The April sun was sinking
lower over the snowy San Gabriel Mountains when County Deputy Callum MacLamond
rode down to the stage road and headed west for the Ravenna mining camp at the
head of Soledad Canyon. He knew he could get supper there and a place to sleep before
heading back to Los Angeles
to report his killing of Two Fingers and Gomez at Little Rock Creek.
The two swigs of
whiskey he’d had sitting up on the low ridge above the rushing creek had
energized him, and at the same time helped calm him following the gun-fight
with the two killers who had murdered the old prospector up by Fort Tejon
It also stirred a wayward
desire to head back to the ranch where he and young Mrs. Resi Schmidt had been
together only the night before, with the ranch and the desert wild flowers
covered by the sudden snow-storm. But he knew that was a forlorn hope. The old
ranch-hand would most likely be back by now, and the Sheriff would no doubt be
wondering what the hell was keeping him.
He passed a
four-mule-team wagon heading east, the driver and guard giving him a friendly
greeting, happy no doubt to see the Law on the same lonely road as themselves.
There were still patches of snow all around, and a cold breeze blowing. The
carpets of poppies and gold-field were closed up tight. Jack rabbits and cotton
tails hopped away among the junipers and Joshua trees, and ahead of him a covey
of quail in single file streamed quickly across the deep rutted, muddy road.
Once, coming over
a low rise, his big dark-red sorrel pulled up suddenly, and Cal saw a cougar
slink quickly across the road about two-hundred yards ahead. He patted the
horse’s neck and said soothingly, “It’s okay, Red; that cat ain’t interested in
us.”
High above, a
large red-tail hawk wheeled slowly against the blue afternoon sky. Cal wondered if the
grizzly he’d seen on the way in was still prowling around. He smiled, thinking
that in springtime the desert foothills were like riding through a big open-air
zoo: some cute critters, and some killers.
Up the long grade
to Soledad Pass
Following the road
along the rail line he came to the large stand of cottonwoods at the mouth of Soledad Canyon Ravenna , after the Los Angeles merchant who had run a nearby
saloon for many years. Cal
had a hunch that the old saloon would still be there long after the miners had
all packed up and drifted away.
Leaving Big Red,
saddle and carbine at the small livery stable run by an old ex-Confederate he
knew and liked, he washed up, then walked over to a long, ramshackle building
where there was a cafe he’d stopped at many times before. A young Welsh miner
and his wife owned the place, and it had two main attractions for Deputy
MacLamond: the spicy hot chile with pork; and Rosa, the very friendly and very
pretty little Mexican waitress.
Once upon a
moonlit summer night, the two of them had spent a very pleasant three hours with
a bottle of wine in her tiny cabin by the creek. He was not the first to enjoy Rosa ’s company at midnight
beneath the rustling cottonwoods, nor was he the last. Which was fine with him,
especially now, with the memory of Resi’s sweet blue eyes and eager kiss fresh
in his mind.
He enjoyed his
bowl of red-hot chile, as always; had a glass of wine, laughing and flirting with
Rosa . But she could see that romance was not
on his mind this trip, and saved her special attentions for a young teamster
from one of the big supply wagons.
When Cal left she came to the
door, and standing on tiptoes, gave him a friendly kiss on his handsome tanned
cheek. Smiling down at her he said, “Buenas noches, mi Rosita dulce.
Cuidado.”
“And you be
careful, my sweet little deputy,” she smiled, her brown eyes shining in the
lamplight. “Stay faithful to me.”
“Always,” he said,
and stepped out into the snowy, cold spring evening. Moonlight was dancing on
the leaves of the big cottonwood trees, and the good smell of supper cooking
drifted through the quiet grove. In a separate stand of trees some distance away
a campfire flickered, and a lone Chinese voice could be faintly heard singing a
kind of sad melody.
The air was icy,
and after he rented the wood-floor tent for the night, he decided he was in the
mood for a drink and some friendly conversation before he went to bed. So he
walked up the snow-streaked road to a long, low building with a sign that read,
Soledad City Saloon. Pushing through the doorway he saw two miners he knew
sitting in the dimly lit part of the room near the end of the bar. In the more brightly
lit section every table was taken up with card players, mostly Americans. Five
Mexicans were at a table over in the back corner. He thought they always seemed
to laugh more when playing cards than the others did. The Americans were very serious
over their cards.
It was warm
inside, and blue with tobacco smoke. The bar along the back was plain varnished
oak, with nothing fancy except the polished brass foot-rail. There was no big
mirror behind the bar, just shelves with gleaming bottles, and horns: antelope,
deer, bull, and a big pair of beautiful Texas
longhorns. The bartender, Bartolo, was a smiling, heavyset Mestizo, Spanish and
Aztec, a nephew of the wealthy businessman in Los Angeles who owned the small saloon. “Buenas
noches, Callum,” he said. “Que paso?”
“Same old thing,” Cal said. “Chasin’ the
bad hombres.” He laid money on the bar and asked for his usual double whiskey, then
carried his drink over to where the two miners sat. He plunked down wearily,
pushing back his broad-brimmed Stetson.
Grinning a
welcome, the men reached out to shake hands, and one of them asked, “How’s it
goin’?”
“Muy bueno,”
he said. “You boys strike it rich yet?”
They were both good
men, but he had always been surprised that they got along so well. One was a
big Irishman with a thick red beard, and the other was a tall, slender Englishman
with a kind of fancy accent. Around the camp he was known as “Lord Essex.”
“Hell yeah,”
answered the Irishman. “We’re all set to retire and open a whore-house in the
City of Angels .”
“Good idea. We could
always use another whorehouse down there.”
“Actually, old
boy,” said the Englishman, tapping off the ash from his cigar, “it’s to be a
rather exclusive bordello— no hoi polloi allowed.”
“Well hell,” Cal laughed, “sounds
like my kind of place.” He took a deep sip of whiskey, and the Irishman leaned a
little closer.”
“How’s the law and
order game goin’?”
“Oh jolly good!” The
Englishman raised his glass.
“The hell you
say,” laughed his red bearded friend. “When’s the weddin’?”
Sipping his
whiskey Cal said
quietly, “Sorry, boys. I ain’t the marryin’ kind. And in the case of those two
mangy curs, I also ain’t the buryin’ kind.”
As was the Western
custom in mining camps and elsewhere, there were no further questions as to
details regarding the young deputy’s love life, or the dead outlaws. The two
miners knew the latter question would probably be answered in due time by newspaper.
Or hearsay.
The miners
replenished their beer. Cal slowly sipped the rest of his whiskey as they
discussed the perennial question as to whether the big copper mine would ever
re-open, the ongoing search for gold, and life in the camp and down in the
Pueblo of the Angels.
Then just as Cal was finishing his
whiskey and getting ready to bid his friends adieu, two loud, obviously drunk
teamsters barged in through the doors and made their way to the bar, laughing
and calling for service pronto.
