to say something. But she did not answer, only stared in fright. I too froze, saw it all again, her rape, her blood, and felt myself raping. My stallion cock shrunk like a worm inside her. I sat up, clenched my fists, and listened to her weep. There was no consoling her, she lay numb to my touch, deaf to my voice, folded like a fetus that neither wakes nor sleeps. From that moment she was claimed by a madness, a dark ghost that stole her spirit like a black gato sucking her breath. And words could not reach her.

Two days later I rode into Sonora and plunged my knife into Sheriff Smith’s heart. Sí, this I regretted. But my hand was not entirely my own. What bound me to Rosita restrained my hand. When I could no longer reach to her or hold her, my hand unleashed. This hap- pened in September, in the moon of los Comanches. Thereafter we began to raid in earnest. And sure, I found other women, if not, they found me—like sweet Carlita found me that night and left her flower in my bed—for I was Jefe, proud and fierce, rode the fastest horse and carried lots of gold. But will I tell of each mistress, each encounter and hot embrace? No, will not and cannot, no more than I can tell of all the raids and thefts and murders. Over sixty men rode in my name, robbed, killed, and burned at my command, and each carried their own urge, their own delight and darkness, their own sense of things. And when out of view they acted in their own right, by their own law. So I could never recount or explain all the acts committed in my name, attributed to me. Not to mention the three other Joaquíns aside from Valenzuela who led horse gangs at the time and with whom I had no dealings and shared only my name: Ocomoreña, Carrillo, and Bottillera. Each rode a separate path, their acts as varied and scattered as the sierras and plains, the deserts and 214 MELVIN LITTON valleys of California. Yet to the Gringo mind all acts soon formed into one. Each attributed to El Famoso, Joaquín Murrieta. So be it. I never regretted my pride, my fame. And by the following summer my fame was certain, my name known, branded on headlines and wanted posters in bold black type. Feats and rumors of “Joaquín!” busied many tongues in saloons and cantinas, in fine homes and the vaulted halls of government, filled idle moments of the day and long evenings around the fire, faces reflecting astonishment, dismay, or pleasure. “Joaquín!” Denounced, disparaged, and feared by Gringos—whispered of and acclaimed and aided by Californios and Sonorans. Envied by men, fancied and admired by women, for an outlaw is a man of freedom and action, granted the status of a prince in many eyes. Think a prince does not kill, rape, and plunder? What do I tell of El Famoso that I have not already told? Of my wit and cunning you know, and much of my courage, theft, and vengeance. And in telling more much would be repeated. What colors us most and casts the die are our early acts and first loves. Facing the panther was my greatest triumph; capturing Alazán, my foremost feat. Though I rode a hundred horses, he remained my favorite for his surefootedness, his fire, and his deep blood faith. And though I stole a thousand more, no theft was sweeter than that of Lucero. My gift of him to Rosita outshone my seduction of Selena and of all before and after. No savor, no delight could equal my love for Rosita. Though I held Teresa and others with true affection, I loved only her, mi Rosa. What Gringos said of me, what others tell and have written, I care nothing. No, it is my tale to spin, my hill to climb. Where some see Heaven, I see the sun, moon, and stars. Where others see Hell, I see the earth, her deep gorges and sierras, her fiery volcanoes and horse-grazed valleys. In the flesh of man and woman where many see sin, I see love and life. And where they see murder, I see war and why. One thing certain, following my murder of Sheriff Smith, I warred with a crueler hand. I no longer spared hapless miners and teamsters, remembering who had hung Pacito and raped Rosita. And seeing her broken, not only sad but maddened, sane only at fleeting moments, remembering the rude stink of her blood, that foul, soiled depth they made me lap—that memory I spat into the I, Joaquin 215 face of each Gringo I killed. And my stallion cock sought vengeance as well, savoring conquest in fair-skinned Gringas. Especially one, a güera, a proud blonde who caught my eye.

We were in Sacramento, Ramón, Chappo, I and several others, enjoying the day, having sold some cattle, with nothing else in mind. Halted, taking in the scene, admiring a woman’s approach, her horse, her person. I noticed the horse, a tall gray gelding, deep gray with black mane and tail, before I noticed the woman. She rode without escort, perched asentadillas, sidesaddle, and clothed in elegant attire—a velvet dress so deeply scarlet it blackened in the folds. Her hair tied up and crowned with a matching hat and veil, so blonde it glowed, reflecting the sun. She rode with exquisite poise, handled her mount with firm hand and whipped her quirt at will. In passing she flashed her blue eyes at mine. “How dare you look at me?” she said, then hissed, “Greaser!” and rode on. My eyes held, my smile broadened. I looked on her all I wished and followed. Alazán, out of habit in driving wild herds, liked to nip the haunch of the horse in front of him. This also helped in stealing horses: I simply slackened the reins and let his nature rule. At his crisp bite her tall gray bolted several lengths before she managed to calm him. She glanced back in contempt and said nothing. Pressed her lips in a prim smile, not of greeting but of challenge, then leaned forth and whipped her quirt and the race was on. We dashed through streets, past storefronts and wagons as dogs barked and horses shied from our path. No doubt she thought her gray would outdistance Alazán. She thought wrong. Alazán held steady one length back, eager for the chase. About a mile beyond town she jumped a low railing and whipped across an open meadow. Spurring Alazán I soon pulled even, running stirrup to stirrup, stride for stride. Gazed on her at will, reined close and nudged her with my knee. She raised her quirt to strike but I caught her by the wrist and jerked her from her saddle to mine, flung her face down over the pommel, let it jab her in the gut as she fought for breath and grasped to hold on. Then I rode to a stand of live oaks and dismounted. Amazed as I helped 216 MELVIN LITTON her down that she hadn’t lost her hat during the wild ride and struggle. Soon learned why. She reached back of her ear and drew forth a long hat pin and tried to stab me in the eye. Again I caught her by the wrist, gripped hard and twisted till she let it go. She spat in my face and for the second time called me a “Greaser!” I admired her fight, a proud and spirited beauty. I drew my knife and held it to her nostril. “Try that again,” I warned, “I’ll leave more than the juice of my cock inside you.” Now she feared me, knew that she could not escape and that I meant to have my way with her. I loosened her hair, let it curl and fall to her waist, traced the curve of her lips, her neck, the swell of her breasts, her hips, caressing to find what was woman, what was dress. Found a full, well-formed woman. “What...what are you doing?” she gasped, breathing faint like a bird in hand. “What a man does with a woman,” I grinned, watching her blue eyes yield to my brujo gaze. Then I bent her over a bowed limb and tied her hands to a branch beyond. “And since you do not like me to look on you, my little bird, I’ll take you from behind, like a stallion mounts a lusty mare.” “No, you mustn’t, no, please, God, don’t,” she pleaded like so many plea. “Call on Him all you like,” I laughed. “He will not help you. And if He hears and draws near, it will be only to watch and listen. Believe me, I know this God. He makes the lamb, He makes the panther. He made us what we are.” With a toss of her head she glared at me and again hissed, “Greaser!” Sí, she was a proud one, but not so proud once I had finished— after I bent her low, raised her dress, ripped her pretty drawers, spread her ivory thighs, slapped her pink ass, and rammed my stallion cock up her feathered nest as far as it would go. Reared like a stallion and took her hard, left her heated and shamed. She begged me to kill her. “Go ahead, use your knife. Use it, damn you!” She called me a “Mexican cutthroat!” a “Shameless bandit!” But not a “Greaser.” No, I would not kill her. I untied her hands and helped her stand. I, Joaquin 217

“Tell your husband, little bird,” I said. “Perhaps he will kill you. Tell him how much you loved my stallion cock, how it filled your sweet cunt and soothed its deep ache and want.” For she had amidst her faint cries and protests responded with pleasure. Her flesh soon sought the rhythm and rose to ecstatic release like a little bird fluttering into flight. This was her deeper shame—her pleasure— and knowing that I knew. While her humiliation was real enough, so was her pleasure. And mine. In taking revenge I took pleasure. Found her a delight and found her many times thereafter in her husband’s absence. And she fell to me then, confessed her loneliness and longing. “He’s an ambitious man,” she said, edging each word with scorn. “He has little time for love...or ‘trifling’ as he calls it. No, he can never make me feel...like a woman.” “Then that is his loss,” I answered, smoothing her hair, tracing her lips. Her name was Rachel Flynn. Though older than me, nearly thirty, she was much too young for a man whose sole passion was business. When he was away she left a lamp lit in her window. And he was often gone. When not checking on investments he served in the California legislature, busy drawing up the very laws, providing the funds for the very Rangers who would one day hunt me down. Her risk was as grave as mine. But she craved my stallion cock, needed riding hard and fast. And I could not resist her lush folds of golden hair, her creamy skin, her deep blue eyes waiting in want and fever. So it is I gained a spy in the enemy camp. Through rape gained a mistress. No, things are rarely simple between a man and a woman. Into the stew much is mixed. And there were other fair Gringas who received my stallion cock—their flesh taut and frightened at my first thrust then more pliant as they shivered and squirmed, at last surrendering to my fierce invasion. Some willing, some forced, yet all fervent in the act. But none beaten or bloodied. Each had played the game, in some manner sidled forth to rouse my blood, let me know by word or eye that they were willing. And no, you do not tempt the stallion and not receive him. Some blushed for shame like Rachel when the pleasure ended, my Mestizo seed left deep in the fold of their thighs. And a few no doubt ripened with a bronze fragrance that lent their 218 MELVIN LITTON

Anglo flesh a darker essence. They could wipe the Indio from the land and he would rise up in their blood, fathered by the panther, the stallion, the brujo, the priest. Aieee! Ever wonder at the bastard race we spawn? Is it all by design? Violation and conquest? Endless, recurrent, time after time? Spoils divided among the most cunning, cruel, and violent? Like los Comanches? Think of it, all the fine hopes of civilization in an instant torn with a virgin’s dress as her innocence yields to the harsh, compelling truth that man’s only enduring virtue is strength. Choose any other—mercy, justice, compassion—see how long they stand alone, how quickly they yield and are crushed by the Bajo del Sols and los Comanches of the world. En verdad, by the Joaquíns. Yet to live by strength alone men must war without end. When they tire of this, of sleeping with a knife to their throat, they mark a truce, and to gain peace they must show compassion, grant justice and mercy. But these finer virtues are ever fathered by and can only flow from the first, from strength. And strength and courage are joint, two sides of the same coin. The twin guardians of our flesh. Forget that and you are a bobo and will see you and yours raped, plundered, and killed. Listen to Joaquín. And beware, the worst of the bobos, the greatest fools, are those who think cruelty and strength are one. Cruelty does not walk hand in hand with strength; it lurks in the shadows like a mad dog in wait of a chance to hamstring and butcher, plagues the strong and saps their strength and courage and in the end betrays them like a diseased harlot who will sell herself and you for a peso. I know this dog, this harlot, discovered the depths of my cruelty at the same moment I regained my compassion.

In the Salinas Valley east of Monterey, riding south along El Camino Real, we waylaid a stagecoach. Hailed it with our pistols drawn. The driver pulled back on the reins and hollered, “Whoa thar!” in a cloud of dust. His partner dropped his shotgun and raised his hands. Neither of them wished to challenge seven armed bandoleros—both plump and whiskered and red faced from drink, more eager for a bottle over which to discuss the day’s events than for any foolish heroics. At my word they tossed down the strongbox without the least hesitation. I, Joaquin 219

“No need for gunplay,” the driver noted. “Happy to oblige ye gents of the road.” “A wise man,” I answered, then ordered the passengers out. “Quickly now,” I said, “step down and show your hands.” One by one they emerged, nervous and wary. Six in all. Nothing remarkable in their appearance except for a tall, staunch gentleman who stood decidedly aloof, a pretty wife at one side and a young son of seven or eight at the other. He expressed impatience as if he were being unduly delayed, and no, did not lower his gaze before mine. A man of breeding and culture, he oozed with pride—pride in self, in family and profession. He was a Yankee curandero, a doctor, as I soon discovered opening his black bag, for I meant to rob them of their cash and jewelry. Him I would rob of his pride. Would have his fine watch, symbol of his status. Would also have their wedding rings, tokens of their vow to love, honor, and never betray. The watch he surrendered with solemn reluctance, obvious it held some deeper meaning than a mere time-piece. But he asked that I spare his medicine bag. “Those instruments are for healing,” he huffed as if he could raise the dead and heal Rosita too. “They are of no use to any but myself.” He said this with blunt emphasis as if he were a Grandee and I a mere peon. I smiled and granted his request, sí, played his game this once, then pointed to his ring and to hers and said, “Those I will have. For gold is of use to me.” “No, you will not!” he countered in rash confidence as if he could play his game again and again. “This ring was placed on my finger the day Elizabeth and I wed. I will remove it for no man under no condition.” “As you wish,” I replied, no longer smiling, tired of his game, of his overbearing manner, his lofty sentiments, his smug, untarnished pride. I would rip them from him. I raised my pistol and motioned for Chappo and Ramón to take him down. He resisted like a dumb ox, slow and awkward. Ramón who could toss a bull by the tail had no trouble with a man. And Chappo, stout and quick, pressed a knee to the fool’s fat neck and pinned his arm while Ramón held his other. I unsheathed my knife, thinking to take his ring by first cutting his finger from his hand. Slice it off at the joint. Leave him a 220 MELVIN LITTON bloody stub in reminder of his fool arrogance and pride. But his wife shrieked “No!” and rushed at me with her white- gloved hands. I struck her with the knife handle then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her screaming toward the stagecoach. My rage took another path, found a new object. I meant to lash her to the back wheel and rape her in front of all. Let all rape her. At last make even the cruelty to Rosita and Pacito. And fear that I would have for cruelty moved from the shadows and filled my form, gripped my hand and heart and snarled like a mad dog. But her little boy clutched to my leg and fought like a savage to save her. I cast her aside and knocked him to the ground. Pounced with my knife like a panther seizing a lamb. Then I heard Mescalito cry from the dim past, his voice long silent, whispering, “No! no! do not....” Saw in my hand Three Fingers’ cruel claw. Beneath the blade the blood started to flow, yet the boy did not wince. In his eyes I saw my own rage reflected like a breath of fire blistering the lips, boiling the blood, till all thoughts reach like angry flames to grip your foe. His rage rose pure, unsullied, while mine turned pale and weak. And his rage spoke to my compassion, stayed my hand. Or perhaps it was not compassion, but recognition of a rage equal to and greater than my own—this boy who fought to save his mother’s honor and avenge his father’s pride. I picked him up by his shirt collar and shoved him to his mother who stood in stunned silence at what I had done and might do. I looked to Chappo and Ramón and said, “Let him go.” The man rose slowly, uncertain of his pride and status, too shaken to dust his pants. He now looked on in fear for his wife and his son. His hands trembled as he started to remove his ring. “Keep it,” I said. “The ring is nothing. Your chico is brave.” And for this bravery I spared the man his ring. But for his arrogant pride I might have killed him. And done worse to his wife. Did I expect gratitude? No, I said nothing and turned away. Could not bear the fear in their eyes, the boy’s rage, the shame of what my hand had nearly done. From them I would not gain forgiveness. With them I would not make peace. To them I would always remain the dread cruel thing that nearly killed their son. Qué hombre cruel! Riding away I recalled Olajuaña saying before I left for Alta I, Joaquin 221

California, “Careful you don’t get northed....” Yet here I was, four years later in command of over sixty men and losing command of myself. Nearly lost to cruelty and murderous whim. I no longer wore my hat a media cabeza, but pulled it low to my eyes in shame. I had to find my way back, somehow reclaim my heart. And suddenly my heart ached for my home, for the little village on the Magdalena. I longed to see my mother and Padre León, to see El Gitano and Olajuaña—all those I held dear still carried in my heart. As I had said, home is in the heart, but my heart was formed of the Sonora, its hot desert soil, and nourished by its people. And there I ached to return, fearing I would become “northed” forever if I did not make it back. This I feared like I had feared no man or thing.

Early November of ‘52, autumn of my twentieth year and already made weary by the world, its cruelty, and my own cruel acts. Made weary, would I mark a truce? Not with the Gringos, nor they with me, but perhaps with my own heart. Yet I could not simply leave, abandon all and find peace, for I was Jefe and it was my war. A thing must be finished, concluded, before it is done with. I had yet to find the path that would mark the end and placate my heart. I only knew that having stumbled off the path, having stooped to robbery, rape, and murder I would stoop no more and struggle now to find my way back. We continued down El Camino Real, riding south through the night, and by the following afternoon reached El Rancho de los Coyotes. We dined that evening with Don Constancio and his family. An old man’s dim eyes see much. He saw how I tossed the chico, little Joaquín, to the sky upon greeting. And later, after supper, how I held him on my knee, gently stroking his hair, sniffing his young puppy scent, asking what words he knew and if he had sat a horse. Saw how my indifference had turned to affection. And he saw me draw closer to Carlita that evening, show her warmth and concern as I praised her pretty dress, the food she served, her smile. Saw my eyes look to her with a longing that was almost love. But he could not know or guess that I longed for her to be Rosita. For the child to be ours—Rosita’s and mine. And for that night I pretended it was true, that Carlita was she, our love as real. Later, holding her in my arms, in my mind I held Rosita. But by dawn the sun revealed only 222 MELVIN LITTON

