Page 49 of A Good Prospect

Chapter Nineteen

Rather than ride the diligent mule, Ophir led her to the crest of the ridge, up above the Hell Hollow Mine.

He’d had to circle around a bit to ensure he wouldn’t run into any League men, so it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning after he turned the crest and could mount. He could not even revel in the sight of the monumental waterfalls of the Ahwahnee far to the southeast, because up here he stood out like a majestic redwood tree about to be hit by lightning. So he zigzagged down shelving slopes, quickly descending to the Merced far upriver of the mill. He knew if he could find Gouge Eye Gulch that ran parallel to the road to Coulterville, he could find his friendly mining camp.

He was glad he’d undertaken this journey alone. Compañeros would have slowed him down and made for a more obtrusive target—and besides, being alone gave him time to think, time he didn’t get much of working in the deafening stamp mill.

The stamp mill.Where his beloved partner Sal was now languishing, held a prisoner in his own land! Many loving memories of intimate times they’d spent together floated into Ophir’s mind as he clopped on his mule around giant boulders. He had loved Sal almost immediately, and not just because he had yanked a bárbaro arrow out of his thigh, although that was a pretty kind-hearted thing to do for an utter stranger. No, it was Sal’s dignified wildness that got to Ophir, above all his impetuous temper that stood up for what was right. Without that temper, Tamasin would still be deteriorating slowly in agony under the “protection” of that husband, or worse.

One never got over the sort of rage that injustice brought, he supposed. Ophir could not imagine Sal and him going quietly into their old age—here he was, imagining them together in old age! His own two children had been held unjustly for three years, although Ophir had paid the agreed-upon price for their release several times over. The day the Frenchmen had come to Hell Hollow, another courier from Las Oliveras had brought him a letter from his old master. In this there was cause to rejoice, for the master had at last agreed to manumit his children, if Ophir would send yet more money or gold, preferably gold, for their passage through the Isthmus of Panama. Oh, and as a postscript, and only upon the signing of a pact that Ophir would stake him to a percentage in the Palomares Commercial and Mining Company.

Then the Frogs had arrived and pandemonium had overtaken all else. Ophir had not had a chance to discuss the proposition with Sal, but he knew he would do what it took to get his children returned to him. Sal would agree. Tamasin would agree. But a percentage in a worthless mining company overtaken by Australian convicts was a percentage in nothing, so Sal rode even harder. He struck Gouge Eye Gulch, dry and full of fallen branches and leaves this time of year, and followed it up the mountain again.

* * * *

“I’ll shoot the first man that hinders me!”

Several of the thirteen men who guarded the mill laughed at Tamasin, Tyke McCarthy among them. He stood by the entrance to the plate floor with his asinine bashed-in hat, hands calmly folded before his grimy crotch, and he laughed.

Without their customary gallon of liquor per day per man, and standing under the relentless hundred-degree sun that fried a man’s brain like eggs, three of them had already collapsed into sitting positions in the scant shade the overhanging roof afforded. They held their limp heads in their hands, eyes dull and clouded. They were not among the ones laughing at her.

A few other men actually nodded and tipped their hats to her. One of them was a fellow Irishman Tamasin only knew as Alistair, and he stood by seemingly respectful with an expressionless face. Tamasin wondered if there was any strife in their ranks—she’d been told the party numbered fifteen, but she now counted only thirteen. Perhaps there were some better men even among The League. It was true some had been tricked into joining when they assumed that occupying a parcel of land meant ownership, and the law of squatterism prevailed over old Spanish land grants. Perhaps there were some of these ignorant yet honest men in the ranks of The League.

Without putting down her basket of food—oysters, toast, plums, and coffee—she waved her Colt’s revolver about. “Would you like to be shot by a woman?”

