Page 2 of A Good Prospect

Chapter Two

Calaveras Bill was amused that this Salvador Palomares vaquero seemed not to know about the gold on his land. Why, it wasn’t just the bárbaros trying to crowd him from his claim—Yankee prospectors had been hounding him from bar to gulch, calling him a peón due to his dark skin, demanding to know where his master was.

“Gold claim?” Señor Palomares scoffed as they hobbled down the ravine. “What sort of gold claim? You’ll be going back to The States empty-handed if that’s what you’re after.”

Calaveras Bill was ashamed that his leg was now so numb, he had to stagger downhill with an arm slung over this landowner’s neck, and the señor supported him with both arms around his waist, followed by the most beautiful and well-mannered horse he’d ever seen. The kind vaquero had even wrapped him in his own colorful serape, to guard against the shocking chills wracking his body. He was a bit ashamed of his violent reaction to the feeling of the other man’s fingertips tickling his balls. Perhaps it had been an accident. He had been told over and over that his cock was overly sensitive to the slightest breath of wind—by men who should know. Another reason he had perhaps reacted so fiercely. “You own this land, yet you haven’t heard of anyone prospecting? I’ve been chased from Mariposa to Hornitos, Quartzburg and Bear Valley.”

“All on my land,” the vaquero said, suddenly dark.

“I keep hearing from these Yankees that they know the legislature granted settlers entry rights to unused land. And because I’m half-black, they put me in the same class as the greasers and other ‘foreign’ Spaniard devils. Saying we’re taking gold that belongs to the people of the United States.”

The vaquero froze so suddenly, Calaveras Bill nearly pitched forward onto his face. What had he said wrong? Settlers? Black? Foreigners? He turned and at last looked his savior straight in the face. And was so astounded that all thought was wiped from his brain.

He’d been occupied with such urgent health concerns, such as coming within a hair of being wiped out by bárbaros, that he had not gotten a good look at this vaquero. A tall majestic Californio, perhaps only half a shade as dark as those gentlemanly natives, Señor Palomares was possessed of an intent, riveting face. His intelligent, almond-shaped eyes were the most crystalline blue, as the landed gentry of that class were wont to have. In the modern style, to elevate himself above the peóns, he was clean-shaven and had chopped off what most certainly had been a long pigtail, as thick chestnut curls emerged from under his flat-crowned sombrero. No, he was not a pure Californio, although he dressed the part, in his short embroidered jacket and side-buttoning leather calzonera trousers, and especially those enormous saucer-sized spurs that rattled sharply. He was a perfect literary bandit of Old Spain, only…his skin, his hair was too light. Could it be…he was a half-caste, like himself?

Salvador Palomares, to his credit, did not let him fall. Clutching him again about the waist, they continued their hobble downhill, shuffling through the woody oak leaves, but the other man sputtered, “’Unused land’? Settlers! What manner of settlers? Jackasses looking for gold that doesn’t exist, such as you?” He had the glorious, rich tones of the pure Californio, but there was a distinct trace of Yank to his sensuous voice.

“Yankees, mostly English, French, German, a few Italians…and I’ve run into a lot of hard cases from Sydney Australia, former convicts suddenly taking to crying ‘California’s recovery or death!’ Though they could hardly be concerned with the recent war. Where have you been, not to have run into these fine citizens?”

Palomares went silent, putting such strength into assisting him that he fairly flung him down the slope. After awhile, though, he could not contain himself, and burst out, “Where have I been? I’m a cowman, a cattle rancher! I don’t have time for petty intrigues such as chasing fellows from one worthless claim to another. My cattle range to Mariposa and Bear Valley in the summer, and I didn’t run into a single soul last summer other than a few greasers who got lost on their way to a bullfight. Bear Valley was nothing but Jim Savage’s trading shack with a couple of shitty serapes and sardine tins. Now you’re telling me my land is crawling with squatters?”

“Yes,” Calaveras Bill gasped, as they finally reached the sandy banks of Greaser Gulch. He waited until Palomares slowed his stride to say, “They call themselves settlers. One boasted his stomach would feel better at the killing of a Spaniard than at the crushing of a body louse.”

Perhaps he should not have said that, for Palomares resumed dragging his numb body down the sand bank in the direction he pointed, where he could already see his few meager belongings were scattered to the winds. “They’re no settlers, Cal–Calaveras—Oh, what in hell is your real name?”

He shoved Bill so heartily that this time, Bill really did stumble, sprawling right atop a few of his former tent stakes. Of course the bárbaros had taken the actual canvas tent. They had stolen his cunning pack mule, his pickaxe and all his prospecting tools, cooking pans, buffalo robe, lamp, and probably worst of all, his only other pair of trousers. The only item they had no use for was the tallow soap. He still retained his Colt’s revolver, which of course he kept on his person at all times, but had been too taken by surprise to draw it. He was a blacksmith, after all, not a pistolero.

Now, being conditioned to the obsequious status in life, and being smart enough to realize he had best treat this vaquero like the Don he claimed to be, he clambered laboriously to his feet using one of the tent stakes as a cane. This time, Palomares stood his skeptical ground and did not assist, and as Calaveras Bill hopped to the base of a young oak, Palomares predictably spat out,

“I’d like to see your freedom papers, if you don’t mind. I don’t envision hauling a fugitive up the valley. I know California has a Free State constitution, but if you’re on the run, I’ve an obligation to bring you back.” He paused. “And that would be a major inconvenience to me when I’m trying to get my cattle home.”

That was to be expected—maybe every day for the rest of his life—and that was why Bill, upon stopping at a new prospecting site, always câched his most prized possessions. Palomares finally came to help when he saw Bill strive to kneel down to the base of the tree.