Carlita, and I turned from her waiting eyes, her want and touch. Though I found her pretty and held her with affection, after a short while I tired of her like all the rest. Did not care to look at them, or touch them, or hear them say my name. They were not Rosita. An evening or so later, sitting on the veranda with Don Constancio, I poured from a bottle of aguardiente while he sipped a glass of red wine. He preferred wine he said for it warmed his blood and restored his mind like a candle lit in the darkness, let him see his thoughts and find his words. He tipped up his glass, drank all, and set it down. Then he slowly rolled a fresh cigarro, wet the shuck with his tongue, struck his eslabón to flint and cupped the flame in a prayerful pose, lighting his wry, chiseled features that mapped a century. His cigarro lit, he took a puff, watched the smoke drift to the breeze, then cast his old eyes to mine. “What troubles you, Joaquín? You are too quiet. Act too old for one so young.” “And you sound like a padre, a priest,” I said, avoiding his question. “What?” he laughed. “Only a priest and not a bishop?” His retort was something of a family jest. In watching over his vast domain he never tired of giving counsel on how to breed horses, how to plant crops, how to arrange this and that and so better their lives. And though they had heard it all before and knew his sermons by heart, they listened dutifully for he was loved and revered and when not around each referred to him fondly as “Obispo,” the bishop. “Well, consider me a priest then,” he said, taking another puff. “My head is as bald. I’m as full of hot air. What does not come out my mouth, comes out my ass. And my cock’s been celibate for more years than you have lived.” Again he laughed—his laugh deep, quiet, and vaguely sonorous like the humming wind, full of wisdom and long experience. “Sí, Padre Constancio,” he grinned, “a special priest for bandoleros. So tell me,” he asked, playful yet persistent, “what troubles you, my son?” His mirth, his manner, his easy laugh, roused me from my brooding silence. “I make no confession,” I said, “not to God or man. Would not burden God with my troubles. If He could tend to them He would I, Joaquin 223 have done so. Nor will I burden you, Don Constancio, for you have your own cares and troubles and so many to watch over. But I will tell you this, I see myself become what I hate.” “What do you hate?” “I hate cruelty.” “Ah,” he nodded slowly. “We do many things in our lives, sí...and if we war we do things that are cruel. In doing violence to others we do violence to ourselves. The priests speak of this and it is true. Let me make a confession, for I am old and it is wise that I do so. When I first came to this tierra as a young soldier, I warred on the Tejon, my wife’s people. One night in particular we waged a terrible slaughter in reprisal for their attacking the mission. They wounded a carpenter and killed the padre who walked out like a fool with open arms, telling them to have no fear, that God loved all His children. Hah! They had no fear. Riddled his body with arrows and threw him in the barranca. Next night we surrounded their village and attacked. Scattered the warriors with the first volley, sent them running for the hills while we hacked children in half with our swords, crushed babies’ skulls and tossed them to the fire, dragged old women by the hair and slit their throats. The young ones we raped. Raped them all, whether ugly or pretty, jumped on them like dogs. And then they were ready for God’s love. Ready to fear Him like they feared us. After that night they hated the flesh, this earth. Ready to pray for mercy and to receive the Holy Spirit in hope of Heaven. “And the padres made such fine sermons about Heaven. None spoke better than Fray Junípero himself. As he often said, were it not for God’s love and the promise of Heaven all our suffering in this world would be for nothing. Sí, I traveled with Serra on his last journey up El Camino Real, up the very trail you recently rode down. And each evening he would flog himself, bare his back and lay on the whip for his many sins. While I a very sinful young man watched in wonder at why? What could be his sin? He did nothing but good works and preached the gospel to the savage. Yet he vowed the earth was wicked and the flesh evil and full of sin, that our only hope of salvation was to know God’s will and strive for Heaven. This he believed. And I know now why he flogged himself. It was for his doubt. His sin of doubt. Like myself, he too doubted this God, this Heaven. But unlike me he could not move beyond his 224 MELVIN LITTON doubt and learn to love this flesh, this earth. If it is only for Heaven, this life, I say to hell with it! Why live? Lay down and die. Refuse your bread and water and go there. For I love this earth, this campo I’ve fought and bled for. I love this flesh,” he noted, laying his hand to his heart, “even though it’s old and frail and nearly useless as my cock. Love it still for it is what I am. Of what I’m made. This flesh bears my spirit, all the acts that make up my life. All the good and bad. And of all I’ve done, I cannot undo a thing. You can wish but not undo. And if you could undo all you begat and regret, there would be no end to it. In undoing we would get nothing done and the world would soon unravel. “So wage your war, young Jefe. War on these Gringos till they hunt you down or you escape to another life with the woman you love.” At this he paused and raised his brow with a smile. “Sí, I know of your woman, your wife, of what happened to her and your brother. Why you wage war. I know where she lives, where you camp. Who rides with you and when you raid. I have been in this campo seventy years and I too have many eyes and ears. I too once loved a woman so special to me that her presence lit the day, sweetened the night, and made my heart beat with hers. And when she was taken from me I thought the darkness would never end. “We lived near Canatlán in the state of Durango. We were sixteen when we wed and a year later she was taken from me by los Comanches. They struck like the wind while I worked in the milpa. I could do nothing but hear her screams and watch them carry her away. They stole my bride, and my horse. In despair I gripped my machete and followed, but the dust soon covered their trail and the wind spoke only of ghosts. Perhaps they killed her and left her bones on the Malpaís and her horror soon ended. More likely they made her their puta, their slave, their woman, and her life was hard and mean. Remembering this made it easy for me to kill the Tejon, thinking of them as Comanches. But making Moijah my wife and finding her affectionate and faithful made it hard for me to think of what I had done. Many times I regretted that night of slaughter, wished it not. But the darkness ended and I learned to live and love. “Like you, I had many mistresses and many bastards. For I love the flesh and have an eye for the flesh. I am a breeder of horses and a breeder of men. And I am grateful for little Joaquín. Pleased to have I, Joaquin 225 your blood mix with mine. Already I see in him a man who will stand against any. Like you, your bastards will fight the Gringos. Your little half-Gringos too will war within themselves. And if the Gringos do not heed you and your bastards they will one day heed your grandsons or your great-great-grandsons. For to breed is to war and our breed knows how to endure. Like los coyotes. “Ever see hounds descend on a coyote? They kill him without mercy. Shred his flesh and bone till the limp hide resembles a bloody rag. You can kill the coyote, sí. But a coyote has many brothers and many sons. And you can never kill Coyotl, the Father-Spirit of the coyote. Never kill the defiant heart, the cunning trickster that threatens the herd, the flock, all the smug notions of pride, wealth, and power. “So the Gringos swarm by the thousands. So they hold sway for a time. Time will cut them down. Time whittles all. Makes of every great oak a sliver. Every great city, rubble and ash. Every great man, a smelly corpse that the vilest leper would not touch. Have faith, time will grant you justice. But till then,” he announced, having refilled his glass and taking it in hand, “there is delight. Wine to drink. Women to love. Men to fight. There is passion and courage. Right here is our Heaven and our Hell and to hell with the rest! Let the padres flog themselves, shave their heads, and shove their cocks up each other’s asses! Let us live like men and regret nothing!” He raised the wine to his lips and drank it all in one long draw. “Ah, muy delicioso. My throat was dry after so many words.” His words at once cleared my mind and made me drunk again, filled me with the urge to fight anew. I swirled my aguardiente, raised it to him, and drank in kind. “Gracias, Don Constancio,” I said. “If I ever have a priest, he is you.” En verdad, he was a bandit’s padre, El Obispo. The old bishop smiled wanly, rose with a grunt and bade me good night. “Buenos noches,” I answered, watching him shuffle off to bed as the darkness closed behind like a curtain. That night I slept like a lamb at peace with the world. And woke with the hunger of a panther. Nor did I regret so much as before, especially when I heard the news that Don Constancio’s grandsons, Ponce and Baco, carried from Los Angeles. I forgot my regret and remembered my rage, for Reyes, Rosita’s brother, su hermano y mi compañero, had been hanged. I steeled my heart and asked, “When?” 226 MELVIN LITTON

“Two days ago.” “How? Why?” “Vigilantes caught him in Nigger Alley,” Baco explained. “Caught him drinking in a cantina there. Dragged him up the street to their own saloon and tried him. A Gringo from the Stanislaus claimed to recognize him. Claimed Reyes had a hand in the murder of a sheriff up that way...about a year ago. Claimed he saw them riding together at the edge of town just before the sheriff was—” “Bastardos!” I growled. Knowing that he died for my indulgence made it a double stab. “He was not even there. He was driving herds south at the time.” “That’s what he told them. But their judge answered, ‘If so, they were stolen horses and you will hang in any case.’ To this they cheered. Reyes merely shrugged. Did not confess, did not deny. In his last moment, as they snugged the rope, he said to tell Camila that he loved her. And to let his son know when he was old enough that his father died brave. Then smiling, he shouted, ‘Adiós amigos!’ And leapt to his death.” “This Gringo, this Judas Goat, I want him and his lying tongue.” “It is done, Jefe,” Baco said. “As we speak, his tongue feeds the ants.” “Bueno,” I nodded. “And what of Reyes?” “We took his body to the Mission de San Gabriel. The padres gave him a proper burial. That is where he lies.” “Gracias...gracias, amigos. You have done all I could ask.” My rage quieted in gratitude. And in quieting I remembered my sorrow and Rosita. I knew I had to find a way to tell her of Reyes. After thanking Baco and Ponce, I bid Don Constancio farewell and told him to have a happy Navidad and a good winter, for I would not likely return until spring. He gripped my hand and smiled, “An old man is happy for every day. And every day is good whether at Navidad, or in winter, or in spring.” For an old man who has seen nearly a century of struggle and grief I suppose that is so. But for a young man there are scenes too fresh, wounds too raw, days he would not wish to see or live again. With that we left Los Coyotes and rode for Tejon Pass, then north onto the Tulares. I, Joaquin 227

Rosita’s madness reflected her quiet nature. There were no fits or hysterics, no need of restraint. She kept herself clean and looked to her chores. And each day she played with Camila’s child, and Reyes’ son, Cinco—christened Cinco de Mayo Feliz for our day of Independence as he was born on the fifth day of the fifth month and would turn two the coming spring. Rosita spoke to Cinco and to no one else. Not to Camila, Teresa, nor Margarita. And she spoke a language unknown, pointing out the birds, the trees, the sky, all manner of things, granting each a name known only to herself and the child. This worried Camila and Teresa. Worried us all; for Cinco spoke little Spanish yet grew fluent in the language unknown. The how and why of it remained hidden. Like the Arroyo Sagrado. Perhaps she made the new language in hope to create another world, a new memory in which no foul thing could roost or take root. Of course I told Camila of Reyes first of all. And she did as many women do, particularly young women. Cried her heart out for a day then dried her eyes, looked to her face, her hair, her person. Then looked to another. To Luis. And he looked to her. Before the week was out she led him to her bed. I did not mind. Such is life, when one door shuts, another opens. But breaking the news to Rosita took time and care. I watched and waited. The following day I found her and Cinco down by the stream, playing “clap-hands” beneath a broad oak tree. I squatted thereby and listened to the language unknown. At last I caught and repeated a phrase—”Agoy-ee-tazo”—which seemed to indicate their act of clapping hands. Rosita fell quiet and looked to me as if granting me entrance. Then I told her. “Rosita, your brother Reyes was hanged. Like Pacito.” And she understood, for her eyes misted full. “I must pray for him,” she said, taking my hand in hers. “Will you pray with me?” How could I refuse? I followed to the adobe and knelt with her before the Virgin. Though I did not pray, it was a joy simply to hear her speak, to kneel beside her, touch my shoulder to hers, watch her light the candle and say a prayer for the dead. Finished, she looked to me no more. Returned to the child and their language unknown. I returned to being Jefe, the bandit chief. Chapter Seventeen

n the next full moon during our rendezvous at Arroyo Cantúa, I Otook Valenzuela aside as usual to discuss tactics and plans and to apportion spoils while the men yelped and howled, recalling their daring deeds, their close escapes, their hard swift rides. Each saw themselves heroic, enlarged by the fire, the night, the aguardiente, like the world held only them, the flames, their shadows and laughter. How small they would look come morning, lying in the dirt, sleeping off the drink—their tales told, their dreams deadened as they awoke sober and sick, scratching at lice, squinting from the sun, asking, “Where, where to, Jefe? What now, Chief?” But the night was young and to the revelers morning seemed as far away as death and old age. Yet these too come, whether waited on or not, like a noose tightening about the neck. I showed Valenzuela to my tent and poured us each a glass of aguardiente. Like me, he liked a little to wet his tongue and fire his blood but seldom drank more than a single glass. I handed him a dark puro which he lit, leaning to the lamp flame, drawing smoke to his lips. I sat opposite; a map of California lay on the table between us. I tapped my fingers and looked to the map, studying possibilities as I had for weeks—marking various routes, veredas, mountain passes, river fords, how long to ride from here to there, places of refuge and points of opportunity, working to conceive a plan by which to draw all into my grip like a river taking the many streams home to the sea. “You heard about Reyes?” I asked, noting the recent scar that marred Valenzuela’s boyish face, a purple gash that extended from his left eye down his cheek, drawing up his lip in a wry smile. I, Joaquin 229

“Sí, a good man. He will be hard to replace.” “A good man is never replaced and always missed by those who knew him.” This said in reflection, not in argument. Valenzuela gave a nod and smoked his puro, quiet, waiting. “How many men have you lost,” I asked, “in the weeks since we last met?” “Seis,” he said, flicking the ash from his puro, his answers prompt, crisp like his manner. “Nearly a third of my force. All in one night. The night I got this,” he touched his scar. “The Gringos were waiting. We struck a camp near Tehama. They struck back. A posse pursued. Others blocked the trail ahead. Trapped, I did what Juarta always advised in such a case, attacked both ways at once. Tres Dedos hit the head, I hit the tail. We escaped but left four dead on the road. Two more bled to death during the ride. Lost six men. But they were not so hard to replace.” Again he puffed his puro as smoke drifted from his lips, masking his eyes, adding to the irony of his scar-twisted smile. I smiled as well and told him of the two men Luis had lost in a recent drive south to Sonora. “One died on the jornada across the desert. Another drowned in crossing the Gila. One from too little water, one from too much. So it is, amigo, we cannot plan our fate. Es destino. It amuses the world to kill us. And if I die snakebit in my camp bed by a víbora, so be it. But I do not plan to let the Gringos ambush me. Nor be strung up by a vigilante noose. Like Obispo says, it is clear we cannot win. Cannot chase the Gringos from California. There are too many. Each month sees thousands more. Their laws and numbers spread, cutting us off, checking our movements like rivers rising with the winter rains. So I say we lay low through the winter. Use the time to triple our number. Plan, train, then strike! Do to the Gringos what’s never been done. Slap them in the face so hard they’ll never forget!” “There is risk in numbers,” Valenzuela cautioned. “We are more easily spotted. More easily tracked.” “True, there is risk. So we must use our heads. Choose with care. Act with care. Then strike all at once...as one. Do all in ten fierce days then vanish. And the Gringos will track only ghosts. Find only fires and devastation. Each year los Comanches lay waste to all of 230 MELVIN LITTON

northern Mexico with no more than a few hundred warriors. We can do the same. Gut California in two weeks and be gone. They will not expect it.” Valenzuela slowly traced the length of his scar, warming to the notion. “What is it,” I asked, “that los Comanches value above gold, above all else? That all men value and at times can equal its weight in gold? And what more, can carry that weight over hundreds of miles under its own strength and will? You know as well as I that it is the horse. Luis sold our last herd for thirty thousand dollars. Sí, the going price in Mexico is now a hundred and fifty each. That’s dollars, amigo, not pesos. Dólares Americanos. And it is the horse we will steal. Not a few as we do now to mix in with our mustangs, but many. And forget the gold. Take only the gold that jumps in our hands. The horse is not so easily hidden, locked up, guarded night and day. Nor will it weigh us down or slow us down. We can steal half the horses in California, drive them south, and ride with such speed the Gringos cannot hope to catch us.” “So what do you propose, Jefe?” “Roughly this. First we recruit and triple our number. I, you, and Luis will each lead a band of sixty men. And each will choose three subjefes to further lead bands of twenty. These we will train and learn to coordinate by stealing horses and raiding here and there as we do now. But through a greater range and to a greater purpose. For we will need many horses. Every man must have a remuda of five, which will require eight hundred in all...trained, shoed, and equipped to ride. This will not happen overnight. In mid-to-late April we will begin building our remuda and stock them at Arroyo Sagrado. Carlos, Claudio, and a handful of vaqueros will tend to the horses. Ramón, Gregorio, and Chappo will serve as corredores, our runners and scouts, for you can trust them to do as they’re told and not cause trouble. But for now only you and I must know of the plan, of its ultimate goal. The rest will be told only as needed in order to act. “By midsummer all should be worked out, the stage set. Then I will reveal the map and the plan to Luis, Ramón, Gregorio, and Chappo, so they can help coordinate and act in our place should we be killed. Each will commit every detail to memory. We will practice I, Joaquin 231 and make certain. Learn to draw it in the dirt to show others. Then we will set a date and burn the map. Attack in late August or early September, during la luna de los Comanches. In the waiting weeks we’ll stock horses at ranchos and arroyos no more than a day’s ride apart to assure ourselves of fresh mounts and a swift pace. Along the coast we’ll use Serra’s ladder of missions to prepare our descending raids, contact our friends at the Missions Dolores, Robles, Obispo, Santa Maria, San Gabriel. Horses and supplies in place, we move into position. And only then, a day or two before we attack, do we let our subjefes know the part they are to play and the end to which we act. Once begun there can be no argument or delay. If any man refuses his part he must be shot. Any wounded will be left behind. We must move with discipline and speed. Move like a storm and stop for nothing. “We will start here!” I struck the map with my forefinger. “North of Sacramento. That will be you, Valenzuela, raiding the valley you know so well, hitting all the prime targets, gathering the initial herd, and moving south. Luis will hold the center, stage his men near Sacramento and set the city afire as you approach, help guard your flank as you pass, and likewise send riders on to Stockton to set it ablaze. Keep the Gringos fighting fires in our path and in our passing. I will do the same in the west. Set a dozen fires in San Francisco, make it burn like an inferno, like Hell has reached up to pull it under. Then raid the surrounding hills and drive south through the Salinas, taking a rich harvest of horses as you and Luis continue down the San Joaquín, gathering an ever greater herd in an ever greater storm, setting fires to every Gringo camp and town in our wake. And grasses too. Set fire to the hillsides, the valleys, set California ablaze, for in that season it will catch like a fuse. Let the smoke drift north to cover our tracks and blind any Gringos in pursuit. Shoot any who oppose us, but do not dally. Nor touch their women. Disciplina y velocidad!—this must be our watchword, guide our every step. We’ll keep in touch through our out-riders. Each band of twenty will further split into bands of five or six, spreading like fingers of a hand, like claws to gather all to the center, adding to the herd. “At last we converge along the Rio Temblor just east of Ciudad de Los Angeles. Again making certain the city is burning in advance 232 MELVIN LITTON of our arrival. Our friends in Sonora Town will not fail us. And at the Mission San Gabriel they’ll have a hundred mules waiting, loaded with casks of water, grain, and essential supplies. From there we’ll cross the desert to Sonora. Each watering hole we pass will be poisoned to discourage those who would follow and any who would fall behind. There must be no stragglers, no deserters. We will lose men and horses to the desert. Still, I see us crossing the Gila with a herd of ten thousand or more. Think of it. The largest herd of stolen horses in history. Worth un millón de dólares! Leave California scorched and gutted. Leave the Gringos afoot like dumb hens scratching at the dirt. Slap them in the face and steal their pride. They’ll not soon forget dos Joaquíns, Valenzuela y Murrieta. Like two fangs we’ll strike and leave our poison burning deep in their flesh. Let them taste our venom. “What do you say, amigo? Are you with me?” “This ride I would not miss, Jefe,” he smiled, looking all the boy he seemed—but a devil of a boy ready to ride through Hell with a wicked grin on his face. “This war we can win. I only wish Juarta were with us. El Padre would grant God’s blessing.” “We do not need God’s blessing, amigo. We need good men. Men who can ride and shoot and are not afraid to face the Gringos. We have the winter, let us find them.” After Valenzuela left I folded the map and clasped it between my hands as if in prayer, but prayed neither to Dios nor Diablo. I waited and listened. Heard the wind surge, whispering through the canvas “Sí, sí...” and knew Mescalito found it worthy of the panther, the stallion, the brujo—worthy of their son. I placed the map inside my shirt, next to my heart. At last I knew the path. And whether it led to victory or death made no matter. I would at last know peace. So I thought...as all men think...that death will grant them peace.

La Navidad came and went. A week following the New Year I told the others, those at Arroyo Sagrado. Told them we were planning a major action and that it would be best for all if the women and children returned to Sonora to await the outcome. “All the women?” asked Ramón, concerned at the thought of Margarita gone. “Sí, amigo, all the women and all the children,” I said, then asked I, Joaquin 233 that he and Luis accompany them to see that they made it there safely. They would sail from Monterey down the Baja to Guaymas, from there proceed by coach. It would not be such a hard journey as overland. Once in Sonora, Ramón and Luis could recruit good men from the many they knew—tough, seasoned vaqueros with no love for any but their own—and bring them north. Reactions were mixed. Three Fingers wished to know, “What action? When?” “You will know when it is time,” I said. “Till then you must wait and ask no more.” Claudio and Carlos stewed and stammered, reluctant to part with their families and stay behind. I offered enough money to sweeten their exile, if not their heartache. While sad at the choice, they finally agreed. And their wives were happy to think of the money and of going home, willing to leave their husbands to their work, saying, “Have no care, time will pass and find us together soon.” Teresa seemed willing one moment then changed her mind. Said she would cut her hair and ride with Gregorio like a man. “I can ride and shoot as well as most,” she declared. “This may be so,” I said. “But even with your hair cut, to disguise your face and figure you would have to eat a bear and wear its whiskers. How can you pass for a man? “I can pass for a boy,” she answered, her large eyes expressive, hopeful. “Very well, if you dress as a boy and cut your hair…I may consider.” In a trice she had Gregorio’s knife in hand, slicing at the roots of her long dark hair, casting off her glory like a novice nun anxious to reject the wicked world and enter a convent. Margarita looked on aghast, said she would rather die than cut her hair and would gladly go to Sonora as long as she didn’t have to ride a horse to get there. Rosita said nothing, sat at the table, cooing to Cinco. Meanwhile Camila exploded, saying she would neither cut her hair nor go. “Why should I? I am Californio. This is my home. I will go to my father’s rancho.” She stood defiant, her chin up, hands to her hips. “Sí, it is your home,” I conceded. “But your home is full of Gringos 234 MELVIN LITTON and you will not be so welcome here once we do what I plan.” “Hah!” she tossed her head and laughed, knowing full well that men found her attractive, confident she could make her way among any. And perhaps she had already tired of Luis and his long absences, of being a bandolero’s woman, of being a mother, and longed to return to the heady swirl of a fandango house, dance from man to man. “What of Cinco?” I asked. She looked to the child and pursed her lip in a pout. “Let him go with Rosita,” she said. “He prefers her. Speaks only to her. It’s time he was weaned.” “As you wish,” I mused, wondering of her spite, her scorn. “But you may think again and think otherwise. We will take the Pacheco Pass to Monterey. Stop by your father’s rancho. By then you may change your mind.” “Hah!” again she scoffed, her lips pulled back showing her pretty teeth. And she had pretty lips, loose lips. And a tongue that loved to wag. Men would find her and pay to lay with her. Already she knew too much and would tell no one of our plans. No, I would not cut her pretty throat, but to shut her lips I would see her bound and gagged. Willing or not she would sail to Sonora. Luis could work to tame her on the way, ride her like a stallion while the ship rode the waves, make her belly swell with child, weigh her down with ballast and give her anchor. So I let the matter rest. Told them to pack and prepare to leave at dawn. Carlos and Claudio would drive the wagons. Luis, Ramón, Chappo, and I would ride guard. On our return we would fill the wagons with horseshoes, reatas, leather, grain—all the items needed to tend the many horses soon to graze Arroyo Sagrado. Alone with Rosita, sitting with her at the table, I waited till her eyes met mine, then said, “I’m sending you home, Rosita. Back to the land of the little lizards, la cuida casa. By next Navidad I will join you and we will never leave the land of the little lizards again. Do you understand? Does this please you?” Her far gaze and faint smile spoke well enough. Within the hour she had her bags ready and sat on the bed, clutching the Virgin to her breast, humming a nameless tune. Later she slept, curled like a child, and I watched her sleep till the candle died and the darkness I, Joaquin 235

formed its stern wall around her like a jealous ghost that held her captive. En route next day, out ahead of the wagons, I rode alongside Luis and told him that Camila must be on the ship. “She’s been acting sassy ever since Reyes’ death,” I said. “Sniffing the air like she’s a free woman, like a wild mustang. Treat her like a mustang. Choke her down. Drive her like a stallion drives a mare and make certain she sails.” “Don’t worry, Jefe,” he laughed. “She has the fire in her, sí. That is half the fun. But she only plays at not wanting Cinco out of envy of Rosita. She will go with her son. Don’t worry. Last night I branded her good. Broke her to the bit. She will go where I rein. Do as I say.” He rode proud, cocksure, at ease with the world. I smiled and said, “That is good to hear, mi compañero. I’m sure the brand was deep and the bit was hard. But take care, old friend, a woman can be as fierce and hard to hold as a grizzly.” Then I whipped his horse’s rump and gave a wild carcajada. Watched him fight to keep the saddle. Aieee! Reminded him that something always waits to surprise us. But if Luis had not yet convinced her, one night at her father’s rancho surely did. Seeing how poor he lived and how many she would have to help care for, she readily chose to go with her son to Sonora. Next morning Paco Ybarra waved goodbye to his two oldest daughters and his son. For Jorge, now thirteen and strong for his age, wished to join us. His father shrugged his weary shoulders and said, “Vaya con Dios, my son,” and sadly watched him go. I assured Paco that Jorge would not ride as a bandolero but work only as a vaquero and help tend the remuda.

