Page 20 of Working the Lode

“Something like that. Hey. Don’t you want to hear your former employer bloviate? Look, Quartus—Brannagh is making a speech.”

Quartus commenced to drumming a rapid tattoo. “Speech! Speech!” he exhorted, though Brannagh was already bellowing welcome to their esteemed guests, Colonel Mason and Lieutenant William Tecumseh Sherman, up from Monterey to view the gold diggings for themselves and discover why they were left with only a few soldiers to guard their coastal fort, everyone else having deserted to the mines. As a private’s monthly pay was now worth about a pound of flour, it was no big surprise. Captain Sutter was already so in his cups he was sliding down his chair, and would soon be on the ground.

“These men are murderers, I say, as well as thieves. I know it, and I will die or see them hung by the neck.” Apparently Brannagh referred to the Spanish brigands roaming California in bands. Recently Sly, Nutting, and a few other men had been attacked and robbed of their gold on the river road. “I'm opposed to any farce in this business.”

Bowmaker felt Zelnora shake with laughter against his arm. “That’s a good joke,” she muttered.

“We are the mayor and the recorder, the hangman and the law. Every morning we read fresh accounts of murders and robberies. I want no technicalities. Such things are devised to shield the guilty!”

Odd that when Brannagh shouted earnestly about brigands, Bowmaker’s eye fell upon an intent Spaniard who had been staring at him. This Spaniard leaned back against the adobe wall of the blacksmith’s shop, clad colorfully in a steeple-crowned glazed sombrero and dandified velvet calzoneras fastened up the side with gold buttons, open to the knee. Being taller than most Spaniards marked him as a gente de razon, perhaps Castilian. His soft brown-black hair came nearly to his shoulders and he sported one of those thin moustaches Bowmaker had always associated with the brigand, although perhaps Brannagh’s speech was coloring his vision. As was normal in these parts, his spurs were of enormous size, the shaft ten inches long, the roller bristling out into six points, which rattled with a quick, sharp sound. The man was handsome in a compelling mysterious way, with a pointed well-formed nose and high, dramatic cheekbones. He could have a bit of the Plains Indian in him…

But why was he staring so intently and levelly at Bowmaker? Maybe he coveted Zelnora as the most vivacious and intelligent woman at the entire Fort. Or maybe he was a Spaniard who could tell them about the Sonoran Camp dry diggings. Like most white folks, Bowmaker assumed all Spaniards were acquainted with one another.

As Brannagh wound down his speech and Colonel Mason took up various toasts, Bowmaker told Zelnora, “Let’s get to the fandango.” He grabbed a chunk of cheese and a bottle of champagne on their way out the fort gate.

A mass of Americans and Californios threaded the mazes of a cotillion as a fiddle and concertina struck up “Old Uncle Ned.” While Quartus joined the band and beat out that rhythm on the drum, Bowmaker donned his dress buckskin coat with beaver collar and cuffs. Taking Zelnora by the hand, they joined the dance with other couples and waltzed to the unhappy lyrics.

His fingers were long like de cane in de brake,

He had no eyes for to see;

He had no teeth for to eat de corn cake,

So he had to let de corn cake be.

Bowmaker was invigorated to be dancing for the first time since the last rendezvous, when mountain men flush of cash went on their spree and were as open-handed as an Indian could wish the sale of whisky. They joined hands in a circle with other dancers and sashayed out, sashayed in. Zelnora tossed her braided head and skipped with light feet, laughing with the other emigrants she was acquainted with. Bowmaker realized that he wished to settle in a place with social activities, so he could see Zelnora this giddy and fresh-faced all of the time.

It was the meanest sort of action to haul a woman critter around a starving country—it was nigh on time to settle.

% % %

Zelnora

When “Old Uncle Ned” wound down and the other musicians convinced Quartus the song was ended, Zelnora turned to the stranger who had been holding her hand in the circle. He looked so familiar, yet she could not place him—probably some fellow who had been lounging about the Fort.

“¿Cómo se llama?” she asked the Spaniard.

She was pleased that he replied in perfectly accented English, for even after being in California for two years, she was not very conversational in Spanish. Bowing at the waist grandly, he said, “May I present myself, Antonio Carillo.” He even kissed her hand. Zelnora had always greatly enjoyed these well-mannered Spaniards. Even the lowest of their cabal spoke the most royal English and dressed with such affect, sometimes it was difficult to tell a peasant from the gente de razon. “I am a caballero from Don Vallejo’s ranchero in Sonoma.”

Señor Carillo looked steadily into her eyes, unblinking, much as Cormack often did in his level probing way. This caballero unsettled her with his gaze that seemed to probe her for a different sort of information entirely. “Ah, perhaps that is where I saw you before. I visited General Vallejo with Mr. Ward Brannagh about a year ago. We much enjoyed the caballero’s demonstration of their mustang roping skills. I am Señorita Zelnora Sparks, from…Of Lion Island. Here is my, ah, my partner, Mr. Cormack Bowmaker.”

Grasping her hand, the caballero asked urgently, “May I have the next dance, Señorita?”

He whisked her away before Cormack could introduce himself. Zelnora was mortified to see the man throw his arms carelessly behind his back and pose immobile, dramatically. This meant a fandango song in general, and the guitar player was already executing sonorous glissandos, Quartus jumping in with gusto to tap out some bubbling Caribbean rhythm on his deerskin.

“¡Toca mas rápido!” Quartus trilled out happily. Languages were one of his many avocations.

And rápido they went, indeed. Zelnora held her hands gracefully disposed at her thighs, gripping her Californio skirts that were already short enough to expose her ankles. Meanwhile Señor Carillo rattled away, tapping his spurred boots with great dexterity, whipping his colorful serape around like the wings of a mad shorebird. He had not even set aside his sombrero. Under full head of locomotion, Quartus’ drum urged him to greater pinnacles of the fandango. People were cheering them! The blurry crowd of smiling faces clapped their hands in accompaniment, and the couple stomped their feet in ever faster staccato, until much to her relief another couple stepped in to give a hand to them, and they were allowed to fall into a more normal waltz step, barely moving.

“Ah, eso fue encatador,” the caballero said, smiling without baring his teeth.

“Yes, very lovely,” Zelnora agreed guardedly. This horseman, suave and handsome though he was, was overly kind to her, and she longed to be back at Cormack’s side. “That gentleman with the red hair is my fiancé.”

“Fiancé?” He raised one eyebrow as though he wasn’t familiar with the word. “And you are employed by Mr. Ward Brannagh?”

“I was. Used to be. I helped him run his store here, maybe that’s where we met before?”

“Why do you no longer work for him? He seems like a very good gentleman.”