Page 5 of A Good Prospect

“Well, let’s see. They wanted to know who owned all the land around here. I told them you, of course, but you were gone in the San Joaquin plains with your spacious and colossal herds, and would not be returning for a month.”

Putting an arm about the majordomo, Salvador steered him toward a first-story apartment where an assistant of Ascensión’s was tidying things by lamplight. “Did they give you an indication of what they wanted? Besides the water. I mean, what were they doing in the middle of the Sierra?”

Knut shrugged. “They merely gave an impression of being fun-seeking, sturdy hale fellows. Perhaps looking for a fandango.”

“Yes, perhaps lost on their way to a bullfight. Listen here, Knut. Our new guest has told me he’s seen many Yankees on my lands. And they’re looking for gold.”

At the mention of “gold,” Knut’s bleary cornflower blue eyes turned round, and he had to take a few more swigs from the bottle. “Gold?” he at last squeaked.

“Yes. The guest has samples of gold he’s discovered himself. Now, this is a potential source of revenue as you can well imagine. But first I need to document that I own this land. Have you ever seen a parcel map? A grant deed? Anything of that nature?”

“Yes, yes, first you need a diseño!” Knut proclaimed. “That’s a ‘design’ proving ownership. I know you own eleven leagues between the Merced River and Mariposa Creek. I have investigated this myself! There are only two hundred California families who received land grants from the Spanish government. The problem seems to be, many of these parcels overlap or have dubious boundaries. There is a Board of Land Commissioners in San José we could apply to solidify our ironclad title, but I need documentation. Something saying when this adobe was built, for example.”

“Exactly. Have you seen any sort of document?”

“I have tried to look, but you know how your mother gets when people appear to be snooping in her belongings. She mutters something that your father told her about a marker, a fork in a path, and a dead cow.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Jah, especially since I doubt the dead cow is there any longer.”

It was Salvador’s turn to grab the bottle from Knut. Waxing dramatic, he railed, “Are not herds and houses enough proof of tenure? Did I lose my patrimony because I lack papers? I agree the land is vaguely defined, but Governor Micheltorena must have given the Captain some sort of map, so he didn’t accidentally wander into Hernández’ grant and insult him by killing a bull!”

Knut sidled up to him. “We can always forge papers.”

Salvador pressed his fingertips to Knut’s chest and shoved. “Ay dios, land was so plentiful back then, there was no need to lie to get a title! How can anyone doubt the legitimacy of our solid old grants—the Peraltas, the Berryessas? Any fool can see those are sound.”

Knut held up an illustrative forefinger. “The Palomares clan of Rancho Las Oliveras! Viva los Californios!”

He probably would have embarked on a more bombastic tangent then, but José was hobbling down the path supporting a blob dressed in a dashing, dark blue broadcloth cloak. The gold trimmings of the cloak gleamed richly in the moonlight as Ophir lifted his face to look limpidly at Salvador, perhaps at last under the influence of some native weed.

“Ah, here is our guest.” Salvador took Ophir by the elbow,9 pleased to see he had improved his toilet by stepping into a suit of Salvador’s own clothes. Everything seemed to fit, although the cuffs of the short jacket revealed his wrist bones. “Let us show him his new quarters.”

Knut sputtered behind Salvador as he ducked down beneath the low doorframe. These were comfortable, whitewashed apartments with windows to the rising sun, brown and white spotted cow hides for rugs, and best of all, fresh bottles of liquor on the table. Knut’s hot breath at the back of his neck sent a wave of dreadful shudders down Salvador’s spine.

“A…negro buck? This is our guest?”

Now in the room, Salvador could stand tall. He knew he looked imperious and frightening when his nostrils flared like this, and he stared down at Knut’s red nose. “Yes, this is our guest, Knut! What’s more, I’ve offered to give him land if he’ll help me drive out these squatters. He has invaluable assistance to give us.”

Knut hovered over where José was gingerly laying Ophir onto the bedstead, wringing his sombrero, his face screwed up. “Doña Carmen will make him work in the stables.”

Yanking the cork from a bottle, Salvador roared, “She’ll do no such thing! I am the Don of this rancho! I don’t care how crazy she is—Ophir is getting a plot of land and that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

“José,” Ophir said. “He told me some Sonoran miners had also found gold, and they’re the experts.”

At this, Salvador poured José a cup of aguardiente. When Knut reached for the only other cup, Salvador swiped it from under his hand and poured himself some. “José, do you think you can find these fellows again? When Ophir is recovered, we shall set out to survey my land, and it would be good to have some expert Sonorans with us.”

“Certainly, jefe. They came months ago, to ask permission to prospect for gold, so I think I know where they went. I can send the word out.”

Salvador frowned. “What did you tell them? Why did you not ask me for permission?”

José looked at the floor. “I did ask you, several times. You were…sleeping.”

Oh. Sleeping. To cover his embarrassment in front of Ophir, Salvador turned on Knut. “And did José ask you for permission?”

“Yes,” José said eagerly. “I asked Señor Frostad also!”

Knut looked at his boots, toeing at an imaginary line on the floor. “I vaguely recall that. I must have been…sleeping as well.”