A cool mist fell upon reaching Monterey, merging the sea to the sky in one gray veil. Those heading south were booked passage on a ship named “Bella Mar.” Once in our village El Gitano would make them welcome, and Ramón would leave enough gold to see them well cared for. The ship lay at anchor, still taking on cargo, and would not sail till the following day. We made camp nearby the old Mission of Carmel. The roof had fallen in and the surrounding cot- tages were reduced to crumbling walls and rubble. We pitched our tents in a grove of tall eucalyptus overlooking the bay, built fires, 236 MELVIN LITTON and tended to the horses and mules while the women cooked. Later, toward evening, the air warmed and the mist lifted to reveal a brilliant sunset beneath the breaking sky. Yellows, crimsons, and purples reflected off the underbelly of the clouds and upon the waves from the far setting sun that blazed like a white-hot shield slowly dipping into the sea. Quiet as a shadow Rosita appeared at my side and clasped my hand. A gentle breeze caught a ringlet of her mist-dampened hair and blew it across her brow. I reached and brushed it from her eyes. But she did not look to me; she looked to the old church. Its grand, white-washed walls burnished by the sun stood solemn on the hill. She had not been to a church in so long perhaps that is what drew her. She tugged my hand and I followed. Nearly nightfall we reached the entrance and stood. The old facade, left to ruin, reminded me of an opened tomb, a desecrated grave. Somehow haunted, somehow angry. I glanced to our camp, to the red flames, the tall black trees, the tents aglow like lanterns lighting the shadows of people acting out their common patterns and tasks like ghosts playing at life; it seemed another world, wholly separate from where Rosita and I entered. Something I could not fathom drew her there like a child wishing to explore. I wished only to be with her. From within, the church appeared much larger. The vaulting roof opened to the heavens. Large beams fell aslant throughout the nave and the vast skeletal framework rose like ribs of a giant beast sharply etched against the moonlit sky. A myriad of stars blinked anew at each breath like the silver flutter of swallows nesting in the nooks and archways. We stepped over a weathered timber, rough-hewn by time and winds like the thief’s cross carried from Golgotha and dropped in the dust. Presently, ocean clouds sailed before the star-shaped window, blacking out the moon. Darkness fell absolute like the knowing that precedes death. On a dry spot near the altar, or what was left of the altar, Rosita knelt to her knees then sat leaning to one arm, drooping her head in a pose so downcast and weary as if she would never rise again. I spread my cloak beside her and bade her lay. Took her in my arms to keep her warm. She nestled to me and lay still and quiet as I stroked her hair and listened to her breathing, her pulse. She soon slept. I too. A peaceful sleep like children surrendering to the day’s fatigue. How long I slept I cannot say, whether for an hour or two or I, Joaquin 237 on past midnight, only knew that I awoke feeling my breath being sucked from me. Not only my breath but my very soul. My eyes opened to a black form bent low to my face. In a blink it drew back hovering before the altar. A presence, a shape, like a monk in a dark cowl standing with arms folded; yet no flesh, not a feature shown, simply a black silent form shimmering like a flame that shed no light, only darkness. Though awake, I could barely breathe. And could not move, not even move my lips to speak. Only blink my eyes in wonder. And wondering, I began to think. And thinking broke my fear. “What are you? Who are you?” I asked, speaking through my mind. And it answered to my mind, like Mescalito, only not in a soft whisper, this voice harsh and scrannel like an old cat. “Es-pí-ri-tu...,” he rasped. “Es-pí-ritu. The spirit whose bones lie beneath where you lay. I am Serra. Su alma. The soul of Serra....” I wanted to laugh and shout both at once. Wanted to chase him from me like a dog chases a cat. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “This is my church! My tomb!” he scolded. “No, what were you doing? For you were sucking my breath. My soul!” “I come to convert.” “Convert to what?” “Convert, convert. That is all!” he snapped, impatient at my question. “But you were sucking my soul like a demon sucking blood.” “No! I would save your soul, save your soul!” Now I did laugh. Laughed at him in my mind. And in my heart I knew he was the jealous ghost that held Rosita. Jealous of our flesh, our love. Finally he showed himself. “Obispo was right,” I said. “You are a fool.” “Obispo?” He grew curious. “Which Obispo?” “El Obispo!” I lashed at him. “And he said you were a tonto, a bobo. You and all the padres. You cannot even save your own soul yet you would save mine. By sucking my soul while my flesh still lives, like you once sucked the souls of thousands. Till they had no hope of life. Enslaved their flesh and made them kneel in hope of Heaven. Why? So you could lay claim at birth and death and condemn all acts in between!” “No, I loved my children. Loved my children....” “Love that hates the flesh is not love. It is only a word.” “No! The flesh is wicked! Wicked!” 238 MELVIN LITTON

“Look at you. Hovering around the living like a vulture preying on the dead. You hate the flesh yet you feed on the flesh. Drain it of its strength and will. Pretend to drink its blood. In hope of what?” “In hope of everlasting life and the love of God.” “Then why are you not in Heaven with your loving God?” “For my sins. My many sins....” His voice actually softened, grew contrite, admitting his fault, his fate. “Must do penance for a thousand years. For a thousand, thousand years.” “Has God told you this? Spoken and said you must wait a thousand years?” “No. He does not speak to me as He once did. Does not speak to punish me.” “For your doubt? Is that it? Your sin? Your doubt of God and faith?” “No! Have faith, faith, must have faith! Have no doubt He will speak!” “You fool. Even in death you pretend He will listen, that He will speak. Yet every moment is proof of your doubt. If you had loved the flesh you would have found faith there. And a spirit that grants us courage to live. But no, you scourged the flesh and loved only God. Yet you doubt, and to hide your doubt you roam at night snatching up unwary souls like a ghoul robbing the dead!” “No, I save, save...doubt not! No doubt, doubt not...no, NO!” So he raved to drown out his doubt, his sin, my question, like holding the cross before some dread evil. “Fray Junípero!” I called to him. “I know one who knew you.” At this he quieted, waiting like a starving soul offered something to eat, part of him still answering to the flesh. “El Obispo knew you. As a young soldier he traveled with you on your last journey here to Carmel. He is now a very old man. Don Constancio Corrego.” “Con-stan-ci-o...Con-stan-ci-o....” From its dark realm the ghost sought to recall the form, the flesh, the man. “He said you whipped yourself each night along the trail,” I prompted. “Oh, I knew him! Constancio Corrego! What a wicked young man. He used to sneer at me. And he is no ‘Obispo!’ Chased after the women like a he-goat! El Cabrón!” “Sí, that is so. And he caught one, Moijah, and made her his wife. In her flesh he found love and the faith to live and fight. And through her and his seed he has populated half the coastal range. Rules a vast campo. While you, all your works, your converts, your ‘children’ as you called them, have I, Joaquin 239 scattered to the wind like barren seeds that will never root nor grow. Your missions crumble into dust, leaving nothing but doubt. Doubt for what you did. Like your dream of God and Heaven. This dream you spread like a disease that kills to convert, turning the flesh to rot before it is dead. Stealing souls in life so they cannot love and live. Souls that belong to the flesh, the earth! Stealing souls even now like you stole ROSITA!” A small shade emerged from his; he snatched it back. “Sí! She is with me. She is SAVED! Her soul is MINE!” “No! She is not yours! You’ve never loved her. Never known her sorrow nor seen her torn. She is not yours. She belongs to the flesh. Her flesh! Her dear sweet flesh next to mine!” Again the small shade attempted to flee while the greater swooped down and caught it. “You thief! Demonio!” I raged. “Give her to me! ROSITA! Give her... “GIVE HER TO ME!” With that scream I sat up and the ghost vanished like a cat scatting in the night. At last finding my voice and able to move, I felt Rosita shaking my arm. “Joaquín? Joaquín?” she pleaded. “Why are you shouting? I am here.” I stared a moment, blinking at the darkness, catching my breath, my heart pounding like I’d thrown off a great weight that held me down. I turned to Rosita and again heard her say my name. Took her in my arms and held her close, so close like her soul would be taken if I did not hold her. “Only a dream, Rosita,” I answered. “A bad dream. Gracias for waking me.” “I too dreamed,” she said, raising her eyes to mine. “Though I remember little. A strange dream that seemed to last forever. Like I dreamed both awake and asleep. There was a shade, a shadow that stood between me and wherever I looked. Surrounded me, so that I could not remember who I was or where. Each time someone called, the shade would say, ‘No, no, you must not answer.’ But once I heard and answered. You told me of Reyes. That he had died.” “Sí, that is true.” “Reyes, mi hermano,” she noted sadly, smoothing her hair like touching some dark sorrow. “After that the shadow returned. Like a door had opened briefly then shut. Again I forgot my name and heard nothing. Nothing but, ‘No, no, do not answer.’ Till now, when 240 MELVIN LITTON you called to me, when you reached through the shadow like the morning sun, reached down and pulled me from my grave. You always save me, Joaquín.” “No, not always.” “You should not blame yourself for that.” “I will always blame myself.” She looked to me, wiped a tear from her eye and touched it to my lip like she did when we were children to share her joy or pain so that I would know her heart. Her mercy was more than I could bear. I too shed a tear and touched it to her lip so that she would know I could never forgive what they did to her and Pacito. Silence gripped our hearts, slowly letting go the memory. “Is it also true,” she finally asked, “that I am returning to Sonora?” “Sí...mañana.” She nodded faintly. “Now I remember. Now that the shadow is gone, I remember many things. Teresa lost her baby, pobrecita. And little Cinco, what a bright boy, he knows so many words. But he must learn his Spanish. Ah...and we were making love, Joaquín,” she smiled to me, showing a hint of her first and rightful smile that I thought I would never see again. “You and I making beautiful love....” She pressed me down and straddled me, fitting her hips to mine, teasing with her hair, her lips, whispering, “beautiful love... amor hermosa...,” her voice deep and lusty. “Sí, beautiful love, Rosita. But I hurt you, remember? And in your pain something took you from me and I do not want to lose you again.” But she did not listen. “Make love, Joaquín,” she urged, insistent. Even in the dark her eyes shone with luster and life as her flesh warmed. Our lips met, her breath sucked at mine and I wanted to lose my soul to her. Wanted her more than life. She unbuckled my pants and sank her nails in my flesh, made me ache in want, in fever. My hands drew up her skirt, roamed her spreading thighs; her hips surged, making room to ride me. Her lips nibbled at my neck, my chest. Her hair veiled my face. I rolled my eyes, growing faint. Then looked to the altar and froze. There in the darkness the ghost had returned, glowering as only a dark ghost can—his tiny amber eyes aglow in anger and envy of I, Joaquin 241 our love, our flesh—standing by to snatch her from me. I grasped a rock and flung it at him. “What was that?” Rosita looked up, startled. “Nothing but a rat.” “A rat...?” She tensed, wary. Hated rats. “Don’t worry. I saw him earlier. He comes and goes. This time I think I hit him.” “Bueno, I hope you killed him.” “So do I. Now be a good girl and lay down while I keep watch.” “But Joaquín...you do not want me? Not want to make love?” “Rosita, sí, I want you...like I want my next breath. But I cannot, it may hurt you.” “But I am healed. I know. I can feel inside.” I touched a finger to her lips to quiet her, to stay the temptation. “Perhaps you are,” I said. “Then maybe it is I who must heal. Heal my anger before we love again. Have done with the Gringos. Understand? Spill all my rage and vengeance before I can make love without hurting you.” “Will we make love again in Sonora, Joaquín?” “Sí...when I return, we’ll make love forever. Till our dust merges with the desert.” “By next Navidad you will return?” “Sí, maybe sooner. Now lay here and rest, mi Rosa. I’ll make certain the rat does not come.” She snuggled close while I kept watch. And that was the finest night of my life. Grateful simply to lay back and hold Rosita in my arms. To speak her name and hear her say mine. Dream together and make plans. That was enough. After her long silence, that was glorious. They weighed anchor shortly after dawn. We gazed on one another as they drifted out, till her features dimmed and I lost all sight of her and saw only the ship. Still I gazed. Watched the white sails billow above the far blue waves. Watched them vanish in a slow, blissful glide, as if ascending like a cloud though the distant sky. Like souls taken home to Heaven. And I hope her soul ended there, in grace and eternal peace. For her and those such as her there should be a Heaven and a loving God. But for the padres and their hatred of the flesh there should be a burning Hell. Chapter Eighteen

hrough the remainder of the winter I played the ghost, passing Tthrough San Francisco, Sacramento, Stockton, and adjacent regions, scouting prospects, seeking recruits. A long dreary winter of rain and snow. Cold howling nights and gray, dusky days. Perfect for a man in black to come and go. Few turned their eyes from their warm fires and brusque entertainments. Once more the many fled the mines to plod the muddy streets, crowd the taverns, cantinas, and fandango halls, and kept their eye fixed to the next card, the rolling dice, the flashing eyes of a dancing girl dressed in satin and frills, perfumed to delight like a garden in bloom. I too entered and warmed my flesh and on occasion embraced delight. But mostly remained a ghost, separate and aloof, seeking men to man my army. Dante Guerra, the ghost of Joaquín, and through my spies spread word: Hombres wanted who can ride, shoot, and face the Gringo. Of a hundred taverns that winter one plays vivid in my memory. It was in Angel’s Camp. Men stood elbow to elbow at the makeshift bar formed of a wagon bed set atop whiskey barrels. I leaned against a post in a shadowed corner. Boot mud lay in smeared clumps across the rough plank floor. A lamp hung from the center beam where smoke gathered in constant swirl, adrift and diffuse like the clutter of language made crude and guttural with drink. I struck a match and lit my cigarro. A man approached. “You are Dante?” he gruffed from the mask of his beard. “Perhaps,” I said, tossing off the match. “Why do you ask?” “The puta, Cristina...tells me you know Joaquín.” “And if so...?” I waited, studying his eyes, his manner. “I want to join up.” I, Joaquin 243

“This is no circus you ask to join. What would be your reason?” “He rides and robs. Me too, I like to take what I want and go my own way.” “Ah now, hombre,” I smiled, “don’t we all.” Then I laughed and bought him a drink and said perhaps Joaquín would have need of him. Perhaps. Later on yet another man approached, a bit more hesitant. “Señor Guerra...?” he asked, awaiting my notice. “I am Marcos Gadilla.” “Marcos, sí. A pleasure to meet you. What is your business?” “I wish to ride with Joaquín.” “If you ride with Joaquín, you should know...you may not live long.” “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m tired of being pushed around.” “Qué? You don’t like being pushed?” In a blink I roused in challenge and gave a sharp shove. As quickly he flexed his arms, prepared to fight as his eyes fixed and held. Seeing this I stepped back and said, “Bueno...what you say is true, Marcos. You don’t like being pushed. I think Joaquín will want to meet you.” Sí, he would be given a chance to prove himself. The other, no, he drank too much and talked too loud. Of the many sent my way, those of steady eye and even temper who could take direction yet stand their ground were readily welcomed, while those prone to swagger and boast, given to drink and brawling, I passed over with a simple handshake, saying, “Gracias, amigo. When Joaquín has need of men like yourself, I will let you know.” Gave each a smile and burned no bridges. For men, like women, once scorned, are apt to betray. Besides, their kind would prove useful in setting fires— then let them take the stage and act in their nature, loot and pillage amid the blaze. Let their necks feed the Gringo noose, their tongues taste hot Gringo vengeance, and in the drama let us escape. Each had a part to play to the cunning hand that knew the cards. And there is no gamble like war where men are anted to the game. Cunning and often cruel. But also kind. As you know of my cruelty, would you know of my kindness? Of the Digger orphans kept clothed and fed by gold given to the bravo priest who cared for them? Fray Sansón Fuego, a huge man, powerful as an ox, who broke with the Church and like an ox plowed his own path, used 244 MELVIN LITTON his fierce strength and will to build his own mission high in the Diablos, a day’s ride west of Sagrado—the Mission Robles, named for the oaks that marked the nearby pass known only to us few and the deer and grizzly that migrated between the Salinas and the San Joaquín. At Robles he gathered orphans from the region and the sierras beyond, lambs weaned in the wild, left to the mercy of wolves. The wolves kept at bay by the panther. I, Joaquín. I often brought supplies and several times a child found lost on a raid. The child delivered into the arms of Sansón and his helpmate, Isabella, herself not much more than a child, now fifteen. Three winters before, he’d saved her from being raped by a group of miners near Hangtown. In the ensuing fight he broke two men’s arms and got his nose busted flat against his face where it had fused broad and bent. But he backed them off and brought her safely to Robles, the first of his orphans. On a recent visit I brought a pair of stolen mules laden with supplies. “Santo día,” he murmured, rummaging through a side pack, “sugar, flour, beans. Gracias, amigo, we were running low. And nearly out of salt.” “You have but to ask and you will receive,” I said as he laughed his husky laugh. “And keep the mules, they are too slow for me, they may help you plow. But you will need plenty of this to encourage them.” I tossed him a can of tobacco snuff, known as “a mule’s favorite,” which he also favored. Sansón took a pinch and sniffed. “Joaquín,” he said, rubbing his blunt nose, “you’re a saint with a pistol.” “No, amigo, I’m only a friend.” Then I glanced to the stables where Isabella and the children were busy unloading the mules. “And as a friend I will tell you, someday you should marry that girl.” “No, no,” he blushed at the thought. “She is my child, mi ángel.” “Su ángel, sí. But she is no longer a child. Look at her, she is fast becoming a woman and will soon express a woman’s need.” “No, no,” he repeated gravely, “some things are simply not possible, you see.” I saw only that I had embarrassed my friend. “Forgive me, Sansón. At times I speak too freely.” I, Joaquin 245

“No, you speak...plainly. But you are of the world and ride full in the sun. Me...I stand at the edge and hold a door for these few.” Sí, he was the saint; I was Jefe, the bandit chief. But no matter, Sansón always accepted my generosity and granted my men and I shelter. Our horses groomed and fed by the Indio children who also served as guides and lookouts, watchful, attentive, their little ears never missed a hoof beat; their black eyes could read the night, the wind. And there were others who gave us shelter and offered aid. Shall I speak of the widow Señora Marqués who I kept in bread and who fed me bread many times when I came to her door, hungry and fatigued from the day’s hard ride? Her husband César, forced off his land by Gringos, rode with me until he was killed on a raid through the Calaveras. And I did not forget his wife and children. No, she was never a mistress, just a poor, tired woman who I treated like the good mother she was. Sí, I gave to many. But again, I was no saint. To make war I built an army. Wove my plan of many lives— the widow, the bravo priest, and hundreds more befriended and beholden in turn, vaqueros, rancheros, muleteers, perfumed putas, and sí, even padres at the missions, the handful devoted to their remaining flock to whom I gave my respect and gold. All were cards added to the deck. A few held close to my heart; others to be dealt and played. Three Fingers again rode with me. I wanted his ruthless hand next to mine, and made him a subjefe. Given control of men, he better controlled himself, kept his killing urge in check. But not always. Like most men use a woman from time to time to calm their flesh, Three Fingers used the knife. There were nights he rode off and returned at dawn looking pleased, having sunk his blade into some poor wretch. Of his victims I only hope there were more foul roosters than fat hens. Though I doubt he showed any preference as he showed no mercy. Watching him sharpen his blade each day, I often wondered of the knife, of its deft hold and keen fascination— and wondered too of the hand that first grasped a splintered bone or pointed flint and drove it into the soft flesh. Had Cain killed Abel with a knife? Did he walk up to his brother, put his arm about his shoulder to declare his love, then slit his throat? Three Fingers wore a dark cast upon his brow like the mark of Cain. Perhaps this 246 MELVIN LITTON protected him, for no matter his headlong fury and lust for violence nothing seemed to harm him. But if need be, to win my war, he was one Jack I would sacrifice. Send him into the fray and let him wreak his cruelty till he wrecked himself. Ramón and Luis returned in late March with thirty picked men driving over two hundred horses stolen between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara. We met them at Arroyo Cantúa, Valenzuela and I along with our added men and stolen herds. Of the horses we would eventually steal many more than needed, culling only the best for our remuda, while the others were either sold off or used in training the men, to practice pursuit and maneuver as they rode them down and killed them. Making certain each recruit killed a horse, for once a man kills a horse he can easily kill a man. Why is that? Ask yourself. Place a horse next to a man, a stranger who does not speak your language, who appears different and whose countrymen would harm you and those you love—do you not feel more sympathy for the horse? Is it not nobler, more useful and deserving of your mercy? No, ask your blood. Let your blood speak. That is what speaks in war.

