Page 12 of A Good Prospect

“Tyke,” Salvador said with effort. “I’ve come to address some issues that have been forefront in my mind. I’m the owner of Rancho Las Oliveras, down a couple of valleys.”

“Really?” Tyke squinted. “Why, I’ve stopped by there a few times. You’re the fellow owns all those cattle.”

Sal nodded, terse. “Yes.”

“Right! Well, if this isn’t fortunate, then. Like I said, I’ve stopped by there on several occasions, to ask to purchase a few head, but whenever I get stuck talking to that doggoned lubricator—José, is it? Juan?—he insists you’re not around, and refuses me beef.” “Lubricator” was another term for “greaser”—someone of Spanish origin. “But now, when I confab with that blonde-haired fellow from Sweden, although he does talk a bunch of confusing claptrap, now he will be kind enough to sell me a couple head for my men. But boy…” Tyke spat on the ground. “He sure does like to blow off a stream of fancy indignation gas.”

Salvador frowned. “That’s odd. Mr. Frostad mentioned a group of Australians stopping by, but said you only wanted to know where a good spring was for your horses.”

“Mr. Frostad, is it?” Tyke tried to smile, but it only gave the impression of a mummified lizard stretching its skin over corroded teeth. “A fine, hard worker he must be, running your rancho for you in such a wonderful fashion. Now.” Tyke’s mood became confidential, as he faced Salvador and glanced knowingly at him. “Between you and me, maybe you could have a word with that Juan character. Just so we solidify our agreement to purchase the beeves. As we all know, greasers are hardly reliable, certainly not reliable enough to make business transactions.”

Salvador glanced at Ophir. “But…we have no agreement to purchase beeves.”

Waxing gregarious again, Tyke flung an arm to encompass his entire knoll. “I mean, I employ these here fellows to build my house. They can certainly hammer a few nails, and they do need to make enough gold dust to eat, so they can come again tomorrow to hammer more nails.”

“These fellows,” Salvador stated thinly, “are expert Sonoran miners.” Ophir could tell by Salvador’s narrowed eyes he was swiftly losing patience with this hijo de puta and would be losing what little “utmost respect” he’d had for him.

Tyke was in an orating stance. “Americans prefer to live peaceably, but we will not give up our rights.”

“But you’re Australian.”

“We’re all Americans now! I’m one of the boys, so I can tell you. It’s the first principle of liberty that a man should do as he pleases in this country. Exterminate the Indians, or blow the brains out of every Mexican he meets. I came to see the elephant, Mr. Palomares! I did, and I’ll enjoy myself. Everything that stands in my way I will annihilate. Mexicans have no business in this country.”

Salvador closed his eyes to maintain composure. “Well, then, Mr. McCarthy. I suppose you wouldn’t be averse to me hiring some of your carpenters away from you. In exchange for beeves, of course.”

“Oh, do you need some structures built, too? Fine, fine, if we can trade for beeves. An American may do just as he pleases, no? Break up public meetings by making a fuss, stab companions for amusement, toss bottles at haranguing landlords, play the very devil just as it suits him. That’s what I call Liberty.”

Did he have a screw loose? Ophir finally became bold enough to utter, “Listen here, Mr.—”

But Salvador had the louse’s shirtfront in his fist. He had shot his arm out so fast it was a blur, and the next thing Ophir knew, he was dragging the lizardly man to a nearby oak tree. Tyke’s boot heels dragged in the soil, leaving track marks, and he sputtered partial sentences such as “hey now,” and “we’re all Americans around here.” The interesting thing was, all of the Sonoran workers turned their heads at this sudden violence, but not only did they not drop their hammers, they looked at each other and smirked.

“You listen here, mi amigo,” Salvador snarled, lifting the cur to his feet and banging his skull against the tree trunk. “You’re not a goddamned American. You’re a newcomer, an escaped convict, a squatter on my land.” He shook the bastard a bit for emphasis, grinding his skull against the rough tree bark. “Salvador Palomares is the sole owner of this entire countryside from Mariposa Creek to the Merced River, and I am the haranguing lubricating landlord who you’re tossing bottles at. I came here with good intentions to make an agreement with you, to allow you to remain on my land as long as you pay rent.” Now he rattled the filthy lizard before flinging him to the grass where his limbs jumbled every which way like so many chicken bones. Ophir swelled with pride at the imperious way Salvador glared down at Tyke, nostrils flaring beautifully in his supremely aquiline nose. “I still intend to get my rent.”

He turned and stalked off, hitching his chin at Ophir to indicate their departure. They swung onto their mounts just as a few of the snoring cohorts stirred. Belching in confusion, they automatically reached for their pistols, but Salvador and Ophir were already departing down the trail, a few of the Sonorans following them eagerly with shining eyes, as though Salvador was some kind of god.

Salvador called to them, “Sígame si quieres trabajar deminero!” Follow me if you want mining work.

Tyke McCarthy was on his wobbly feet now, shrieking maniacally, “You goddamned greaser! I’m justified in shooting every foreigner who disputes me!” He brandished his own six-shooter now. But, seemingly hesitant to shoot someone who might provide him with meat, instead Tyke took a poor shot at one of the departing Sonorans, only causing them to scramble more rapidly after Salvador.

“I’ll make sure my greasers are safe,” Salvador hollered before they disappeared down the trail.

Ophir hadn’t told Salvador what he’d seen in Hornitos town—several of his own beeves clearly branded, and clearly stolen.