Still laughing, Tyke walked a few feet closer, making a big show out of how unafraid he was. He was so unafraid, he didn’t even put his hand to his pistol. “Now, ma’am,” he said in a pitying tone. “You have to understand. I can’t just have Mr. Palomares’s people walking in and out every minute of the day, don’t you see? He’s up there for a reason. The reason is we’re going to starve him out of these here mines. And that policy won’t work too well if I allow you to bring him sustenance.”

Alistair did speak up now. “Tyke. I don’t see any harm in letting her—”

Tyke glared at his compañero, revealing his gnarled teeth. He seemed to have lost at least one since Tamasin had last had the misfortune to notice. In an overly calm voice, he said, “Well, now, Alistair. Should we just give succor to the enemy? Is that the new rule? While we ourselves stand here expiring of starvation? I think not.”

Tamasin waved her weapon some more. “I’ll shoot to kill, Tyke. You’ve got to let me carry Salvador his supper. You’ve got your quarrel with him about the mines and you can fight that out with him. But I’m only a poor woman and all I’ve got is Salvador. You won’t take his life for your idiotic quarrels!”

And she moved toward the mill only to have Tyke step backward abreast of her, finally putting one foot before her as though to trip her, and grabbing at her basket. “Now, now, ma’am. Who is to say you’re not smuggling them more weapons? Just let me take a look inside the basket.”

Tamasin held fast to the basket. “If you wrote me that note early this morning from Bear Valley, how is it you’ve been rampaging about my land since yesterday afternoon blowing up things?”

Tyke seemed a bit confused at this, but continued pulling on the basket, and Tamasin let go, causing Tyke to stagger back a few steps. A couple men laughed at this, too, and Alistair rolled his eyes and leaned against the mill with folded arms.

Tyke regained his smarmy composure while he rifled through the basket. “Why, lookie here. Tortillas, and is this homemade beans?”

“Give her back the basket, McCarthy!”

Oh, it was so gratifying to hear Sal’s voice! A smile wreathed Tamasin’s face when she looked over and saw Sal in the mill doorway, not twenty feet away! It was as though she’d never laid eyes on him before, he was that handsome. As though she’d walked into a vast ballroom just filled to the rafters with men of various colors and shapes, and they all turned into blurry ogres when this one shining, impressive, and stately man came forth. He had stripped off his customary calzoneras and vest and leaned against the doorjamb clad only in his pants and white shirt open at the collar, not even wearing his head scarf. For as hot as it was outside, it must have been ten degrees worse inside the mill.

When Tyke swiveled his head to regard Sal, Tamasin snatched her basket and flounced toward Sal. “I stand by my man, Mr. McCarthy!”

“Now…now…” Tyke sputtered, but Tamasin had eyes only for Sal, and when she stood on tiptoes to kiss him, some of The League men even cheered.

He whisked her inside the mill while Tyke drawled, “Ten minutes only, ya hear? I don’t want to hear no fucking sounds from out here, or I’ll be forced to get violent.”

Sal slammed and bolted the door while one of the Frogs—she didn’t know which—whisked the basket from her grip. Sal swept her across the floor, her slippers crunching the rubble of quartz rock, and set her down on a wooden footing, by the shoes and dies where they pulverized the rock. Lifting her at the waist, he placed her on his lap and said, “Mi amor, Mi amor, you shouldn’t have come. It’s much too risky just for a basket of food. It takes weeks to die of starvation, and we have plenty of fresh water from the creek water in the pipes. Dying for lack of water is what does it.”

Tamasin grinned impishly. “It’s not just the food I wanted to give you.” Wiggling her butt against his lap, she hitched her skirts up and reached underneath. Sal’s eyes glowed with anticipation, and pride welled in her chest that he so obviously thought her capable of duplicity. She unbuckled the gun belt that rode low on her hips and had been weighing her down.

“Ho ho!” Sal laughed with admiration as he grabbed ahold of one holster. The gun belt boasted three holsters, and three fully loaded revolvers.

“Oh, and O’Callan,” Tamasin called to the youth who was on the filthy floor cross-legged, dipping into the beans with a rolled tortilla. “Look under those napkins at the bottom of the basket.”