So we lived in a world of men, honing our skills, refining our plans, gradually building our number to form an army. Framing our words to fit our actions. Working, eating, sleeping in rough con- cert. All men except for Teresa. And in striving to look a man, she looked more a woman in a striking, novel way. Each time she rode up with Gregorio, I tried not to notice. Still my eyes drifted, my heart raced, warming to her form, her presence, her shadow passing before mine. Her pert, graceful dismount. Her quick hop and step back into the saddle, effortless as a bird taking flight. And I longed to take her to me, let her lithe limbs clutch me as they did her horse. Still only April, the sun baked the grassy bowl of Sagrado, boding of summer. Gregorio rode in with a message from Valenzuela concerning some matter. I told him to return and ask Valenzuela, who camped about ten miles south on the Tulares, to meet with me that evening. Teresa said she would rest her horse and await his return. Gregorio’s earnest brow expressed only devotion as he nodded, wheeled his mount and rode off. “Jorge will help you unsaddle your horse and rub him down,” I I, Joaquin 247 said, motioning to the boy. “And have Carlos check his hooves and shoes to see they are in good shape.” “Sí, Jefe,” she smiled. And I acknowledged her smile but avoided her eyes, for they could beguile and fire my want. In my adobe, sitting at the table, I stared at the map, trying to focus my mind while my thoughts stirred and uncoiled like a snake edging through the grass to her. Minutes passed like a day in the sun without water. My lips dry, my throat parched, I stood and drew a dipper from the pail and drank. A shadow fell across the floor. I turned and saw Teresa in the doorway. Her eyes looked to mine and she did not look at all a boy. Her tight breeches and short jaqueta accented her figure; her hip thrust to one side with her holstered pistol; her hand set to the other, marking her narrow waist. Her shirt lay partly unbuttoned to air her breasts. While her short hair served to enhance her eyes and lips, barely covering her tiny ears set like ornaments above her lovely neck. Even her dust- caked clothes made her seem more enticing, feral. “I wanted to thank you for letting me stay and not sending me to Sonora,” she said, making a slow approach, scuffing the dirt floor with her dainty boot. “Por nada, it is nothing,” I answered, trying to ignore her. But she stood so close, smelling of the sun, the wind, of sweat and woman. “No,” she said, touching my gun belt, sliding her hand still lower. “I mean really thank you.” There was nothing gentle in the way I took her. Pulled her to me, my hands at her breasts, my lips to hers, my tongue probing her sweet depth. But she would not be taken so quickly and drew back. Her eyes more cat-like, more wanton and fierce than in the past. They dared and challenged. I gripped her gun belt and again pulled her close and slowly unbuttoned her shirt. Grasped her breasts and nipples with my firm hand and this time she arched to me in urgent whisper, “Joaquín, sí, sí....” I peeled her breeches past her hips and down her thighs. Tossed her to the bed, pulled off her boots and jerked her breeches free. Unsnapped my own. She laughed and nudged me with her toe, teasing my stallion cock as it aired above her, then raised her thigh and led me down like a heated mare rushing hard through a canyon, rearing wild, gasping and pawing for air, running from light to shade, racing for a far plateau 248 MELVIN LITTON

and freedom. I roped her neck in my hands and made her whimper, choked her down till she rode easy, rising to me in full, rhythmic stride, smooth, compliant, responding to the least movement of my hands, my flesh, my lips to her ear whispering, “Teresa, come to me, come....” Later we lay with our flesh entwined, lathered like horses, mixing our sweat, our dust, our scent. Her short dark hair smoothed to my hand like a rich mane as she rested her chin on my chest, her eyes peering to mine. “I thought you remembered God,” I said, “and would never look to me again.” “I will forget God,” she answered without a hint of irony, “until I feel a baby in my womb. Gregorio’s seed does not take. Yours will. The first time I was still afraid, now I am ready. When we return to Sonora I will have a baby in me. Your baby, Joaquín.”

Mounted Gringos formed a semi-circle in front of the veranda. A score of Los Coyotes vaqueros, sons and grandsons of Don Constancio, stood poised at either side, rifles unslung, held ready. Chappo reined back of them while I pressed on through the Gringos and dismounted. Don Constancio stood at the top step leaning to his cane, a parchment held in his left hand. “See!” he exclaimed, raising the parchment. “The seal of Ferdinand the Seventh, King of Spain, deeding these lands to one Constancio Raul Corrego on the fourth day of December, in the year of Nuestro Señor 1797!” Enunciating with defiance, showing the strength of a gnarly old post that had stood a century and still held the gate latched or open at his will. “Qué pasa? What’s the matter?” I asked. “These ladrones…these thieves!” he raised his cane to the Gringos, speaking Inglés so that they would know his anger, “think to seize my land with fraudulent law and a piece of paper. Land that I won by my sweat and blood. Fought for and held through three generations. Your paper is not so strong as my parchment and will rip easily. And your blood,” he vowed, “is not so strong as mine and will spill easily.” The Gringo sheriff, seeing that the bluff of the law and an official paper would not budge Don Constancio, quietly folded his I, Joaquin 249 document and tucked it in his coat pocket. His deputy, a rugged man who looked vaguely familiar and who’d been staring at me, leaned to gain the sheriff’s ear. No doubt the deputy found me familiar as well, for at his word the sheriff’s eyes hardened. “Who is this man?” he asked, pointing to me. “You ride on my land and make false claim,” each word fed Don Constancio’s anger till he flew into a rage, “then you dare point your finger at the husband of my great-grand-daughter! The father of my great-great-grandson! And demand who? I’ll tell you who! This is Dante Guerra who I hold as dear as a son. Brother of Fray Juan Francisco Guerra of Mission San Gabriel, son of Don Antonio Brazo Guerra, respected member of the Mexican Parliament. And the beloved nephew of the Señora Annabella Luisa Ambrose, wife of Sir William Ambrose, the Inglés ambassador to Spain. And unless you wish to provoke the wrath of the Inglés as well as mine, you will take care who you point your finger to and ask questions of!” The sheriff returned his hand to his reins but held to his question. “There are rumors this man has dealings with the bandit Joaquín.” “Rumors?” Don Constancio again raged. “You dare suspect me and mine of dealing with bandits? I, Constancio Corrego, who helped Fray Junípero Serra make Christians of ten thousand heathens...who helped tame this great campo...you dare accuse—” “Permit me, Don Constancio,” I offered in hope to spare him their suspicion. “Perhaps I can shed some light on the rumor and answer his question. It is true, Señor Sheriff, that I have known a Joaquín who is now a bandit. El Famoso in fact, Joaquín Murrieta. But it is three years since I have known him. He dealt monte at the Hotel El Dorado in San Francisco. And my only dealings with him were through the cards. I frequently played at his table and on occasion we shared a bottle of aguardiente. I found him amusing, his hands quick and clever. And while I could never discern him cheating, I’m sure he did, as he won far too often. Since then he has turned his hand to robbery and murder. This saddens me,” I said, my tone as sincere as any priest, “for it harms both our peoples. Causes bad blood and much grief.” “So you have not seen Joaquín of late?” “No, have not and do not wish to. Were I to meet with him he 250 MELVIN LITTON would rob me as surely as he would rob you. Believe me, his kind has no conscience, not with the cards or with the gun. And once they taste blood, they have no heart.” The sheriff looked to his deputy then to me. Neither of them smiled; both still doubtful. But surrounded as they were and outgunned, they did not wish to press the matter. “Beg your pardon, Don Constancio,” the sheriff said, touching his hat brim in faint deference. “Meant no disrespect. Only mean to serve the law.” “The law!” Don Constancio spat. “Call yourself a nation of law? What law? Your law that respects no other but its own? That respects no property until it is seized? Take your law and go! Go now!” And his rage turned to wrath, like I had thought only God could rage. For wrath is of God and rage is of man. And in his wrath his face reddened till his white hair nearly blazed. His cane held forth like the staff of Moses that could change to a víbora to strike his enemy. “Por Dios you will know my anger!” he roared. “You want my land? Take it! But before you take it our blood and yours and a hundred like you will soak its soil!” And seeing his wrath, his fierce stance, they hastened to leave. Said no more, reined their mounts and warily rode out, looking to their backs. “Gracias,” I said, seeing them gone, “for defending my good name.” “That was my pleasure,” he laughed heartily, now free of the Gringos and easing his wrath. “Always my pleasure to defend a son.” “Honored to be so claimed,” I noted with a slight bow. “But where did you come by my pedigree?” A sly grin creased his lips. “It refreshes the mind to tell a good lie, no?” Then he laughed quietly, his deep, melodious laugh, and motioned to the shade. “Come, let us sit. Those damned devils made me angry, and cursing them made me tired. And when tired I want my chocolate!” he barked to the women gathered at the doorway, waiting fretful and curious. “Go!” he barked again as they scattered. Clarita soon returned and served us each a cup of hot chocolate. To bark at the women was his game, but each alone he treated like I, Joaquin 251 his favorite. He patted her hand and said, “Gracias, my child. You are the flower that holds the dew of my eye.” She curtsied to him and smiled to me, then rushed off, glowing from his praise, knowing I would see her later. I sat quietly, letting him sip his chocolate and regain his strength. Finished, he rolled a shuck cigarro and lit it, took a puff and spit a bit of tobacco from his tongue. “Sorry for your troubles,” I said, watching the smoke slowly drift from his nostrils, his lips. “I fear the news I bring will only add to your worry.” With a flick of his hand he dismissed my comment as if brushing off a fly, as if troubles were no more than smoke. “Piss in the ocean,” he said, “it will not stop the waves. But what news have you? Go ahead, try to worry an old man.” “War,” I said. “By September we will wage full war on the Gringos.” Then I told him all I’d told Valenzuela. Told him so that he could prepare and be ready for the aftermath. “Why, this is good news you bring,” he smiled, spreading his hands as in blessing. “But in the Gringo backlash many will suffer. Surely you see this?” “So? Many suffer now. There is nothing new under the sun, Bajo del Sol...fear nothing,” he reminded me. “Besides, the Gringos will have my land. I had expected them before now. I can contest their law, delay them. But in the end they will laugh me out of court. Like hounds they will tear my deed to shreds. For it is their court and their law. They will have my land like I had it from the Tejon. But por Dios they will have it burned. Not a building left standing. Not one wall or corral. Not a single well to drink from, nor a single animal left to graze the scorched tierra. Only los coyotes left to mock them. We will serve as your auxiliaries. Add a hundred men and a thousand horses to your drive south. And I will ride with you.” “But it is very far, Don Constancio.” “No, Mexico is near, ninety years is far!” he declared. “Do not try to worry an old man, young Jefe. If you make it here, I will make it there!” 252 MELVIN LITTON

“But you have the desert to cross. It will kill even young men.” “Then I will die in the saddle like a man. Not some old dog wasting away here in the shade of the veranda. In the shade of all I’ve built and dreamed. Watching it taken away from me. No, I will face the sun and the wind, if only for a day. And if I fall let the vultures feed. Do not fret for an old man, young Jefe. You give me reason to ride again. A reason to fight and die, sí. There is all of Heaven a man should need.”

Letting Don Constancio know freed me of my last constraint. I could not leave him blind to what would come. And seeing his courage, fed my own and rid my doubt. After taking siesta with Clarita, I rode northeast with Chappo, passing through Los Coyotes to follow El Camino Real. Along the way, Chappo, who seldom spoke unless spoken to, reined close by and said, “The Gringo who think he know you? Who make little talk in ear? He Chappo’s old boss. Chappo take his horse and his pistol.” “So that is where we met. Think he wants his horse and pistol back?” “He not get them by say please,” Chappo grinned, proud of the gold capping his teeth. “Must kill Chappo. But Chappo kill first!” Chappo too dreamed of vengeance. His grudge fierce and fresh in mind. By evening we sighted the silvery flow of the Salinas reflecting through the distant trees. We rode down a gentle ravine through clumps of chaparral and entered the green, shadowed valley. The sky a peaceful cast of blue. A dusk that bodes no warning. Not a leaf or blade of grass astir. We heard only the slavering of our horses and their scuffing hooves as we approached the tree line. Suddenly, at no more than thirty paces, a dozen horsemen appeared—the same Gringos who had tried to serve notice to Don Constancio. Their gun barrels and buckles glinted in the sunset. The sheriff and deputy rode center, their badges shining like jagged mirrors. No doubt they had gambled on the chance we would ride that way and smiled in prospect of their prize. Obvious they meant to take us prisoner or shoot us down. Nor could we flee; our horses were nearly winded and needed water. Theirs were fresh and rested. I, Joaquin 253

We slowed our mounts as if to parley, reining slightly left to put the sun in their eyes. To Chappo I quietly urged, “Hit first and hit twice....” He grinned as he took the reins in his teeth and before they guessed our intent we spurred hard, drew our pistols, and were blazing our way through. Horses reared and bolted. Men pitched and fell. A few returned fire to no effect, fumbling to take aim and reload. Then we were past, plunging into the rain-gorged river. In the deepening water we slid from our saddles and gripped our horses’ tails to keep a low profile as we swam with the swift current. Wary of the rushing water the Gringos slipped and sloshed through the tules that grew thick along the bank, cursing at us, firing madly. At any moment I expected my head to explode with the hot crack of a bullet. Pum! Pum! Pum! Acrid puffs of smoke bloomed amid the foliage, leaving their deadly scent to drift across the water. Bullets whizzed past, some hitting wide or low, slapping the surface like hard-thrown rocks. One ripped close, caught my sombrero and sent it spinning to the water; its silver buckles and golden thread soon chased by fishes to the murky depths. I answered the Gringos with a bold laugh and called them poor roosters who could neither fight nor swim, only flap their wings and squawk. Chappo paid them no mind, held to his horse’s tail and kicked for the far bank, boasting of how he “killed old boss!” Aimed his pistol and fired pointblank. “Shoot old boss in big mouth!” he shouted. “Shoot him weeth his pistol!” Our bravado helped defeat our fear and divert our foe. On we swam drifting nearly a half mile before wading ashore. We quickly remounted and raised our fingers to the Gringos in a gesture known to all. Braved their bullets to jeer once more then yelled our fierce carcajadas and galloped off through the timber and the deepening dusk, heading for the Cholume Hills and the hidden pass that led to the Mission Robles.

The moon had risen to mid-sky by the time we were greeted by Fray Sansón, Isabella, and the Indio children. The children had foretold our coming, their ears cupped to the ground. They waited eagerly for the chocolate I always carried, kept dry in a waxed parfleche. Each 254 MELVIN LITTON stepped forth to claim a piece as I recited their names, “Homero, Diego, Sara, Juana, Maria, Pedro...”—then they tucked their treat away and ran off smiling to savor it after tending our horses. “God’s welcome and mine,” said Sansón. “Come inside, you must be starved.” At his table we feasted on goat cheese, bread and wine, drinking late into the night, laughing to the heavens. Like true hombres absolved by laughter and wine. Later, when Isabella came to gather our plates, leaving us yet another bottle, I noticed Sansón look to her with keener warmth and gratitude, thanking her for serving us. As soon as she left he caught my eye and said, “Sí, maybe some things, they are possible.” “Not only possible,” I assured. “But meant to be, as God made man and woman.” Again he reddened at my urging. Anxious to change the subject, he asked of the posse that waited for us by the river, for we had told him of the Gringos left to gnash their teeth while we made our bold escape. “And they were all firing at you? A dozen guns?” “Sí. Like fireworks on a feast day.” “You were lucky this time, my bandit friend, a miracle you escaped.” “No, they’re all born of a cross-eyed she-devil,” I said, letting the wine excite my words. “They can’t see straight to ride or shoot.” “No, amigo,” he gently chided. “That is not what protects you.” “What then? Dios? O Diablo?” “Ni uno, ni otro...it is them,” he said, glancing to the far room where Isabella and the children slept. “Their prayers that protect you.” Chapter Nineteen

y the summer of ‘53 my acts and crimes had chilled the Gringo Bheart and made them fear. California grew rife with rumors of Joaquín, like I was the lone phantom that haunted the night. Rife as well with rumors of Rangers hired to hunt me down, men who would kill for a wage, led by Captain Love in the north and Captain Hope in the south. I laughed at their names, Love and Hope, as if they’d love to kill me and hoped for the chance. I would not make it easy. The legislature offered a $5,000 reward for my capture, dead or alive. Riding through Stockton one evening, I saw the poster nailed to a storefront. I leaned from my saddle and wrote: “I offer $10,000”— then signed it, “Joaquín!” Whether anyone saw, many soon read, which added to the rumors and the legend, and to Gringo unease. Headlines bore my name like a black curse: The Bandit Joaquín! In early June I was in Sacramento on the very day Captain Love led his Rangers out to great fanfare, like knights riding off to a crusade. Citizens jammed the boardwalks and doorways, cheering them. Women cast smiles like silk to lances while men shouted and hurrahed, proud of race and destiny. Only I held silent, watching Captain Love ride past on his steel-gray warhorse. He was a burly man with greasy locks that hung like hound ears about his pug face and deep-set eyes; he scowled like he drank too much and hated each day. I studied each in their mute passage—all reminded me of the scalphunters witnessed years before in Chihuahua City. Though well-dressed they were as grim-faced and as deadly, anxious to kill and collect their blood money. I too grew anxious, anxious to hold Rachel Flynn, as if holding 256 MELVIN LITTON her would in some way taunt the Gringos. I rode to her as bold as day, no longer waited for the lamp in her window to tell of her husband’s absence. I came to her disguised as a priest, and her coachman let me pass, as did her servant at the door. Sí, the robe of a cura covered my pistols, by now my favorite ruse, well aware of the habit and manner of a priest, having been raised by one. And I knew her thoughts, her husband’s views, often the day they were voiced and shared, for her handmaid and stableboy were my spies. I did not wait on rumors, I ruled and spread them like the wind. How little it takes to sway the loyalty of those paid to pose as slaves and address their betters as “Sir” and “Madame.” Servants store their spite beneath blank smiles to later use to their advantage. And all tell all to their “Confessor.” Rachel Flynn, while not a harsh mistress, grew haughty as a queen when not humbled by a stallion. “Captain Love is a dogged man,” she warned, gazing out the window of her room, her “boudoir” as she called it. “I have met him.” She glanced to me, fingering the lace curtain while the sunlight caught her negligee, revealing her fair form and color. “Dogged men, like dogs, are easily mastered and easily fooled,” I said, ignoring her words to discern her flesh. “They say he rid Texas of the Comanche.” “Sí, and the earth is flat as the Bible and the Virgin was a virgin,” I laughed. “Believe that and you are a bobo. For Texas is free of the Comanche only when the Comanche raid in Mexico. They say what he tells them and he only tells them what they want to hear. Believe me, it will take an army of dogged men a generation to rid Texas of the Comanche. And more than a pack of dogs to rid California of Joaquín.” “But...if they catch you?” “Don’t worry. I am one and many, here and there, like a ghost. They can’t catch what they cannot find.” “True. They are frustrated,” she smiled, turning to touch my gun belt, my sash, raising her blue eyes. “They don’t know where to look. They have only your name, Joaquín. And they don’t even know which. Whether Carrillo, Ocomoreña, Valenzuela, Bottillera...” “Or Murrieta,” I added, drawing her to me. Her lips parted and she whispered, “No one even knows what you look like.” I, Joaquin 257

“But you do, my little bird,” I said, caressing her tender throat, letting her feel my grip, my strength. “Would you tell them?” “I’d rather you killed me than think that.” I smiled and lowered my hand to her breasts, her belly, her flexing thighs. “Sí, you have too much pride to betray me. And too much beauty to kill.” She unbuckled my gun belt, removed my sash, unsnapped my pants and freed my stallion cock. She liked to take it in her hands, stroke its length, trace it sharply with her nails till it pulsed in ache for her, in want of her moist, supple depth. I loosened the bow of her gown and let it fall from her shoulders, silent as a breath from her lips. Then in a flash she clawed my face and showed the blood on her fingers. “See! You bleed like any man,” she said. “And you can die a fool like any man!” That ended our words as our play began. She liked it rough; again she struck. I caught her by the arms and shoved her to the dressing table—she leaned, gripping each edge, gazing to the mirror, her eyes flashing to mine like a heated cat as I made ready to mount, nudging her velvety cove, tempting till she arched to me. Then I wrapped her radiant curls in my fist and reined back her head, pulling her hot breath to mine. As our lips met I slowly entered. At each thrust she gasped in pleasure and pain, first to God, then to Joaquín! Joaquín!—as I drove to her anxious depth, fierce and hard, while the sweat trickled down the curve of her spine to her sweeter cavity beneath. Bent her low and spread her thighs in full surrender, let passion rule. I too enjoyed our game—the mirror reflecting our play, our merging forms, my swarthy hands pawing her ivory flesh, my black hair tangled in her golden mane, my dark, smoldering eyes striking a flame in her cool blue soul. A sudden flame like I’d soon use to set California ablaze. Drove her like I’d drive 10,000 horses.