“You have to understand,” said Palomares, in the soft, gentle tones that Bill much preferred. “I’m just in a stew about what you’re telling me. In forty-eight, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo promised us Californios would be ‘maintained and protected in free enjoyment of our liberty and property,’ and now you’re telling me there are, what? Hundreds? Hundreds of Yankee squatters taking gold out of my land without my knowledge? Oh, is this your feeble gold câche? Don’t worry, I’m not taking it. You earned it, you worked for it, and you were kind enough to warn me about what’s going on. Here. All right, your ragged papers. Ay dios, these things are about to fall apart. Let’s see here now. North Carolina, is that so? I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone from North—”

As though suddenly felled by a giant vat of caper juice, Salvador Palomares collapsed upon the oak trunk, hand limp at his sides holding the offending papers, head back in a silent guffaw. Completely still, only his stomach shook with hilarity, and Bill even saw a tear of laughter squeezed from the corner of his eye. Bill was used to this, too. He’d seen this reaction a hundred times. He was so accustomed to it, his mind wandered. He admired Palomares’ full and muscular throat as the Adam’s apple bobbed in a paroxysm of humor. Leaning back against the tree as he was, his sombrero tipped back and displayed his fine, intelligent forehead, and his royal aquiline nose had a bit of a bump in the middle.

When Palomares at last came forward, he clapped Bill on the shoulder in a brotherly manner. Still shaking hysterically, he cried, “Cupid!” Then he was overtaken by another wordless fit, so Bill filled in for him.

“Yes, Cupid.” He rolled his eyes. “That was the height of classical snobbery for my master. Yes, I know it’s the Roman god of erotic love. Now you see why I was so eager to call myself Calaveras Bill when I got to California.”

While Palomares was doubled over in convulsions of endless entertainment, Bill leaned over the oak tree’s hollow and withdrew his fiddle. Experimentally, he plucked a few strings to ensure it was still sound. Well, he had his papers, fiddle, daguerreotype, gold…Everything he needed to start out afresh for what felt like the thousandth time. But it was evident he’d have to rely on this dubious, unaware landowner, perhaps at last stake a legitimate claim that he could defend with legitimate papers.

Palomares clapped him on the shoulder again. Yes, it had taken this fellow approximately five minutes to speak rationally, maybe more because he exuded whiskey from his pores. Again he drank from his flask, and again Bill turned down the offer. “I’ll tell you what, Cupid. You can’t be Cal because I’m Sal, so let’s start from the beginning. Let’s refer to you as Ophir. That’s a biblical land rich in gold, because you’re looking for gold, sí?” He swung a vague arm toward the east. “Also, we’ll be heading toward Mount Ophir pronto. I’ll put your belongings in my saddlebags, and we’ll be on our way. Vaya con dios, sí?”

Ophir, as he was perfectly willing to be called, was awash with relief that the stranger was taking him somewhere. Anywhere. Without a mule or tools, and lame as a newborn kitten, his chances for success out here were questionable, and he didn’t have a friend on the flat side of the earth.

Ophir didn’t even ask where they were going until they had mounted—laboriously, as the vaquero had one of those absurd Mexican stock saddles with an enormous pommel, richly decorated in gold and silver so heavy it was a wonder the horse could walk. The stirrups were giant blocky wooden things, but only Salvador could use them, as Ophir had to sit behind the saddle on the saddle blanket. Ophir soon saw the reason for the saucer-sized spurs. Not only did the expert horseman guide the mount with the spurs, but he maintained his seat under the most difficult conditions, something Ophir couldn’t say for himself as he clung to the muscular man’s hips like the baby monkey he’d seen in a zoo.

The tourniquets loosened as they rode and his damaged thigh hollered in agony, so he used his good leg to grip even tighter against Salvador’s powerful thigh, so tight Ophir imagined he could feel every sinew in the athletic haunches as the vaquero controlled the mount. It was awkward in the extreme. In his panic, he had hacked away so severely at his trousers with his Bowie knife the tatters were now held up only by his suspenders. The ball and chain buttons up the side of Sal’s calzoneras actually burned Ophir’s naked calf, but if he loosened his grip, he’d tumble off. It was a strange juxtaposition of pain and pleasure, his palms riding the stranger’s strapping hip muscles, such a blazing and secure feeling that naturally his prick was up like a hammer—and the wrenching agony of his wound, knowing he had torn it open and blood was oozing down upon such a fine saddle.

They charged up the gulley, entered the main valley, and with a series of whistles Salvador had found some cows and someone who was apparently his main drover, José. They babbled in Spanish together—Ophir gathered mostly about cows, but he also heard the word for gold, oro—and soon they were merely trotting across the wide valley that sloped gently upward to the east. After the few months of rain, the grass was green and sweet-smelling, and Ophir began to relax. He even saw a tiny lizard glancing from a tree’s mossy roots, and butterflies of many colors flitted from flower to flower. They passed the shaded glen of a side valley, where diamonds glinted off a deep blue lagoon.

“Where are we going?” he finally dared ask.

He could almost feel Salvador smiling. “Well, Ophir,” he said in his smoky voice, and Ophir liked the way his new name sounded. “It’s nothing grand, but it’s home. Rancho Las Oliveras. I’ve got a housekeeper who can take care of you, and a mother who thinks she can cook. How much gold do you think you found down in my gulch?”

Ophir shrugged. There was no need to grip Salvador’s hips so tightly anymore, but his eyeballs were well nigh jiggling out of his head, so he held steady. “Just at that gulch, maybe four pounds.”