Through the days and weeks ahead, flames and horses ruled my vision. I saw running horses and raging fires as I laid my plans and trained my men. Forgot Rachel and Teresa, forgot all but the 258 MELVIN LITTON war I would wage and why. Each day I gazed to the map and each night I gazed to the fire. And in the burning flames I saw the map of California come alive like the very land—saw the mountains, the valleys, the rivers and plains, and a hundred “Xs” marked in black, and at every “X” saw a herd of horses grazing in wait, or another city, town, or hacienda to be set ablaze. And I knew every distance from “X” to “X,” knew California like I knew my hand, could pace it off in the dark, mark the rivers and fords, mountain trails and passes. Each pace composed of four steps placed heel to toe stood for fifty miles, and I knew each pace and step like a dance that starts slow and quiet in stealth and shadow, then quickly joins with others that rise and merge like a hundred beating hooves blending one to another to form a pounding war dance that would end in the thun- der of 10,000 horses flooding south. A vision I would soon share with my fellow jefes, Valenzuela and Luis, and my corredores, Ramón, Gregorio, and Chappo. Lead them through the paces like we led the men each day—trained by scattering our various remudas, then spread like fingers of a hand to gather them in and regrouped like a fist to drive them home, mixing our sweat and effort with the sun, dust, and wind till all moved as one, smooth as a hand drawing a knife to strike. And once each knew the dance, their part to play, I would burn the map, cast it to the flames, watch it crumple and burn like all of California, her buildings and lands left to smolder while we drove horses from her blackened womb. Reflected in that fire I saw Pacito’s death, Rosita’s agony, and my endless shame at not protecting them—saw our dreams and promise, our pleas for mercy fed to the flames and turned to bitter ash. In those brands I saw seeds of a greater blaze. Seeds I would soon plant and take lasting vengeance. As Rachel had warned, the Rangers were dogged. They knew we hid deep in the Diablo Range and circled ever closer, sniffing up arroyos and canyons. In their hunt they were given free rein and answered to no one. They could arrest or execute whoever they pleased, ask a kindly question or go for the throat without warning or provocation. This license is what was feared, their method, not their number. In early July they intercepted one of my spies, Jesús Feliz, Rosita’s cousin, riding down from Stockton, and demanded to know his business on the Tulares. When he told them he was a I, Joaquin 259 mustanger, he had little choice but to show them to our branding grounds or die. Most men would have done the same, and I never faulted him. Hope of life and hope of chance beat strong in every breast. No doubt the Rangers hoped to surprise a band of vaqueros, perhaps one led by Joaquín. And so they did. But arriving at Arroyo Cantúa, it was the Rangers who nearly bolted. Valenzuela was there with a full complement of men working several hundred horses. As Jesús later told us, the Rangers, suddenly faced with over seventy mounted vaqueros armed to the teeth, halted their horses and considered whether to turn tail or enter. Dogged as ever, Love led them in, approached under the ruse of collecting names for a tax to be levied on all mustang runners. And there were always those among us, innocent rancheros, helping with the roundup. “We’re only here to take your names,” he announced as Valenzula rode forth to meet them. “I’m Captain Love, charged by the state of California to count all mustang runners working the San Joaquín. If you’ll line up your men, we can get started.” Valenzuela played along and answered, “Sí, Capitán....” Then he rode back and told the men to give a name. “Any name,” he said, “like you would tell Diablo to deceive his black heart.” Love took down their names like a dutiful scribe. Those watching said he wrote with a fine hand and a keen flourish, did not stop dipping his pen till he’d taken down each and every name. Both sides played along, hid their thoughts and held their cards, wary of the stakes. And I had left standing orders not to fight the Rangers except in self-defense. At last Captain Love and his Rangers rode off with seventy false names and a half dozen horses of questionable brand they’d culled from the hundreds held there. No resistance offered. No arrests made. No harsh words exchanged. “Buenos tardes, Capitán,” Valenzuela smiled, seeing them go. Then he calmed the men by telling them to calm the horses and await their Jefe. Their brush with the Gringos unnerved a good many. A timid few rode off in the night. No great loss. Others steadied upon my return at dawn, for Valenzuela had sent word to Sagrado. I heard them out, let them express their fear and concern. 260 MELVIN LITTON

“That was the Gringo army,” one said. “What now, Jefe? They’ve found us.” “They’ve found only mesteñeros,” I assured him. “Besides, what’s an army of a dozen men? We’ll draw them in to throw them off. Play them like the zorro plays the hounds.” Then I explained my plan as if conceived in the moment, though I’d held it in hand for weeks should the need arise. “We’ll send a herd south,” I said, “with the usual number of men. And the greater number will follow...as if panicked...as far as Tejon Pass. Let the Rangers think we’re on the run, then split-up into small groups and double back to rendezvous here...at Cantúa...in two weeks’ time. Those driving the horses will continue on to Cuidad Los Angeles and trade them for mules and supplies. Then make camp at San Gabriel and prepare for a jornada.” The men warmed to my plan, eager to lead the hounds on a wild chase. Sí, we could have killed the Rangers that day at Cantúa, led them into a trap and gunned them down. Ambushed them most any time had I wished. But others surely awaited word from them, and hearing nothing, others would come. Perhaps an army of hundreds. Why risk a greater threat? Why fight them when we could trick them? Let them run along and sniff the trail that would lead them to the desert—let them link up with Captain Hope in hope to surprise us while we disappeared and began our raids north. If we met them later on, we would be an army and they a scattered few. Sure, I gambled, took a chance that they would follow, which they did, took the bait and followed south through Tejon Pass. Only one of hundreds of risks I had taken. Only one of thousands soon to play on a monte table as broad and long as California.

Late July and all nearly set. Throughout the day Three Fingers and I, my two other subjefes, Juan and Moreno, along with Chappo and a few others had trained, perfecting various flag and mirror sig- nals to communicate and maneuver at a distance. We camped that evening on the Tulares. As the sky slowly blackened and the moon edged into view, young Jorge came riding in, his horse lathered and blowing from the long, hot ride. The boy too was nearly winded, but smiling proud. I, Joaquin 261

“I’ve been breaking a new horse for you, Jefe,” he said. “You will like this bayo. He can run all day and never tire.” I thought to scold him for leaving Sagrado, then thought better of his tender pride, for he walked in my shadow and longed to be my mozo. “Gracias, Jorge. It is good he can run so far and you can ride so well. But it is better to obey your Jefe, no? Now quickly, rub him down. Give him water. Then come eat some frijoles so you’ll have strength to ride and grow cajones.” “Sí, Joaquín,” he grinned, jumping down. He liked to please if not always obey. Thrilled to be on the plains and to cast his shadow a caballo. That night he slept on a blanket next to mine beneath a deep purple sky and a silver moon. We both dreamed of horses, he of one and I of thousands. Next night the moon would wax full and I planned to ride to Sagrado, meet with my jefes and outriders, then share the map and make final plans. Use August to distribute our remuda among simpáticos through the San Joaquín and the Coastal Range and be set to strike by September. I placed the map next to my heart then lay back and closed my eyes to the far blinking stars and dreamed of nothing but raging fires and running horses. So I dreamed even as I slept, returning to the realm that lies beyond our memory, yet is as much a part of us as our waking, our speaking, our daily acts. You cannot deny the spirit within that seemingly comes from without and perhaps rules over and survives us. You cannot look upon death without thought, upon a beautiful woman without want, or on a starry night without wonder. Yet thought, want, and wonder were consumed by my dream for vengeance. Like kindling to a fire, they fed the blaze. As Don Constancio had said in parting, “Forget your dream and you are not a man. And when your dream is vengeance, look to your enemy and your gun. Sí, at times the dream and act are one....”

That morning I remember like no other. Remember the sun break- ing over the dark range of mountains to the east—how the first rays glinted swift and cheering as it rose lighting all the land like a sud- den blush that warms the skin. Remember cool, clear water drawn from the spring, cupped to my mouth and savored like life itself, 262 MELVIN LITTON and the tortilla, the cup of coffee, the shuck cigarro I rolled and smoked. I remember telling Chappo how sweet the air, how bright the dawn, before he rode to the near ridge to check the view, for we camped in a low basin and expected either Ramón or Gregorio to arrive with word from Valenzuela. As he rode off I squatted by the fire to finish my cigarro. Tendrils of smoke slowly drifted to the sky as if answering to a greater fire, the sun. Jorge had built the fire, already up, eager to prove his worth— led Alazán and the bayo to water then tethered them close by. Others roused, pulled on their boots, stood and stretched, looking to the morning, to tobacco and coffee, yawning as they unsnapped their pants and reached to relieve themselves. No one spoke. A breeze stirred the grass, the flames. I tossed my cigarro to the fire then stood, and in standing heard riders at my back—fifteen to twenty horsemen, Chappo captive in their midst, already upon us, unbidden, unseen, like a shadow cast behind that in a breath assumes the form and flesh of a foe. As unexpected as thunder on a clear day. And not one of us wore a gun, for a gun belt is heavy and chafes the skin like a saddle chafes a horse and is commonly not worn until preparing to mount. And who would have thought while breaking camp 200 miles from the nearest settlement far out on the Tulares that we’d confront those hired to hunt us down, the very hounds we’d tricked into riding south, the California Rangers led by Captain Love, returning exhausted from their long chase, looking haggard and mean, in want of water and shade. And blood. Had I grown unwary like a rabbit casting its shadow for the hawk to see? Or as some would say—had my violent pride moved beyond all hope or appeal? Perhaps. But I think not. How then did they find us? Dogged will and blind luck. Given time even a dog chasing its tail is apt to stumble on its prey. And given mortal odds any card drawn can win or lose the game. That day fortune smiled on them and cast her black card to us. So dealt we must play. Only a fool grieves over chance. They quickly surrounded us, still not certain who we were, whether those they sought or simply mustangers. Except for one—a stolid Ranger with stern blue eyes who focused solely on me like he already knew. I smiled my panther smile; still he stared. And in those eyes I saw death. Another held a pistol drawn on Chappo who I, Joaquin 263

remained ahorse, while the rest merely eyed us, their blue, gray, hazel eyes watchful and deadly, like dogs awaiting some reaction or command, anxious for blood to soothe their pride after riding hundreds of miles over false leads and dead-ends. Chappo’s eyes spoke to mine of his deep regret as if he were to blame. I raised my brow and smiled, letting him know that the sun rises and the wind blows whether we wish it or not. So my eyes spoke to each, urging them to stay calm. But in my chest my heart beat wild, my panther blood raced, urgent to escape, for I still held the map and the map would betray all—our compadres, our allies, and our friends. Alazán stomped at his tether two paces back of me. But two paces seemed like a hundred miles. Captain Love reined his horse center and halted in front of Three Fingers, thinking him our leader, for like attracts like and Three Fingers was the largest and oldest man of our group. Also the most surly and sullen. They made a good match. “Me and my men,” he barked sharply, “are California Rangers empowered by state law to hunt the bandit Joaquín. By that warrant I demand to know your names, your business, and where you’re headed.” Much bolder against the few than against the many, no longer assuming the guise of a tax collector. Three Fingers curled his lip and answered in a low snarl, “Asentadera de Puerco…,” implying that the Captain was a pig’s ass, which deepened the silence and hardened the stares of those surrounding us. “You would do better, Señor,” I suggested, “to ask your questions of me.” Love spun his horse and glared. “I speak to who I damn well please!” “Sí, Señor. That is good,” I said. “A man should do as he pleases. But that hombre there speaks no Inglés. And he is muy testarudo...or as you say, pigheaded. Besides, I’m in charge here.” “No, I’m in charge,” he stated bluntly, then narrowed his eyes. “Have I seen you before?” “Men see many things. Some see angels, some devils. Perhaps you’ve seen me.” “Just who the hell are you?” I smiled evenly and said, “Hell has little to do with who I am. 264 MELVIN LITTON

But I was christened José Esperanto. The man you were addressing is Bartolo Dugarin. That one on his horse is Elmo. This one to my left is Tomás. The chico here is my mozo, Miguel—” “That’s enough damned names!” he cursed—once burned, twice wary—hated his own confusion and hated me for I did not fear him. “You can spit names like a nigger spittin’ melon seeds. Fill the livelong day with names and I could care less. Unless any of you are named Joaquín, which if you are you ain’t tellin’, wouldn’t tell the truth to save your mother’s soul. All the same, just to hear your damned lies, I’ll have you state your business and where you’re headed.” “My mother’s soul is quite safe in her flesh, Señor. As for lies, you can believe what you will. But the truth is as you see. We’re on the Tulares hunting mustangs. And where we’re headed depends on where we find them, whether to the north or south. And which market is closest.” “Seems to me, José,” he allowed skeptically, noting our clothes and saddles, “that you all dress a mite too fancy for vaqueros. Just don’t look the part.” “Señor,” I replied firmly, “we are not peons given poor horses and told where to ride. We are charros, free and proud men. We live by the horse and the reata and it is our custom to own a fine horse, a fine saddle, and to dress in fine clothes.” “Free men that may be,” he conceded with shrewd irony. “And this here’s a free country. A country of laws that free men abide. Now you all raise your hands and stand stalk still while we search you, your fine clothes and fine saddles to see whether your fine words are more fine lies.” “As you wish, Señor,” I said, raising my hands slightly to my shoulders. The others followed suit, all except for Three Fingers who kept his folded in front, his left covering his right—the claw that would betray him. In his belligerence I saw my chance. “You may start by searching me,” I offered, granting a sly smile. “I only ask that you take care not to insult that hombre,” now glancing to Three Fingers, “for he takes offense easily. And it is not wise to provoke him.” So saying I played my Jack, in as much as sicced the Gringo dog on Three Fingers. I, Joaquin 265

“You damn Mexican bastard!” Love swore, reining to him. “You’ll raise your hands or provoke me!” To which Three Fingers growled, “Chinga tu madre!”—drew a knife from the Devil knows where and lunged. Love pulled back as the blade slashed through the left rein deep into his horse’s neck. Blood gushed like a stream of red piss hitting Three Fingers’ arm and shoulder while the horse spun in wild fright and Love fought to keep his saddle, clutching hard to the right rein, drawing his horse into an ever tighter circle. In that instant each of us bolted. Chappo slugged his guard and spurred his horse. Three Fingers stabbed the nearest rider in the thigh and flung him to the ground, then swung to the saddle, slashed another’s face and took a pistol ball in the gut—yet held his seat, bent forth and slapped the reins, riding south. In the mad confusion of gun smoke and dust, while horses neighed and men cursed, I saw Jorge clutch his stomach and drop. No time to mourn, I jerked up the tether and leapt to Alazán, kicked a Gringo in the face and set my heels, heading north, riding like a panther clung to a stallion, my ear pressed to his neck, my blood speaking to his as it had through seven long years, from when I was a boy till now, a month shy of twenty-one. Alazán had never failed me, not his courage or his deft hooves. Bullets whizzed past, slicing the air like sabers. Four riders pursued. We jumped a gulch, edged a sheer ravine, then cut downslope like a hawk tucking its wings. We raced through the dry stream bed and swiftly emerged up the far bank. I dared hope I would escape. One more day was all I needed; a few more hours to form my men, return and kill the Gringos. We would hold to our plan. Nothing would stop us. Already I was out of pistol range. I glanced back. The Ranger whose eyes bore death halted on the near ridge and drew his rifle, taking aim. I whipped the rope and flattened to Alazán, again speaking to his blood. And in his blood I heard the jolt of the bullet before I heard the sharp report. Heard the hissing wound, felt his pulse and muscle weaken as Alazán began to falter and stumble, his brave heart torn. He collapsed in a long, slow glide as if his legs were cut from under him, pitching me to the ground in a crush of pain and rolling dust where I lay bruised and numb. Heard a 266 MELVIN LITTON distant drumming. In the next hot breath I remembered all, raised to my hands and knees and glimpsed the Gringos closing fast. My only thought was to hide the map. I spied a snake hole in the rocks and stuffed it there. Left the víbora to sink its poison into any hand that sought it out. Then I struggled to my feet, my right knee torn and bleeding, and hobbled off like a crippled bird leading them from my nest. Laughing at the Gringos, for they would never know. Thought they killed a bandit that day, but they killed an army. The first bullet struck my left shoulder and spun me around like a mule kick, leaving splintered bone and mush in my clenched hand. Two more hit my chest in rude thumps of dust and blood, searing my lungs as I fought for breath. The horsemen filled my vision like shadows above a lamp, their silhouettes enlarged and blurred. I could no longer focus. In dying I said nothing, no last words as some later claimed, had no breath or strength to speak. Dropped to my knees and weakened in a rapid faint, my will and vision finding no point on which to hold, like water swirling through the drain at the bottom of a basin, both within the water and above, both my face and reflection, saw my flesh, my image, the very thought of self vanish as the sand drank my blood in a dizzying rush. Till there was nothing. Not a drop. Nor was I gazing there in witness. Another stood where I had been, staring to my fast fading eyes. He who would kill me. Who flashed his knife and grinned, knelt and grasped my hair, sliced through my throat to snap my neck and free my head. Mi cabeza. With a sudden weightless thrust he held it to the sun. In the dark beyond swarmed countless stars like jewels aglitter on the Virgin’s gown. The Milky Way veiled her face. Then the Virgin was Rosita holding forth the sun like a candle held in prayer. And to that vision I blinked my last. PART FOUR

Chapter Twenty

ierce heat baked the Tulare plains. Men and horses hunted shade. FFlies hunted blood. The dust settled. The sun set. On that hot July day, 1853, the California Rangers led by Captain Love killed the bandit Joaquín. Many Sonorans and Californios shown my head answered, “Sí, that is him.” Some with sad regret, others, like the Gringos, relieved to see my menace erased from the land, ready to yield, submit, live in peace and prosper. And who fears a víbora once its head is cut off? There remains but a length of rotting flesh. The same with an army—their Jefe dead, they scattered. So ended my life. Ah, but the tale is not yet spun. As the padres say, “What is death but a beginning....” That much is true, sí. But to tell the truth one must know what is true. And who knows what is true? As Don Constancio said, you can kill the coyote, but not Coyotl, you can never kill the defiant heart. Now I, Joaquín, will tell what the padres do not know and dare not guess. Beyond that eternal light, my vision of Rosita, lay darkness, an endless fall into nothing, nada...a chasm void of thought or sensation, an unknowing that can never be plumbed, made known, only awakened from. Then a jolt as sudden as that which found Alazán’s heart knifed from within like a spark that lit the lamp of my mind and found my soul awakened. My first ragged moments of resurrection were a confused tatter of flesh and spirit, a portion only, and that portion sentient to a half-world of murky hue, its essence astir like sediment infused by moonlight. A smoky veil, an eternal dusk. And the moon sailed through that sepia sea, emerging from the depths of its umber cave like a dim lamp briefly defining forms soon lost again in shadow. Except near the fire where 270 MELVIN LITTON yellow flames danced, highlighting men’s faces as they gaped and yowled in grotesque laughter. None more grotesque than my own mute howl held expressionless before them, dangled by the hair, tossed and played with like a mask once worn in festive delight, now defamed and scorned—a ball lacking life and bounce that they would have gladly kicked had they not feared marring its features and risk losing their reward. These dogs paid to track and kill. How I hated them. Their snap and bark sounded intermittently, now a low-growled whisper, now a yapping din that echoed to the night as they pitched mi cabeza from one to the other. I did not feel their clasping hands, only the motion and arrest of being caught and thrown, and their successive bark and silence as if my ears were plugged and unplugged at random amid the rough yaw and tumble. Then as suddenly the riot ceased, leaving a high, tenuous ringing like that which follows a sharp explosion, a tone that cannot be matched by plucking the finest string. Once more I hung like a pendulum in sway as their yip and banter rose to mock my half-lidded gaze. Mi cabeza made a trophy, held in that vile grasp. My rage ever mute, without voice to protest my humiliation and murder. While he who held me, William Byrnes, bragged of his deed in beheading the bandit Joaquín. “Sank my blade in his throat an’ he hardly bled. Naw, struck as he were by the bullets of yon Henderson an’ White. And what a shot by Henderson with his carbine! The shot that felled his horse! Then we rode the bastard down an’ shot ‘im through. Yeah, shot ‘im right enough. But I finished ‘im, you can bet. Heard his last wheeze. Ain’t that right, amigo?” He looked to my eyes and grinned. Swore he’d known me on the Calaveras, that he’d often shared my table in friendship and cards. Anxious now to share in my legend and make himself known. But to me he was one of many who may have once observed and envied my dash and flair, and the only card I would have dealt him was death. As he peered to me, my eyes peered to his, and again I found my vengeance. Discovered my power to burrow within, to utterly pierce the other psyche and soul, there plant the seed of my thought and make them see whatever I willed. I blinked—and he nearly I, Joaquin 271 dropped my head in shock and dismay. He gawked a moment then laughed it off, too besotted with whiskey to heed my brujo gaze. He turned away and dipped his cup, drinking straight from the bucket that housed my head. “Blood brandy!” he called it. Drank each day to still his fear, his cowardly soul so taken with whiskey he’d ridden all that day through the heat and dust to purchase more in which to preserve my head and feed his craving. Hearing me voice his name, he drank to silence my voice. Raised his cup in crude toast, “To the capture of Joaquín!” His shout chorused by others now certain of their reward and acclaim to come. In that fight known as “The Battle at Cantúa,” they captured two of my men, Antonio Lopez and José Ochovo. Both sat cross-legged by the fire, arms bound in back, eyes cast to the flames. Earlier, when shown my head, Antonio said nothing, would neither acknowledge nor deny. Even when Byrnes threatened to cut his throat, he simply raised his chin and said, “Cut away.” Nor would he grant them the satisfaction of hanging him—the following day while crossing a slough on the Tulares, he spurred his horse into deep water and drowned. But José was not so spirited, and when asked of my head he meekly answered, “Sí, it is Joaquín.” For those few words, that brief confession, he was dragged from a jail in Martinez two weeks later and hanged by our countrymen. No, it was not wise to betray Joaquín. Nor wise to gaze into the eyes of a dead man else his soul may find yours. As I found William Byrnes’. And for his ridicule I would haunt him to his grave. Nor had he finished; he would not have done till he’d proclaimed his deed to all of California. No, the Gringos had not finished with me, nor I with them. “For a dollar see the head of Joaquín and the hand of Three Fingers Jack!” they barked, showing their prize on the road to Sacramento—head and hand displayed in a single jar, the dread claw passing before my eyes, tracing my face like fingers of the blind in want of recognition, or latching to my hair like a briar to a horse’s mane. And I much preferred the motley parade of rough miners and whores, of curious chicos and senoritas I was destined to view and entertain. But that awaits. My grand opening was in Sacramento where I drew the rapt audience of Governor Bigler and his jowly fellows. Like fat hogs 272 MELVIN LITTON they gloated and guffawed at length on my infamy—happy to grant the reward and bestow a further $5,000 in gratitude to Captain Love and his worthy Rangers. The dogs milled and fawned, eager for praise. Only Love maintained some dignity before his masters, standing silent and alone like an old dog that knew their praise was fleeting, that they offered their hand to hide their heart, that fortune was fickle and could change in a blink. Nor had he chanced to look to my eyes, not in camp, nor in that august company. Not yet. In that great circular hall of polished floors and marble columns, I rested at the center beneath a flaring candelabra, like the honored guest at a festive ball. Like a pig’s head spitted, roasted, and set on a silver platter for all to see. Though luckily I would not be eaten. And immersed in aguardiente I would not draw flies, simply draw stares and enliven wagging tongues. What did I care? Neither naked nor clothed, beyond all harm, numb to their chatter—deaf, mute, and dead. Dead to all but those who bent too close, who peered too long, for I could read their thoughts, mix my own with theirs and so induce and seduce, make my will their acts. Sí, I toyed with many and played such jests in delight and challenge—made them spit drinks in another’s face, kiss the ugly matron, or pinch the startled maid. These the least of my pranks, idle mischief to pass the time and avenge their stares while I lay in wait for Captain Love, the Black Knight of Zayante as he came to be known. My panther soul, quiet and cunning, waited for the hound to come to my lair and seek the cavern of my eyes. Love was not a braggart like Byrnes, nor half as foolish, by nature and habit reserved, taciturn, deeply wounded, and lonely. He had lost in love and swore never to love again. Still he came, soon enough, called by El Vengador like any I focused on and drew to my haunt, my gaze. Like an old hound he came to sniff, slow and cautious, as if wary of the bone he should have buried and didn’t. In his loneliness I planted my seed, deep in the ache and marrow of his being planted a seed of romance and longing that would later blossom and flower like a black rose. A curse. A love so foolish, so absurd and comic, that I savor it still, this my most subtle vengeance. Let it ripen and wait, to savor again in the telling. With Byrnes I was not so subtle. Him, I tormented without mercy. As I was tormented. And the greatest torment in my early I, Joaquin 273 awakening, what I missed more than life and love, than breath itself, was tobacco. Aieee! Longed to take a cigarro in my lips, taste its rich aroma on my tongue. But I could not, never again, so I tasted vengeance instead. Listen well, as William Byrnes should have listened, taken note and ran. But he could not, trapped by his own desire and need. From mi cabeza and his murder of me grew his fortune and fame, an addiction like whiskey, and once tasted he could not let go no matter the terror to come. In every town and mining camp, in every tavern, cantina, gambling den, and fandango hall that he showed my head, men reached to grip his hand, slap his back, women stroked his arm and purred his name, little boys asked to see the knife that fetched the head, the blade that drank the bandit’s blood. Honored and feted all through the sierras while he barked and boasted, “Found ‘im! Found the damned greaser! Shot ‘im an’ took his head! Su Cabeza!” Each night he carried me to his room, covetous of his prize, set the jar on the table and gazed to my eyes in wonder if I would ever blink again. He sat sipping his whiskey, tempted by the thought, the terror. And of course I could not blink, but in his mind I could plant the thought of my blinking. I waited, savoring the thought, ever patient to play my card. One night I answered to his wonder and blinked. He jumped like a rabbit and dropped his glass to the floor. I laughed and spoke to him, my voice bubbling up through the aguardiente, through the encasing jar into his mind. “I have found you, William Byrnes. Found you and you will not escape....” From that moment I haunted him to his death. By day he heard the hoof beats of Alazán thunder in the wind. At night he heard my footfall on the stair, the landing, the scrape of my spurs catching on the broad boards down the hall. At the door my body stood fully clothed, headless, blood still pulsing from my neck. My head held forth, animate, eyes gleaming like a torch in judgment. “I have found you, found you, found you!” He quailed and shrank into his room, knelt and folded like a fetus before the ghost that followed. My shadow loomed till fear literally choked his breath and he blacked out. Nor did it help to cloak my head or blanket the jar, as he did thereafter. And when he sold my head to another, I followed still, deeply rooted in his 274 MELVIN LITTON mind like a desert plant that roots deeper and deeper, fingering to feed on any vital recess or cavity. Night after night I found him till the madness drove him to the asylum in Stockton, where he lay strapped to a bare oak table, straining like a carcass on a butcher block. I found him even there and came to his side, a phantom sucking his breath. Each time he awakened he saw my head and heard my voice like a dark angel naming his every fear and fault, my blood dripping to his cheek. His scream and howl mimicked by my lips as I floated above him and slowly disappeared through a crumbling void at the ceiling, first my boots, my legs, then my torso, my extended arm, and lastly my head, mi cabeza, gazing down, all swallowed into that darkness that would soon claim him forever. In that dark dungeon of the soul I found William Byrnes and left him in his final tremors. Found him like I found so many others, found and sicced them on a vicious rival who snuffed their flame. Found John White near Fort Tejon and saw him gunned down like a dog; saw Augustus Black killed in the Gringo Civil War; George Evans killed in Santa Cruz; John Nutall killed in Nicaragua; Ashmore and Norton both shot to death in Salt Lake City; Ned Van Burn killed in Contra Costa; and saw George Chase drowned in the Fraser River in revenge for Antonio. Learned their names when they looked to me and planted the seed of their destruction. Violent men who needed little nudging. Only Henderson who never drank, who remained sober and self-contained, eluded me. While his bullet found me, I never found him. When my eyes first gazed from that pail of death, he noted a latent will and never looked to me again. But I found the rest, though I was miles away, exhibited in Hangtown, Coloma, Marysville, Paradise, San Francisco, Los Angeles—and later shipped east to paying crowds in New York, Boston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and a score of lesser towns and cities in between. No matter where or how far, I found them. Aieee! Hear my mute carcajada. Like a bottled brujo able to exert my will from a distance greater than man can measure or know. From death, this dark realm, I speak and act, inducing trance, vision, delirium on any infected by my hypnotic stare. Like little birds drawn by the waiting víbora, my unblinking eyes so vivid, intent. Then I strike! Find this an affront to belief? Say you are no little bird so easily I, Joaquin 275 fooled, that you are of sound mind and flesh, your faith strong, firm as a rock? Hah! Turn away little moth, go before your wings get singed. You have not yet touched the flame, nor peered to my eyes as Captain Love did that fateful night in Sacramento, leaned close and sniffed, then left with his thoughts all aflutter. What was my curse? The black rose that snared him? Listen, there are women so ugly a goat would not have them, a boar hog would turn up his snout in disgust, so ugly a vulture would tuck its head and take wing rather than pick such bones. Imagine a woman as large as Ella Gorda, only much taller, tall as a door, and lacking Ella Gorda’s beauty. Not made for love but for labor, to sweat and plow, to haul wood and never tire. A draft horse turned woman, who for a rebozo wears a horse blanket and a harness for a belt, her shoes iron shod, and her stride lumbering and heavy like her great thighs. Mountainous and broad through her hips and shoulders, and her head marked by a granite brow that protruded like clenched knuckles above eyes so dark and flinty they’d burn a hole through a veil. On her lips a faint mustache. Her teeth yellow and rotten. Her hair a short-cropped mane, coarse and bristled, streaked gray from the birth of eight children and the toil of fifty years. Such a woman as this arrived from Kentucky, a widow named Mary. Sí, Lady Marian for the Black Knight of Zayante! What mischief I played—sicced him on her, the black rose that drew his eye, for she was admirable ahorse. A queen in the saddle, at one with her mount, her weight alone could subdue a stallion, make him yield to her hand and will. And Love yearned for her hand— though she stood a hand taller and was ten years older, his heart went to her, named her his darling, his peach, his bride. Longed to cradle her in his arms. They married and bought a rancho outside Santa Cruz. They worked, endeavored, sweating side by side. Feasted in plenty, made love in the moonlight. But no, not like that. They rutted in her stall, kicking at the bed boards, huffed and heaved till she sapped his strength with her greater weight and will. She demanded more, gripped his cajones and squeezed. He balked. They quarreled, bared their teeth and fought. Who will hold the reins? Who will lead? Who will follow? Neither would yield nor budge. They tired, turned 276 MELVIN LITTON away and sulked. A month passed. Once more they attempted to live together and embrace in the night, but they stood opposed and parted to let time cool their fervor and soothe the hurt. She hired a man, a stout Dutchman to drive her team, to plow her fields. Love suspected more, grew insanely jealous at the thought of another hand fondling his precious rose. Haunted by such imaginings, hate festered in his bones, fired his blood, and blackened his thoughts. Late one day he stood at their gate with his pistol drawn, awaiting their approach. Their wagon halted. She hailed to him in hope to deter and appease. But seeing them seated side by side confirmed all he’d imagined. As the Dutchman stepped down expecting to parley, Love raised his pistol and fired, grazing his rival in the arm. The Dutchman drew his pistol and fired in turn. They closed in a rage, cursing one another, their pistols ablaze. Pum! Pum! Pum! Flames darted from the smoke while bullets sliced the air. Love took one in the side and caught another in the shoulder as his hammer clicked on an empty shell. In sudden fear for his life he limped for the house pursued by his foe. He reached the porch, stumbled to the door and fell gasping to those huddled within, “Save me, save me! I am killed....” So he died in the night from his wounds and a love-cursed heart. Tended to by anxious hands while he raved to a phantom shadow only he could see. And what of his black rose? Did she linger by and mourn in the moonlight? Sí, she bawled and brayed like a mule in want of grain. Soon consoled and comforted by the stout Dutchman who survived his wounds, his duel with the Black Knight of Zayante, to win the fair hand of Lady Marian. Ah, some curses have no end. Well I know.

Was it for vengeance I had awakened? If so, why did I not then sleep? For I had tasted the humiliation and defeat of my enemies. Found and left them dead. Or was it from being looked upon, talked about, and paraded daily that I could not sleep? That I was remembered, sang of, written of—as if each song and tale, each dramatic evoca- tion somehow stirred me to life? Pity they who are so remembered. It is best to be forgotten, returned to dust. At last to sleep. But there was no end, no sleep. Carried from town to town, train to train, from room to room in a blur of motion, smoke, and dim lit I, Joaquin 277 scenes. Crowds milling past in rude pilgrimage to stare, grimace, and gawk as I waited in witness, immobile and unblinking. Day and night, still others came, peering close, their noses pressed even to the glass, like exotic specimens in a fishbowl, wide-eyed, mouths agape, faces enlarged by the curved distortion, their gestures diminished by the same, then they’d turn and with a seeming flip of their tails be gone, flushed from my sight and knowing, soon replaced by others in an endless stream of rich and poor, meek and proud, coarse and refined, men and women of all age and manner, even priests and philosophers, visionary fools seeking a window through time and death, a glimpse of fate. But most were simply curious, seeking diversion, a glimpse of horror, the head of the bandit, the notorious Joaquín. Through all of California in that era there was hardly a soul that did not voice my name. Sí, mi cabeza drew them like moths to the flame, to hover in horror and curiosity. Yet there were those who gazed with respect. “Young Joaquíns,” sons of Californios and Sonorans, who looked to me with fire in their eyes and took courage from my life and death, as if mi cabeza fed the flame in their hearts as they turned away to find their own path. No, I did not let them know my gaze, but I knew theirs. And there were Gringos too who admired me, who saw in my defiance shades of their own fierce freedom. And they feared that a people so dealt would one day awaken—like mi cabeza—and they would face a gaze that pierced them like a curse. So they came out of curiosity and abhorrence, out of respect, admiration, and fear. And some with keen suspicion. Negroes and Indios to a man were wary, not yet bound by reason, still attuned to the night, the wind, the hidden mask of things; all suspected that my head retained a flicker of my soul. Like the Chino who came to me, he who emptied the spittoons and gathered the empty bottles in that crowded waterfront saloon where men elbowed forth, jostling for a chance to see. Shoved aside he grew impatient. Voiced his impatience. “You Merlicans all same!” he cried, bristling like an angry squirrel. “You cun’ry. You furs. Furs in line. I pay dolla. See heada Joaquín!” Out of respect for his dollar if not his sharp complaint, they laughed and let him through. “Step right up, China Boy,” they said. “Take a peek.” There he stood, trembling in triumph. 278 MELVIN LITTON

“See! See head!” he pointed. “He see flew you. Lika me. Crose his eyes? No can.” Then he bent close, peering from one eye to the other, attempting to divine, and divining, whispered, “Why you not die, Joaquín? Wa-Keen!” He smiled big as if we were old amigos and shared some deep secret. “Member me? China Boy? You sava me. Free Finger, he on big horse. Have big knife to cut head. You laugh an’ say, ‘Stopa! No chasa fool China Boy! Es shadow chasa him!’ Member? You sava me. I thankee.” I might have answered and acknowledged his joy. But the Chino was mistaken. Valenzuela had saved him, not me, for Three Fingers had told the tale one night in camp at Cantúa, the men falling to their knees in laughter as he, Three Fingers, ran about the fire like the Chino waving his arms and shrieking in fear for his head. Valenzuela merely smiled and listened, quietly smoking his cigarro. Better for the Chino had he been so wise and remained so quiet. But he danced back and laughed, “Merlicans got you, huh? Cut off you head! WA-KEEN!” Now playing to the Gringos, laughing like a donkey sucking air through his nose. There was no gratitude in his laugh, only glee. For his laugh I let him know my gaze as the three-fingered claw came into view. He sobered in a blink, hunched his shoulders and scurried off, chased by his long tailing queue and the ghost of Three Fingers waving his wicked knife in a fury. That was the seed I planted—and Tres Dedos would chase him nightly even as he crossed the sea to China. A phantom cast by a phantom. And once a ghost did appear. Or one I took to be a ghost. Young Jorge, who I had thought was killed, sidled up from the crowd, edging toward me with his hat in hand, still hesitant before his Jefe. Older now, maybe sixteen. Jorge with a mustache. He came to me as one in penance. His fretful eyes glanced to mine. It was his belief that I would have lived to ride again had I jumped on the bayo instead of Alazán. No, Jorge had not been shot, merely kicked in the stomach when he slumped to the ground. And catching his breath, he crawled to the bayo and escaped. That was his guilt, his curse; he did not blame the Gringos, he blamed himself. But I did not speak to him and lift his curse, let him hold it like he held his hat, close to his heart, so that he would remain uncertain and wary of me. Better cursed with guilt than fired with hate. For he was not a “young Joaquín,” he was Jorge—and had he heard the voice of his Jefe he I, Joaquin 279 might have taken courage and acted as a vengador. At Cantúa he had seen blood and ran from blood, but not tasted blood. He now ranched with his father and helped care for his brothers and sisters. I had promised Paco Ybarra that his son would be a vaquero and not a bandit. That was my promise and my wish. Happily, those I’d known rarely came. Yet on the night of the Governor’s Ball Rachel passed before me, already squired on the arm of another beau as young if not as handsome. She glanced to mi cabeza, gave that look women give men who have fallen from their esteem, a wounded, haughty look that says: “You brought this all on yourself, you know?”—as if the wound were all hers, as if I’d gotten myself killed simply to deny her. Intent on the Rangers, I made no answer. Left her to soon grow old and grieve in want of pleasures longed for and lost. A year or so following my death Ramón and Gregorio chanced to come. Their sombreros pulled low to their eyes to avoid scrutiny, they stood clenching their hands, searching their hearts for the right moment, anxious to snatch my head and give it a proper burial. Could this be my deliverance? I too grew hopeful. But they were too closely watched. Who could blame them when they backed away and vanished? And perhaps they sensed the desperate hope in my eyes and ran in fear of me to further feed the rumors of the ghost Joaquín. As they fled I learned that Teresa had a baby girl, for Gregorio begged the ghost not to follow, not to visit and haunt the child. And whether fathered by him or me, I did not care, only that they had christened her Rosita Maria, after mi Rosa. No, I did not follow. Nor do I now. With that memory and encounter I speak no more of my people. They belonged to the living and I the dead. And the living shun the dead, fear the ghost. Sí, rightly so. Chapter Twenty-One

pit into the water. Watch the ripple extend and fade. The current Scarries on as before. So a life is lived and ended. My knowing was in the current, in every swirl and eddy, no more compelled by my wishes than the wind is made to blow. Where to my knowing? The question echoed without answer, like my ceaseless gaze turned toward the faceless herd and there mocked, ridiculed, and scorned. But not by all. As in life, so in death, women sought me out and dreamt of me, more and more as the romance flared and the legend grew, as tales of Joaquín were written and read and ballads sung. Like the wind at the window I came to them, the bandit in the night, their secret lover with whom they abandoned all their qualms and reasons, their silks and stays, shed all to gain all denied them. Pleasures untold, unwritten. To them my knowing turned as I made them my carnival. Showed whatever face or mask they desired. Took their pallid forms and colored them with my knowing. Seized them with my brujo eyes and spoke to their most intimate want and need, let them hear my whispered voice: “You wish to be savored, tasted, devoured? Are you prepared for the final thrust? When I part your thighs to enter, are you ready then to be taken? For my urge is not gentle, but fierce and raging....” Yes, yes, they answered, come for me tonight. And I came to them like the Word comes to those who seek, whether old or young, forsaken or chaste, whether of virginal beauty or lonely and wrinkled, or painted and paid for. Found them as they clutched the page, reached to them from whatever passage they read, covered them as they drew me to their breasts, there beckoned by their thoughts. But mine is a darkness you fall I, Joaquin 281 to and never leave, and those who surrendered were haunted by their dark want ever after. And their fright. For I came to them like I came to William Byrnes—booted, spurred, my head in hand, then perched above them as they lay supine, their hearts beating like little birds, their hands aflutter before my stallion cock, beseeching as they took their dream of me between their thighs. I pressed my lips to their ear and named their secret bliss, to ride them hard or gently. Then I was gone, leaving them lathered, clutching the sheets and their most intimate flesh. Pleased them in their dreams, cooled their fever and left them sated, for women love the unexpected, the virile surprise of a headless lover privy to their hearts. And so they called through story, song, and dream....

To long for the flesh is the pain of knowing. And of all who called for me, one called through the flesh, from hers to mine, to mi cabeza. Her name was Julie Wren, a dark, petite beauty. Though Irish, with her black hair and brows she might have passed for a Gypsy had her green eyes not betrayed her. A delightful little puta, not yet six- teen. She traveled with the showman who owned me at the time. A French dandy named Jean-Jacque Ravére, a low gambler and a pimp. Him I detested, like all the world hates a user, a leech. He perfumed his hair, bejeweled his fingers, and sought profit from every petty transaction. He even paid for his own pleasure with her to make clear their concern was money. So she served him. Sweet Juliette. Took men to her room, read their palms and pressed their palms to her milky-white breasts, let them feel her rosebud nipples and dream of the ready heat between her thighs, theirs for a further price. Who could resist her tender hands, her quiet voice, such soft, lamb-like beauty, her offer of innocence? I too longed for her flesh, raged in my knowing. Sí, and though she served her pimp, she wor- shiped me. Spoke to me as if I were the relic of a saint, mi cabeza sacred statuary. But no, I was never a saint and death had not made me one. When alone late at night, her customers gone, her pimp away at cards, Juliette would come to me, lay her hands to the jar and press her cheek close to mine, her lips to the glass, then close her eyes and whisper my name, “Joaquín, Joaquín...,” as if in prayer. I resisted for a time—her flesh, my longing. Then one night I spoke 282 MELVIN LITTON and told her of my longing, of my love and need of the flesh, of her. And in my voice she found her prayer, something sacred to hold to, a lover-confessor who would not judge or abuse her, for she was an innocent abandoned by her father, orphaned to a wicked world, sold and resold. She swore her devotion, that she was mine and I hers. So that we could join she lit a candle. “This will be your flesh, your flame to me,” she said. She shed her gown and with soft moonlike radiance lay upon the carpeted floor, unfolded her thighs and gently inserted the candle, breathless and ecstatic, taking care that the flame remained delicately poised. Her hips surged, slowly absorbing its votive length, then thrust with ever greater violence as the shadows closed upon her, stroking like a lover’s hand until the flame died in a gust of orgasmic fervor. What blessed ritual, what wonder to be so worshiped. For an instant I felt divine. And like a jealous god I grew greedy, covetous, longed to take her to me, to warm my haunt and light my void. Beware of gods and ghosts for they are all jealous, needful things that long for the flesh and its sacrifice. Again I spoke to her. “Leave him,” I said, “leave this pimp and come to me, take mi cabeza and go.” She took me at my word. “I will leave him,” she answered, “leave him and come to you....” She smiled. Sweet Juliette. And before I could guess her meaning she took a tiny pistol from her bureau, pressed it to her temple and fired. She fell like an empty gown, her flame snuffed forever. Smoke drifted up from the raw blemish at her brow. Her eyes gazed to nothing, nor to me. Her soul fled howling at the sight of her self- murder and sin as if the shot had awakened her to the teachings of the Church and in death she was both reclaimed and condemned. Lost, lost, forever lost. Once more I was utterly alone. Next morning when the pimp returned and found her laying there, her pale flesh haloed in the faint mist of dawn, I let him know my gaze and gave him a glimpse of Hell. By noon he’d sold me to another. Too late. From that day to his untimely death Jean-Jacque I, Joaquin 283 was cursed by a shriveled cock. He felt her cold dead flesh in every woman he touched. And in gambling his hands shook so that he could not hold the cards, for each time he drew the queen he saw her dead eyes staring up at him. Chapter Twenty-Two

i cabeza, once sought for $5,000, was finally sold for $11 by a Mdesperate pimp. That’s when I came to reside at Dr. Jordan’s Museum of Anatomy and Science—there placed on a shelf alongside other oddities and freaks of nature, at last free of Three Fingers’ horrid claw for it occupied a space on the shelf below, reaching to the viewer in flex to kill. A circus of grotesques, only lacking the bright color, music, and thrill of a circus, all suspended and deathly still. A baby kangaroo crouched floating in spirits, its forepaws held in anxious wait to jump free of the numbing chill and regain the warmth of its mother’s pouch. An Egyptian mummy lay in its sculpted coffin, browned and ragged like an old husk wrapped in the sleep of three thousand years, even its dreams had dried out in the soul’s long journey through centuries of hot sand and wind. Next to it on an ornate stand sat the skull of the crazed killer Daniel Blane, his mad howl carried without cease like a cold wind through his bone cranny. And dozens of other horrors were on display, diseased organs and amputated limbs encased and preserved, wax figures of every known deformity, of the wounded and the deranged. Yet all paled before the grave horror placed next to me, which haunted my long haunted knowing. The Cyclops Child. Sí, un monstruo, both horrid and pitiful, bottled and pickled like me. Its large head and tiny body still folded about its severed umbilical. Its lone eye, bluish-gray and blind as a puppy’s, stitched open to please the morbid and the curious. A soul that had never lived nor taken one breath, still forming in the mud where lightning had reached through the ethereal darkness in attempt to spark its heart. Though not like lightning in the sky, but lightning deep in I, Joaquin 285 the mud, silk strands of lightning, a broken web forever stilled, that never quite formed, like the Cyclops Child. A flame unlit. A soul unnamed. No shared scent, sound, or image of the world contained in its knowing. Its lone eye froze open in numb surprise. Torn from a butchered womb and placed in one more ghastly and cold than the grave, for at least the grave offered sleep. But the Cyclops Child wailed unborn, un-mothered, unappeased. No, my dead brethren and I never slept. Locked in limbo— unburied, unclaimed. Housed on the second floor where draped windows admitted scant light while the dark hall and stair admitted the steady traffic of passers-by, many so pallid they appeared as dead as ourselves from the shock of what they witnessed. To escape them, their mortal pant and stare, escape Blane’s mad howl and the mud-knowing wail cradled next to me, I sought the vibrant bustle of the street below. Market Street, the reeling hub of San Francisco, where life and people flourished, trees blossomed, birds sang, dogs barked at passing riders and horse-drawn carriages, teamsters cursed and cracked their whips at mules pulling wagons loaded with freight. Goods shipped over the Seven Seas were unloaded at the embarcadero then carted to every corner of the city and there cooked, sewn, or otherwise crafted to serve the appetite and pleasure of thousands. Of course I could never fly free like a bird and view, but bits of chatter and gossip came to me, snippets of life and color, as if all was constantly being printed on a page then torn into tiny pieces and cast to the wind, and by and by some scattered fragments would fall my way. Perhaps the laughing shout of a boy chasing after his shadow, or a man stepping anxious to meet his mistress, or another scuffing the pavement in disgust at losing all his money on a foolish wager while a woman rushed home in worry of her sick child. In this manner I pieced together a shredded image of the world and learned of many things: of sail giving way to steam, of the telegraph and railroads crossing the continent, and later of electricity, the telephone, and of more wonders undreamed. I learned of the Gringo Civil War, of the hundreds of thousands killed and maimed, even heard their rude moan and keen, though far removed and distant like the mummy’s whispered want of breath and water. And I heard the chorus of freed men and the groan of their slavery 286 MELVIN LITTON renewed and lengthened—a tenant slavery shared by the poor of every time and place, the bondage of the many to the few, like the Indio to the Spanish, to toil in the mines, grub in the soil, submit, and reap meager fruit. An old, old story, so old all grow weary of the telling. Ah, but there was misery much closer at hand and keenly heard. For limbo lies at the threshold of Hell. And it was the living who suffered the most. On the first floor of the museum Dr. Jordan and his compadres performed their cruel operations. Like white-frocked priests, humorless, devout, eager to distort and pervert. They fed on people’s fear and worry, probed their ailments, their wounds, then led them to view every dread thing imaginable and offered to cure them with the knife. Medicastros, quacks! Lesser demons preying on the frightfully sick and afflicted. Self-proclaimed healers who could not cure with two hands what Olajuaña could cure with her little finger. What herbs and rest might restore, they cut and severed. The cries of their victims screamed to my knowing, souls left to linger for days and weeks, tortured, bled, cut on till by some miracle of will a few revived, while most were left a corpse unfit for dissection— those of means dressed and boxed for burial, those unclaimed fed to the fishes. Though in some cases, if judged terribly strange and gruesome, whatever had been cut, sawed, and removed ended up displayed on the second floor. Aieee! Muy macabro. Qué hombres cruel! The fiends all shared a fascination for the knife. Jordan himself had an urge for dismemberment as strong as Three Fingers’. And for murder. He simply did not kill outright, but took his time picking through the gore, choosing the choicest morsel for his collection. A connoisseur of the flesh, like so many who think to trifle with life, to damn and resurrect at their whim. A slight man with thinning hair even when he was young. And he wore no mustache, only a thin smirk on his lip and a pointed beard at his chin, which he lovingly stroked like it was the silken nest at his lover’s thigh. He also wore spectacles that made him appear as bug-eyed as a monkey, intently curious and quick to shift his gaze, standing rigid one moment then scurrying off in the next like a monkey jumping from limb to limb. Once he stood looking to me, stroking his beard, thinking I, Joaquin 287 whether to cut open and examine my brain, measure and weigh, note its color, texture, and count its convolutions, to better know the criminal mind and prove my race inferior. I fed him no thought to tempt his curiosity, but let him feel my brujo gaze, made him fear so that he would look on me no more. Then I cursed him. Fed him an urge that in time would outstrip his urge for the knife. Take a king, place his shit next to any other. Sniff if you like. Think there’s a difference? Those who think themselves superior are the biggest fools, the greatest bobos. They stick their noses in the air to better avoid their own stink. Like Dr. Jordan. At night, alone in his study, he would place a mirror on the floor, drop his pants and squat to peer at his ass, examine it like he’d thought to examine my brain, probed it with his fingers, prying deeper, till at times he shoved his whole hand there in answer to his urge. Each morning he took a sample of his shit, carefully spread and labeled it, from day to day compared its color, texture, odor, and content, recording every detail like a poet depicting the sunrise. He told himself that it was for science he labored, so saintly his devotion, so fervent his pleasure. And though he soaped his hands with vigor after each ritual, the taint lingered like a faint, foul perfume. Others sniffed in vague wonder, if not disgust. But who would guess that he squatted nightly to shove his thumb up his ass. Later on, like an old vaquero, he developed piles and scratched there in vain till he sought relief with the knife. And while the cure was only brief, he resorted to the knife again and again, pecking at his ass like a rooster pecking at the ass of a hen. Sí, that was my curse—he who thought to prove me and mine inferior—left him to squat as his skin wrinkled and his beard grayed, squatting like a frantic old monkey peering at his ass. Leave him and say no more. Qué hombre perverso!

When winter rains tapped at the windows it called to mind my ear- liest memories, the scent of soil on my hands as I dug in my moth- er’s garden, the scent of straw bedding the plants, the lush green of life stemming to the sun. All that was good carried in the sound of the rain. That winter it rained night and day without cease as the wind ebbed and blew like the ocean spray. Mud deepened; rivers rushed. Gold washed down from the sierras, reseeding the stream beds. Come spring men would seek gold. Though the bonanza had 288 MELVIN LITTON

long since played out, some few never ended their quest, mostly old-timers like I would have been by the late 1880’s. Had I lived and had Rosita and I had children, I would have been a grandfather, un abuelo, by then, happy to hear my grandchildren’s bright laughter and carry them on my shoulders. Happy to stand in a stream and pan for gold, to feel the chill water on my skin, the warm sun on my face, listen to the rippling current, dip my hand and drink. An old- timer, un viejo, like Solomon Hays. Perhaps it was our similar age that drew him to me. For he was young when I was young. Making the rounds his first night there, humming as he dusted the shelves and displays with his feather broom, he stopped silent before mi cabeza, looked askant at my eyes, peered closer, suspecting something therein but dared not name it. Then he read the caption telling of my life and death, pursed his lips and nodded. “Hmmm...kilt in ‘53. That’s when I first run off. Yeah, they sicced hounds on me too. Blood hounds!” His eyes grew big with his smile. He also wore a mustache, only his was gray and bristly like his woolly hair. He was a Negro, a freed slave who shook off his chains following the Civil War and sailed for California. And while he never complained, he shuffled as if the weight of those chains still bound his ankles. Finished reading the caption, he looked to me and said, “Yes suh, thought I could outrun them hounds. But they caught me an’ chopped off mah toes. Hmmm...better them toes than mah head I ‘spect.” At that he shuffled on but glanced back in wonder of his suspicion, a wonder I did not answer for many years though he squinted close each night and blinked his watery eyes in question. He squinted like Ramón and rubbed his eyes, half-blind from reading. Sí, and he read to me nearly every night, but would not wear spectacles for they made him feel caged and he had been caged many times and would not cage his eyes or his mind. As he often said, tapping his temple, once they’d chopped off his toes it slowed him some and made him think—if he could not free his flesh perhaps he could free his mind. So instead of running he learned to read and bide his time. Till time freed his flesh. Though he would never walk as free as a Gringo, it was enough to walk free of his chains, and of ignorance. Like Don Constancio he knew it would take a long time, I, Joaquin 289 generations of blood-battle and breeding to gain justice from the Gringo. Not for his sons and maybe not for his grandsons or great- grandsons even. But blood would mix and blood would flow and the time would come. Finished with his cleaning by midnight, he’d check the hall clock, see that it was wound and set, then pull up a chair and read to me till dawn as the lamp flickered and burned, lighting his face, the page, enlivening the shadows like listeners crowded round. He read from “The Good Book” as he called it and from others as well. And while he still spoke the dialect of a slave, his speech improved with his reading and his thoughts flowed as fluent as any man in want of knowledge as he led me out of limbo, away from los monstruos surrounding me. In his thoughts I found solace and freedom, searching here and there on the river of knowing with no barrier to time or place. What did we learn? Everything and nothing. To recount learning is as boring as Latin to a boy longing to play; but the act of learning is like growth to a seed, its stem and flower, its air and sunshine. In learning with Solomon I used another voice. Humbled by the loss of Julie Wren, ashamed of my jealous pride and greed, I mimicked his own voice in question of his thoughts and all he read. Wore the mask of his own mind. Ever wonder what prompts a question? From where or whom it comes? From yourself or an attendant ghost? This question tugged at his thoughts, played through his mind, for he often suspected, yet never feared. He looked to mi cabeza as to an ancient stone, in part an image, in part a friend—a long dead friend, one who has known life and bitter defeat. He used me as a familiar, his ever mute compañero. I, a thing accursed, held captive in a glassy hell; and he, my visitant, my window to the world. In this manner we conversed and questioned, a bandit and a slave, engaged nightly in secret dialogue. We learned as children play, followed our curiosity and instinct. What was of interest to one became the interest of the other. At times I was the wind and he the leaf, at others the roles reversed and he became the hand and I the shadow. No, I did not possess or claim him in any way, or he would turn from me. I fed his urge for freedom, that is all. He even read to me tales of my life. The first by an Indio, a part Cherokee named John Rollin Ridge, or Yellow Bird, 290 MELVIN LITTON

his pen name. And another version from the Police Gazette. And still others written as dime novels, each having no more to do with my life than a dress in a window has to do with a woman’s heart. At least a dress speaks to a woman’s want, while these tales spoke only to the reader’s whim. Sí, they amused, amused even me, amused my pride, for I loved hearing my name. Proud, vain. Like all who become legend and leave their name to history. But history is always being written, always being made. And what amused me more, his favorite reading and mine, was the San Francisco Examiner. All the current happenings, events of the day, characters of tragedy and travesty from the back alleys to the world stage, their stories daily unfolding, so familiar at times that it seemed they were a lost friend or a distant loved one. So moving, almost alive and life-giving. Like the weather. Reports of which Solomon usually read shaking his head. “Why they waste good ink on the weather? Any fool can stick his head out the door an’ see for hisself.” But I yearned for the weather, for word of its coming and change—forecasts of wind, rain, or sunshine, the prevailing mists and fogs that obscured the bay, bringing moisture to the hillsides, like the perspiration of the earth, the warm exhalation of her breath—all worked to awaken my senses like a whisper of life. Each night Solomon would start with the front page, smooth it on his lap and glance to the headlines—perhaps note the passing of the Czar who had been ill for some time. “That’s gonna be some fun’ral, ‘cause he’s the King of all Russia. They say his people is in mournin’. And the An-ar-chists express joy. They sound like us Baptists a’singin’ on Sunday. Hmmm....” He puzzled briefly over the “Anarchists,” their violent beliefs, their emblem of a bloody dagger and a bomb, and what part they might play, before drifting on to news of China and Japan fighting over someplace called “Corea.” “Someplace cold,” he said, “on the far side o’ the earth. Huh? Why they fight over snow? I can’t stand the stuff.” Then closer to home, he read, “’On the Bandit’s Trail, Nevada, California’”—this about a highwayman who’d killed a stage driver and escaped the posse. “They blocked ev’ry road an’ pass an’ still ain’t got ‘im....” That followed by, “’His Life for a Friend’”—about a Kentucky man lynched by a mob for not giving state’s evidence on his friend, an I, Joaquin 291 outlaw named Bill Goode. “Well, that’s some kinda friend,” Solomon allowed. “But I say Bill Goode ain’t no good lettin’ that happen to his friend.” He shook his head and went back to reading. Soon chuckling about a thirteen year-old girl who slipped out of a Sister’s of Mercy convent one night to run off with her lover, a bank robber, now jailed. “Says here she will wait for him no matter how long it takes. She say he’s so bold an’ dashin’ no woman could resist.” He laughed. “Yeah, he cast his spell alright. She already got three babies by him.” Then he looked to me. “What you bandits do to women, huh? Make them crazy for you....” Flipping on, he’d read the latest on boxing or horseracing. “El Rey Santa Anita, they say he’s some horse”—naming the current derby champion, but what caught his eye was the story on a long shot named Vulcan who’d won a big race and set a record. “A long shot!” he announced, like he’d just won. “I like a long shot. Next week I’m gonna bet on Glee Boy.” He liked to visit the track at San Jose on occasion and lay a bet. Loved to see them run. In a page or two he’d come to the want ads, slowly scan and read from one to the other. “Looky here,” he’d say, tapping the page with his finger. “A young man wants to marry a woman with six hunert dollars. Whew! He must want that money awful bad.” Quick to smile, keen to the broad comedy in things. Further on he’d pause. “Hmmm...upright piano for sale, hunert and ten dollars. Yeah, my youngest, he’s wantin’ one. Always wantin’ somethin’ like as not. Now here’s somethin’. A Cleve-land bicycle for fifty dollars. If I’s young I might have me one a’ those. Then again, I might not. They’s an odd contraption, the bicycle...”— now speaking to me, explaining the wheeled device. “Some say they’ll do for a horse. No grain, no groomin’. Jus’ push the pedal an’ go. ‘Spect they fine on the flat. But uphill is awful slow. I seen ‘em. And downhill is terrible fast. They zips like the wind. Fella hurt bad the other day flyin’ down Nob Hill, a’yellin’ ‘Whoa! Whoa!’ Till he smacked plum into a tree....” He’d shake his head and laugh, then turn the page as events changed and years passed. By the winter of 1896 he was reading about gold discovered in the Yukon. Men scurried north like an 292 MELVIN LITTON army of black ants rushing into a white wilderness where many starved or froze in attempt to feed their hunger and greed. Reading from one of many accounts, Solomon would frown and say, “No suh. I won’ trade a warm fire an’ a warm bed for no gold, no where, no way. No suh. Chippin’ on ice in some ice cave so far north the sun don’ shine. For each one get rich, a hunert starve. And that one, he might starve too. Ain’t gonna pack no gold far eatin’ snow. Then again, if I’s young, I might. Might jus’ head north an’ go. How ‘bout you, Mister Joaquín? Would you ride north with them fools? Naw, you’d ride south. That’s what I bet.” So he’d ponder, his thoughts and views swinging back and forth like the pendulum on the hall clock that gonged the hour. As the sound faded he’d switch back to his first suspicion and declare, “Yu-con...Kon-dike. Somebody connin’ somebody, shore. Like that Con-stock. Lotta good money after bad. Still, if I’s young....” He’d swing back again, dreaming with the many of rushing north and becoming a Monte Cristo. A summer passed. A winter. Another summer and another winter, while men picked at rock walls in that cold dungeon of dreams till by the spring of 1898 it became clear that there was more cold than gold in the Yukon. Their fever cooled by artic winds, men turned back to have it heated again by news of war. “War with Spain!” Even Solomon caught the fever, reading headlines about the charge up San Juan Hill, the fall of Santiago, the sinking of Cervera’s fleet. He’d slap his knee and vow, “Them Spanish. They never should have blowed up that Maine. No suh. Riled them Yankees good. Like a whole nest a’ hornets. Now them Yankees gonna have some more land, shore....” Sí, the Gringos soon owned an empire. Took it from the Gachupín. But it took three more years to subdue the Moros in the Philippines. The rebels subdued by greater force and treachery. But for how long? For there are always other hornets waiting to strike the grasping hand. You can smoke them out and kill them. But never all. And never tame them. Never. From all that time the news most dear to my knowing was the headline that read, “Yaqui Marauders attack Mexican custom house at Espala and escape into the Sierra Madres. Pursued by troops under command of General Torres....” Though pursued they I, Joaquin 293 remained at large for many years, drawing soldiers into ambush time and again. The uprising on the Casa Grande had been sparked by Catholic priests attempting to subvert the Yaqui religion. And the Yaqui, a highly moral people, had no need of padres to tell them how to live. This fed my pride, hearing that they rose up and fought back. Defiant. A desert people, true to their way and fierce in their belief— like the Israelites, an old, old tribe that had endured every calamity. Solomon always read from the Bible in the dark hour before dawn. Mostly from the Old Testament, recounting the trials and suffering of another people that had once been enslaved. All their wanderings and wars, and their angry God, Jehovah—more angry than El Bravo even—who would drown his chosen nearly to a man, and later part the waters to set them free. All the “begats” that begot, their loves and betrayals, all their prophecies, dreams, and sorrows. Passages read in quiet, reverent tones. Like my father the priest Solomon was deeply religious, and I let him hold to his religion, for his heart had not been touched by a panther, nor his soul fathered by a brujo. Besides, he held his religion in his heart, not his mind—loved the stories and the morals, not the flesh-hating dogma. What light, what hope he found there, I did not question. Spared him his mortal fancy. He shared so much I would not dim his light with my darkness. More than anything he read, more than his thoughts or words, it was his life he shared. Bit by bit, over a thousand nights I learned of his life and his family. He had three sons. His eldest was Abraham, who to his great pride became a minister. His second son, Samuel, was more bravo and to my liking, cared little for religion and took to the sea, sailed to China and to all the islands, eventually returned to work at the harbor, raised a large family and lived lustily, sired bastards in every race of woman. Though Solomon pretended not to understand, deep down he understood well enough as all men understand and envy the bold ones. His favorite and most frail was his youngest, Jessup, who took to music and later took to morphine. Like Pacito, he died young. Fell to the knife one night in Chinatown and left his parents heartbroken. Solomon’s wife, Della, never recovered, died the following winter from a cruel fever carried by rats from the ships. Thereafter Solomon took a gloomier turn, grew doubtful, silent, no longer hummed his favorite hymns. Fearful that 294 MELVIN LITTON any song or joy expressed would taint their memory, make cheap his mourning. His faith dimmed and turned to ash. He carried his head low, his shoulders bent. What slavery could not bow, life had. I could not help. No ghost can free a haunted man. Still he read to me in the long ebb of his life, mostly births and deaths, searching for some light, some hope in their endless cycle. And I heard the dead as they died. Their final plea or shout, cry or whimper. Some voiced their last thoughts quietly, extending their love and regret, then sighed in peace as they lapsed into darkness, falling like birds folding their wings in descent. Others screamed in terror for all they’d longed for and lost, clawing like cats down that long black passage that reflects no light, no mercy. And babes at birth, their shriek and wail awoke each day, like hatchlings crying in hunger, bleeding as if set to be eaten. Their fright at being born, of facing the light, seemed greater than that of those embracing the darkness. And so it went through a thousand births and deaths, till on most nights Solomon read not at all, sat gazing off while the hall clock ticked the passing time, lost to sorrow and memory, a ghost in the flesh. Gazing off like me...in longing and wait. At last reading from the one great book, the Book of Life. For our lives at last become a story written by all the sweetness and tragedy known to us, memories given shape and preserved in words either voiced aloud or quietly within. And the story is told and retold and in the telling reshaped till it more resembles itself as story than itself as event. So a tale is spun, extended, and made whole. But never ended, never complete, as long as there is one telling and one listening, even if the tale is told only to ourselves. This I know. I, Joaquín. So we waited, Solomon and I, waited in vain for peace and sleep. Waited as the century turned and the city grew swank, boisterous, and people rushed forth to love and mate, spawning hundreds more to laugh and dream, to sicken and despair—all waiting in the end, grown fearful of the flesh, its long shadow, fragile as leaves crumpled underfoot, waiting for a greater hand to gather them up and bear them home.

All comes to he who waits. Even Judgment. In April of 1906, in the quiet predawn, there came a tremor to I, Joaquin 295 my knowing, an urgent pulse fingering up through every fiber and crevice. Suddenly the city awoke to a great tumult and quake. An inferno. The earth cracked open and demons ran loose. Fire raged indifferent to cries of mercy, screams of infants, the frantic effort of men and women rushing to save themselves and others—it fed on the innocent and guilty alike, condemned all in its path. Buildings crumbled in a blink, entombing the lame, the strong, the wicked, the meek. The sky wore a black mantle of smoke slung low on the shoulder of the hills. The sun glared down like a red-eyed diablo crouched on a pyramid, deaf to prayer and suffering, counting his sacrifice as if seeking some sacred number. Walls shook, shelves trembled. At the first sharp quake my jar fell to the floor and shattered, freeing mi cabeza to lay among all the others on a ghastly carpet like a rude feast spread in wait of the fire. And I longed for the fire, dared it to reach and free me of the flesh as only fire can free the spirit—release my knowing to the smoke, let it scatter in the wind and settle on the hillside grass, the ocean sand, there filter to the air and water and sense nothing but the rhythm of the tides and seasons. Day after day the fire flared and raged, drew near then distant like a huge, many-headed dragon blazing through storefronts and rooftops, engulfing the streets, gnashing at its tail in hunger and frenzy, twisting, reaching to the sky—once cresting so near that its breath scorched the windows only to whip and turn in hunt of other prey. For two weeks it ravaged and roared, then collapsed and smoldered. Its breath cooled. The red beast blackened and died, returned to the rubble from where it came. And its flames never reached me. Never freed my flesh. The museum still stood. The sky cleared. The sun shone bright through the window, lighting the gaze of the still-born and the damned. Flesh so long pickled was slow to rot. But that touched by the sun began to bubble and stew, remold in heat and horror, twitching to life like Three Fingers’ claw latching to the Cyclops Child as it crawled to the Kangaroo, then all melted one to the other and their vile union flowed to the cavity of Blane’s skull to fester and grow, redoubling his frightful howl in want of further flesh. The mummy lay numb as ever like the dried husk of a desert scarab, and kept dry would hold its shape another thousand years, slowly 296 MELVIN LITTON oozing dust from the silt of its soul. While I, mi cabeza, lay draped in shadow at the edge of the ferment, gazing in wait, in hope of deliverance. How long I’d yearned for release, to break free of the jar, its chill fluid and vapor. How I’d longed for sweet breath and air. Not that stink, that rot I could taste on my tongue. As is said, beware what you hope for. A week passed and Solomon returned. I knew him by his shuffling tread on the stair. He carried a mop bucket and a shovel and wore a scented cloth over his nose to mask the odor. He began scooping up the gore. Drawing near, he paused and knelt, uncertain what to do with mi cabeza, what to think of my once proud gaze so debased and fallen—dashed to the floor with a heap of hellish outcasts and offal, what long ago should have been buried and forgotten. That’s when I spoke to him, answered to his old suspicion and cried out for mercy as on that day Pacito was hanged and Rosita was raped and God did not answer. But Solomon heard and answered my plea—for I dreaded being mixed and buried with that which he shoveled, to press my lips to Blane’s skull and have that eternal wail and howl echo to my knowing. Or turn to dust with that horrid claw. Dreaded burial in any form. To be tamped beneath a mound of earth would not relieve my knowing, only block my view, leave me to ponder forever that dark silence which is at least broken on occasion by play of light, by voice or person, so that the fabric of life and memory no matter how frayed and worn is yet present and gloried in. No, I who had longed for the flames still longed for life. Is this so hard to understand? This longing? Solomon took mi cabeza in his two hands and gently placed it in another jar partly filled with medicinal spirits, then added a bottle of aguardiente to give my view an amber glow and warm my knowing. He covered all with a white cloth and put it in a food basket. And so cradled in his arm, swaying to his gait, he carried me down the stairs, out of the museum and into the street. We walked through block after block of the ruined city, up a long, steep hill to a small white church, and finally up a narrow staircase. He entered a room and climbed a ladder that led to an attic. There, on a high shelf above stacks of lumber and rummage, next to a tiny gable window, he set mi cabeza, then stepped back and I, Joaquin 297

looked from the window to me as if to ask whether I was pleased. And I answered to him, “Gracias, it is good.” Solomon gave a kindly smile. And turning away he began to hum an old hymn. He gave one last look then climbed down the ladder. Left me in the attic of his son’s church, never to return. Chapter Twenty-Three

race resides in small gestures by which a crude faith is born and Gsustained; as water is given to one who thirsts, I was granted mercy. The solitude pleased me as it would have pleased my father the panther. And my father the priest too would have welcomed the lone window lit each dawn like a candle in contemplation and prayer. My prayer was for solitude and I prayed to no one. Forgot my vengeance as each sad event faded into darkness and lay like sediment long unstirred. Forgot my passions great and small. Pruned my soul to utter silence, cloistered, cut off from the world in my lone purgatory. Perceived each moment and little more. Became a mirror of knowing, reflecting the window, the attic, all the minute activity within. Dust settled like the years. Moths fluttered at the pane, beating at a ghost-light imaged there. Hornets daubed mud-homes in the rafters, arched and swarmed true to their intent, ready to wager life at the least intrusion, guarding their solitude and mine. Spiders spun their webs and shed their skins to spin anew, ever poised, delicate, clever, and purposeful. Cockroaches, cucarachas, roamed the floors at night, covering every surface—emerging like a million citizens of a hidden city, another world, their thoughts closed to me as if I were an old god entombed at the bottom of the sea or the dark moon of a vanished sun. Doves cooed and mated in the walls; bees hummed making honey. At times a mouse perched before my view and blinked its puzzled black eyes, curious of my knowing. And every Sunday voices rang out in the clap and shout of spirituals chorused fervent I, Joaquin 299 and festive to the air. In a few years the voices ceased, the chorus ended. The church abandoned to serve as a workshop for a time. Then as a depot for rumrunners, contrabandistas. And later as storage for old furniture and tools, ragged clothing and books, boxes and chests, musty refuse of every sort, too worthless to keep, too precious to burn—forgotten like mi cabeza. Pigeons gained entry and roosted on the cross beams, spread their wings like angels to shit on all below. Rats infested every corner and ranged at will, bred and warred like men—men you would not care to know. Summers passed with the varied phases of the moon. In winter the rains hammered at the roof, steadily leaking through the weathered shingles and sheathing. And I sought the rhythm of the rain, like a deep breath drawn with each passing season. Meanwhile the world beyond came in fragments like pieces of songs and images played through the air, or the bruit and barter voiced over wire, or bodies blasted on beaches of far-off lands. The vomit of a century passed to my knowing. Of war and rumors of war. The millions rawly dealt, frozen, starved, left splayed and butchered, or burnt to a crisp like frogs feasted on by flies, their ghosts carried on dark storms rolling in from the sea, returning home with the wind to haunt their graves. A world on which only the mad would focus. Yet I could not close my eyes or cease my knowing. Learned of Villa, Zapata, Madero, of blood and revolution the world over, all the vague, tangent promise and betrayal. What wonder that men still looked to the sky in want of mercy. I looked only to the window in want of faint light and solitude. The dust thickened, the light dimmed; webs tangled and tore, further clouding my view. Alone, forgotten. And still the suspicion grew, like a seed buried deep, that my fate, mi cabeza, awaited some further word or act. This was my meager faith, my belief. And sensing this, I nearly slept. My knowing like sediment drawn to the mud. Years passed without count or care.

One day a hand reached to my jar and wiped a hole in the dust. His eyes looked to mine and awakened me to his greater gaze. Strangely familiar, like one I’d known grown old behind the mask of his beard. I thought of Don Constancio, but the eyes were not so kind and Don 300 MELVIN LITTON

Constancio would have shown greater care of his dress and person. This one wore a frayed straw hat and dressed in soiled white cotton like a sweaty peon fresh from the fields. But he smiled like a pan- ther as he grasped the jar with mi cabeza and placed it in a gunny sack of loose weave through which I soon gazed with unwelcome clarity. For upon entering the world I recognized nothing, not a sin- gle trail, landmark or building. All made discordant, enlarged, and rude. Full of steel and glass, teeming crowds and clutter. With no space to go a caballo! But why describe a world known better to you who inhabit it every day. What struck me more than the buildings reaching to the clouds was the vast web of roads as if spun to snare the land, now rising overhead, now swooping underneath in endless twist and turn and noisome rush and speed. A young hombre roared past on a sleek wheeled stallion, clad in black leather, his hair blowing wild like a “young Joaquín.” And from the sky came the screaming descent of a great shiny bird like tons of silver bullion given wing, thundering in its wake, shaking the earth, the soul. Yet the heart of he who carried me beat calm, unchanged, even as he skipped up embankments and crossed roadways and crept down through tunnels, moving without any apparent effort, quiet and agile, unperceived, like a panther. The sun set vague and hazy, disappearing behind a gray bank of fog. Nightfall, but not darkness. Lights rained down like stars fallen to earth, scattered and broken, formed in every shape and color, some bright and stark, others flashing red, blue, or yellow. And the darkness parted to flares of lights slicing here and there, intersecting, merging one to the other in ever greater width and momentum till they formed a flood of speedingcarrozas plated with polished armor and painted in every color of festival, with beaming eyes that searched the night like mad, hunting demons. We stood at the dim edge, watching the flood as it passed, waiting for a brief chance to enter. Then he crossed, mi patrón—like a nimble ghost he shimmered through the dash of lights and sheening metal, shifting shape and color to blend with each, and in a blink had tread a path to the other side, the outer darkness, as if he were its brother shadow passing through. I, Joaquin 301

How? I did not question, only grateful for the quiet, open space beyond where we could go a caballo. And did! Tied to the mane of a stallion racing through the night without pause for grass or water. Such a stallion as I had never ridden, so tireless and swift that we crossed the San Joaquín Valley and reached the Sierra Nevada by dawn. Entering the sierras, I grew giddy as a ghost freed of its chains. Discovered laughter and delight in the bounding lope, the smooth rolling pace, the quick leap and bounce in traversing ridges, ravines, and deep barrancas. Aieee! Now carried in the mouth of a panther, steadily moving south. Day and night we journeyed far from the sight and scent of man. Yet I sensed the heartbeat of my people at labor in the valleys beyond, and the heartache of thousands more trekking north in hope of labor—a river of hope whose current ran treacherous, without cease, down canyons and footpaths that led to barrios and migrant camps. In that pulse I lost all sense of self and continued south in hope of nothing, weaving through that desperate tide as food and water passing hand to hand, as a name from tongue to tongue, as a song fading in a breath, in the smoke of a cigarro shared by rough bracero hands. Journeyed through a season or a century in the heart of my people; a soul’s jornada. Then again as mi cabeza—at times carried by the panther, the stallion, or by the fierce-eyed old peon with the cunning smile, each change so subtle that it happened in mid-stride till only the shape of the shadow told me which form. Carried me on and on through time and memory, across the Mojave, the Gila, into Sonora. At last we reached my old haunts in the Sierra Madre where I’d hunted mustangs as a boy barefoot in the snow. And I awakened like a bird longing to fly free of its cage. Sí, suddenly alive with hope. “Wait, wait...,” whispered Mescalito, his voice so long silent yet soothing as we journeyed on, once more in the jaws of the panther climbing higher and higher till we came to the base of a sheer cliff, its ancient, worn columns standing like dark bronze burnished in the moonlight. There he raised on the legs of a goat and stood as a man to scale the granite face—digging in with sharp hooves to find a crevice, reaching to grasp each handhold etched through the centuries, edging to the craggy summit like a 302 MELVIN LITTON shadow rising before the fading moon. The sky soon warmed to a predawn cast that held all the earth in the dusky monochrome so constant to my knowing. With a final thrust he mounted the ledge and stood surveying his domain like an eagle returned to his aerie. In a clearing shaded by a piñon pine and watered by a drip spring sat a stone hut. On a table rock in front of the door he placed mi cabeza, let the gunny sack fall away, then entered the hut still striding on the legs of a goat. My gaze faced east in witness of the sunrise. The bright hot sun of my youth. The same vivid blue sky. Ah, to breathe the crystal air, chew on a tortilla, and drink from the spring. To run and roll in the grass. “Stop your whining little pup!” he called to me as he returned. He no longer looked like an old peon. Shorn of his beard, shed of his shirt, dressed only in cotton pants rolled to the knee, he stood robust and bronzed, his mustache black as his raven-black hair. He laughed long and hearty at my surprise. And I knew him by his dark, lusty laugh and his fierce, black eyes. Sí, it was El Bravo, the forjador, only different. And no, he was not Inglés or Apache or an Aztec lord. En verdad he was the brujo who had lived a thousand years. My father the panther, the stallion, the goat, as Olajuaña had claimed. He sat before me, folded his arms on his broad chest and grinned, showing all his teeth. “You were northed, Cachorrito. Lost a long time. I found you and brought you home.” With a flick of his hand he snatched a cigarro from the air and lit it by pointing to the sun. He blew smoke to the sky, to a wafting white cloud that sped to the horizon at his breath. Then he reached forth and gripped mi cabeza by the hair and lifted me from the jar like you would lift a pup by the scruff of its neck. Freed my gaze to the sun and air, blew smoke to my lips till they seemed to breathe again. Woke me to my longing, let me taste of life. Bade me tell my story. “Speak, little pup, tell me of your life, your death....” And this has been the telling, now nearly finished, my voice grown old in the telling. How long did it take? A day, the passing of a moon? Who knows? What is time to a ghost long dead and a brujo who has lived a thousand years? Told him my tale as it is I, Joaquin 303 here written. All answer to their father. He listened till I finished and betrayed no impatience or anger. Laid me to his lap and smoothed my hair with his firm, grave hand. Spoke to me softly, first in Inglés and Spanish, then Yaqui and Náhuatl—at last he spoke his root language, spoke only to my knowing, without words, his knowing to mine. Of all he said, what can be known in words is this: “The sun warms the air, little pup. Rains fall to earth. Rivers run like blood through the flesh. The flesh is the earth. And over time unwitnessed by man the earth has heaved like a woman’s womb, she moans and swells to bring forth rivers of fire, molten metals forged in her bowels that blacken and cool to form the great serrated edge that is our Mother, the Sierra Madre. Men dance upon that edge, dance, breed, and war. “You knew me as a forjador. And so I am. But to forge metal is child’s play. Good to amuse and instruct a child and move freely among fools and bobos. El Bravo was a mask, one of many I wear. I forge men. That is my task. You I forged, Cachorrito, came to your mother as a priest and vanished as a goat in the wind. Sí, the old curandera saw. Came like copper to tin and forged bronze. Next time we will do better.” “Next time?” I ask. “Sí....” “Does it never end?” “No, only repeats.” His answer cryptic as his smile. “But you wish it to end, don’t you, Cachorrito?” His smile broadened. “So tell me, what is it you wish for?” “Leave me to lay in the grass,” I say. “Let my skin draw taut in the sun, my flesh be eaten by ants and slowly fall away like paint peeling from my skull till the wind enters the sockets and whistles through the gap of my teeth like a last long sigh and at last I am free. Free of my knowing....” He sits for a time, pondering my request, then answers, “Sí, this I can grant. Soon, Cachorrito, I will lay you to the grass and free you of your knowing. Soon. Perhaps today.” Then he laughs that dark, lusty laugh as his eyes pierce to mine. “And from your skull will crawl a beetle and your knowing will be in the beetle making its way through the grass. A lizard will flick out its long black tongue and eat the beetle, then slowly blink its mute eyes and you will know that blinking as you bask as the lizard on a warm rock content of a full belly. And in a blink a hawk will sweep from the sky and snatch up the 304 MELVIN LITTON lizard, soar on an updraft and scan the sierras. One day the hawk will land to taste a fresh kill, unwary of the coyote lurking by the cactus. Some dark night a panther will surprise the coyote napping near its den. And you will roam as the panther through the sierras for many years, striking terror in men’s hearts as you scream in the night. “Later you will take the form of a stallion and drive a herd of wild mares on a broad altiplano far to the south. Range in splendor of wind and freedom at the base of a great volcano in the high Andes known as Cotopaxi, its peak ever shrouded in snow that spreads like a virgin’s gown in wait of the fiery thrust and rich red flow to spill from its caldera. There you will breed with the mares and run free as the wind through the grass, graze and glory in the sun as the last of your kind. An incarnation sure to rouse your longing. “And in several generations more you will rise from the dust and walk once more as a man. Return to test your mettle on the hard anvil of this earth, see what breed of man you are and to what end you are forged. Perhaps return as a Gachupín or a Gringo, or a padre even. Sí, with a prayer book and a pistol. And in each instance, from a beetle to a man, you will forget and begin anew. Your knowing will be of that creature only, and you will act solely in its nature—of and as a beetle, a lizard, a coyote, a man. “Soon, Cachorrito, you will rest, sleep. And when you awaken you will be a beetle and your desire will be for dung. You will not question or think to question. Not as a beetle or a lizard or a hawk. For every animal accepts what is given. All except man. And to man is given all. All that he sees may be his. So he questions all and seeks what is hidden. Whether gold or love or justice or a further glimpse of the mystery. And it is hidden by time and distance, by fire and darkness. He stands in the darkness and seeks a faint light in the distance. A light born of fire. Reaching to the light he falls to the fire and is consumed. But not utterly. His essence survives—his heart, his will. Like a treasured knife handed from Father to Son. “So rest, little pup, sleep. For you have journeyed far and sought long enough. One day you will seek again. But first you will sleep and forget your struggle. Bathe in the darkness and forget your flesh, your knowing, as your heart returns to the fire to be heated and honed again and again, as you would to forge the finest blade. No, little pup, we are not finished. What form and end are not determined. Listen....” And in listening I did not ask why? Why? is never answered. I only know that if there is a god, He is a trickster god and His name is Coyotl. But the brujo who has lived a thousand years has no I, Joaquin 305 name, none that he will share. Only his son has a name. I, Joaquín. Now my tale is spun. Mi cabeza laid to the grass. Seek me in the sun, the soil of my birth. Listen for my carcajada like a panther screaming in the night. Aieee! Listen and wait, await my return.

About the Author

elvin Litton’s first novel, Geminga, was published in 1993 Mby III Publishing. His fiction has also appeared in the literary journal, First Intensity. He lives in Lawrence, Kansas with his wife, Debra, and their black-and-tan shepherd, Jack. He’s the proud father of two soldier sons, Matt and Reuben, both veterans of the Afghan- Iraq wars. When not writing he works as a carpenter and captains The Border Band–www.borderband.com.

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